Drama and Performance in Hellenistic Poetry (Hellenistica Groningana) 9789042936546, 9789042937550, 9042936541

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Hellenistica Groningana

Drama and Performance in Hellenistic Poetry Edited by

M.A. Harder R.F. Regtuit G.C. Wakker

PEETERS

DRAMA AND PERFORMANCE IN HELLENISTIC POETRY

HELLENISTICA GRONINGANA MONOGRAPHS Editorial Board: M.A. Harder R.F. Regtuit G.C. Wakker Advisory Board: K. Gutzwiller, Cincinnati, OH R.L. Hunter, Cambridge A. Köhnken, Münster R.F. Thomas, Cambridge, Mass. F. Williams, Belfast 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker, Callimachus, 1993. M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker, Theocritus, 1996. M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker, GenreinHellenisticPoetry, 1998. M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker, ApolloniusRhodius, 2000. L. Rossi, TheEpigramsAscribedtoTheocritus:AMethodofApproach, 2001. M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker, HellenisticEpigrams, 2002. M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker, CallimachusII, 2004. G. Berkowitz, Semi-PublicNarrationinApollonius’Argonautica, 2004. A. Ambühl, KinderundjungeHelden.InnovativeAspektedesUmgangsmit derliterarischenTraditionbeiKallimachos, 2005. J.S. Bruss, HiddenPresences.Monuments,Gravesites,andCorpsesinGreek FuneraryEpigram, 2005. M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker, BeyondtheCanon, 2006. É. Prioux, Regardsalexandrins.Histoireetthéoriedesartsdansl’épigramme hellénistique, 2007. M.A. Tueller, Look Who’s Talking: Innovations in Voice and Identity in HellenisticEpigram, 2008. E. Sistakou, ReconstructingtheEpic.Cross-ReadingsoftheTrojanMythin HellenisticPoetry, 2008. M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker, NatureandScienceinHellenistic Poetry, 2009. M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker, GodsandReligioninHellenistic Poetry, 2012. E. Sistakou, TheAestheticsofDarkness.AStudyofHellenisticRomanticism inApollonius,LycophronandNicander, 2012. C. Cusset, N. Le Meur-Weissman, F. Levin, Mytheetpouvoiràl’époque hellénistique, 2012. J. Kwapisz, TheGreekFigurePoems, 2013. M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker, HellenisticPoetryinContext, 2014. M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker, PastandPresentinHellenistic Poetry, 2017. Y. Durbec, F. Trajber, Traditionsépiquesetpoésieépigrammatique, 2017.

HELLENISTICA GRONINGANA 23

DRAMA AND PERFORMANCE IN HELLENISTIC POETRY

Edited by M.A. HARDER R.F. REGTUIT G.C. WAKKER

PEETERS LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT

2018

A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. © 2018 – Peeters – Bondgenotenlaan 153 – B-3000 Leuven – Belgium Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybereproduced,storedinaretrieval system, or transmitted, in any forms or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording,orotherwise,withoutthepriorwrittenpermissionof theholderofthecopyright. ISBN 978-90-429-3654-6 eISBN 978-90-429-3755-0 D/2018/0602/105

PREFACE

In 1992 the Department of Classics at the University of Groningen started a series of ‘Workshops on Hellenistic Poetry’, to be held every two years. The format of these workshops is that the papers offered by the speakers are circulated to the participants in the workshop well in advance of the actual meeting, so that during the workshop there is ample opportunity for detailed and informed discussion. Some workshops have been devoted to individual authors, others to wider aspects of Hellenistic poetry, such as the implications of developments in modern literary criticism for research on genre or Hellenistic poetry in context. The workshops are informed by a keen awareness of the contribution that modern literary, linguistic and philological studies can make to the interpretation of texts, and of the importance of relating the social and cultural background of Hellenistic poetry to literary questions of form and content. The workshops are also designed to enable and encourage young scholars and research students to present their research. The proceedings of the workshops are published in the series HellenisticaGroningana. The first such workshop, on Callimachus, was held in 1992; the second, on Theocritus, in 1994; the third, on genre in Hellenistic poetry, in 1996; the fourth, on Apollonius Rhodius, in 1998; the fifth, on Hellenistic epigrams, in 2000; the sixth, again on Callimachus, in 2002; the seventh, on poets ‘beyond the canon’, in 2004; the eighth, on ‘nature and science’ in Hellenistic poetry, in 2006; the ninth, on ‘gods and religion’, in 2008, the tenth, on ‘Hellenistic poetry in context’, in 2010, the eleventh on ‘past and present in Hellenistic poetry’ in 2013. The workshops are now recognized as a valuable meeting-place for scholars working on the Hellenistic period, and a forum where information is exchanged, interpretations are tested, and ideas evolve. The workshop of 2015 focused on issues of performance, a theme which was approached from various angles and proved a very fruitful perspective for looking at Hellenistic poetry. Although drama has long been regarded as typical of fifth century Athens, there is an increasing awareness among classical scholars of the importance of drama also for the Hellenistic period. In those days drama was still written and performed, but was also an important object of study and a source of inspiration for works in other genres, such as epic, for new literary forms like the idylls of Theocritus or the mimiambs of Herodas, or for literary

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experiments such as the extended messenger speech in the Alexandraof Lycophron. Besides, performance was never restricted to drama, but from the archaic period onwards was essential to the presentation of poetry to an audience and thus remained an integral part of Greek cultural life in all periods, also in times of increasing literacy. Hence also epic and didactic poetry as well as shorter works from, e.g., a cultic, ritual or sympotic sphere can be studied from the point of view of performance, as has been done in this volume. Some general aspects of performance are dealt with in the papers by Angela Cinalli and Christophe Cusset. Angela Cinalli studies the practice of performance in the Hellenistic period using the evidence of inscriptions and focusing on Delphi and Delos. Christophe Cusset addresses issues of gender in connection with performance by investigating the limitations posed on female utterances in Hellenistic poetry. Other contributions are concerned with authors and genres that are in some way related to drama. Thus Katherine Molesworth discusses the Alexandra of Lycophron and investigates how notions of drama and performance form an integral part of Cassandra’s messenger speech. Barnaby Chesterton and David Kutzko focus on Herodas. Barnaby Chesterton focuses on Mimiamb8 and addresses the question not of its actual performance, but rather of the performative dimensions of the poem, while David Kutzko deals with Mimiamb1, which he studies as a text imitating dramatic action. Theocritus’ Adoniazousae is the subject of Maria Papadopoulou’s paper, in which she deals with the tension arising from the fact that in this poem spectators and performers overlap. Somewhat more in general the heritage of old comedy in Hellenistic poetry is discussed by Thomas Nelson, who shows that old comedy was an important forerunner of Hellenistic poetics and helped to shape the terminology of literary criticism, so that in this respect Hellenistic poetry is part of a continuous tradition (a fact which should not be obscured by focusing too much on the idea of ‘rupture’). Another group of papers studies genres that have performative aspects in a cultic, ritual or sympotic sphere. Thus the second hymn of Callimachus is discussed by Adrian Gramps and Alan Sheppard. Adrian Gramps challenges the notion of the mimetic character of the HymntoApolloand reconsiders the hymn from a narratological point of view; Alan Sheppard describes how the strategies used to evoke a performance context in Callimachus’ HymntoApolloare comparable to those in inscribed paians and how the way these poems are transmitted on stones and in books suggests an awareness of the need to be re-performed. The ritual lament for Adonis in Bion’s poem is discussed by Andreas Fountoulakis, who

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draws attention to its various levels of performance and to performance as an element of ‘ritual poetics’. The paraclausithyron is the object of investigation in the article by Sofia Belioti, who studies the hints of performance in this genre and the connections with New Comedy. Finally there are some papers which highlight performative aspects in narrative and didactic poetry. One of these is by Jackie Murray about the fiction of performance in relation to the character of Orpheus in the Argonauticaof Apollonius of Rhodes, with a focus on the way in which the mythic singer is presented in the catalogue of Argonauts as a symbol for the musical past and used by Apollonius in his self-representation as a latter day rhapsodic performer. The other is by Kathryn Wilson about the performative aspects of didactic poetry, which in its written form had to deal with the fact that the original interaction between an audience and an orally performing teacher had been lost. As always, most of the hard work of making the volume ready for the press and taking care of the contacts with the publisher’s has been done by Remco Regtuit. Annette Harder Groningen, February 2018

TABLE OF CONTENTS Annette HARDER Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Sofia BELIOTI The Motif of Paraclausithyron as Hint of Performance in the Hellenistic Poetry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1

Barnaby CHESTERTON Drama, Performance and Authorial Self-Representation in Herodas Mimiamb8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Angela CINALLI The Performative Life of the Hellenistic Period through Inscriptions. The Case Study of Delphi and Delos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Christophe CUSSET Y a-t-il des modalités particulières de la performance vocale féminine dans la poésie hellénistique ? Une parole contrainte

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Andreas FOUNTOULAKIS The Poetics of Lamentation: Performances and Ritual in Bion’s Epitaph on Adonis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Adrian GRAMPS Rethinking ‘Mimetic Poetry’ and Callymachus’ HymntoApollo 129 David KUTZKO Enacting Drama: Herod. 1 and A.P. V. 181 (Ascl. 25, Gow-Page)

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Katherine MOLESWORTH Watching Tragedy in Lycophron’s Alexandra . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 Jackie MURRAY Silencing Orpheus: The Fiction of Performance in Apollonius’ Argonautica . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201 Thomas J. NELSON The Shadow of Aristophanes: Hellenistic Poetry’s Reception of Comic Poetics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 Maria PAPADOPOULOU Spectators-in-Performance in Theocritus’ Adoniazusae . . . . . . 273

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Alan SHEPPARD Mimeticism, Performance and Re-Performance in Callimachus’ HymntoApollo and Inscribed Paians . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293 Kathryn WILSON Reading and Performing Didactic Poetry in the Hellenistic Period . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 317 Index of Passages Discussed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 333 Index of Greek Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339 Index of Names and Subjects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341

THE MOTIF OF PARACLAUSITHYRONAS HINT OF PERFORMANCE IN THE HELLENISTIC POETRY Sofia BELIOTI

1. Introduction The paraclausithyron was a very well-known, wide-spread and popular motif both in Greek and Latin literary tradition.1 The etymological analysis of this term is associated with the phrase παρὰτῇθύρᾳκλαίω, which refers to the lament of a lover outside the house-door of a girl and his unsuccessful attempt to persuade her to succumb to his erotic desire. Plutarch mentions the phrase ἄδειντὸπαρακλαυσίθυρον, which also refers to the singing of a lament outside the house-door2 of a young girl, something which was regarded as one of the most usual activities of a lover in the ancient world.3 Additionally, in Plato’s Symposium (183α) the phrase κοιμήσειςἐπὶθύραιςτῶνἐραστῶν is mentioned, which is not only about

1. As far as the elegiac paraclausithyron and the Latin literary tradition is concerned, it is not possible to be maintained with certainty by which poet it was introduced to Latin poetry. Nevertheless, it is doubtless the fact that the Latin poets faced paraclausithyron with great intimacy, something which could reinforce the argument about the existence of an Italian song παρὰτῇθύρᾳ. The motif of paraclausithyron can also be found and indicated in the Roman Comedy (Plautus, Curculio) as in the Augustan erotic elegy (Tibullus, Propertius and Ovid). Additionally, paraclausithyron is also mentioned by many other Latin poets, such as Catull and Lucretius. A very important role for the development, perception and utilization of paraclausithyron has also played Oratius, the lyric poet, who uses the motif of paraclausithyron in his Odes. (Barsby 1973: 73). Ovid, as well as other elegiac poets, who were already mentioned, has utilized the motif of paraclausithyron, not only introducing it into the Latin literature, but also trying to romanize and adjust it to Roman society and norms. The above-mentioned remark could be an adequate explanation for the differences that are pointed out between the Latin elegiac paraclausithyron and the Greek paraclausithyron. Nevertheless, in this article, there will be only few references to the motif of paraclausithyron in Latin literature, as it could not be regarded as a subject of this article, which will focus on this motif in the Hellenistic poetry and its association with the dramatic poetry and performance during the Hellenistic period (Yardley 1978: 22). 2. It is a fact that the early love-affair, as well as the motif of paraclausithyron, is often associated with the favorite’s house-door, around which eager admirers throng (Canter 1920: 355). The door, usually obdurate and unyielding, is apostrophized, flattered (Plaut. Curc.16; Tib. I.2.7-14; Ovid Amor. III. 1.45) or treated with violence (Propert. I.16.5-6; Ovid Amor.1. 6. 57-58; Theophr. Char. 27). 3. Yardley (1978: 19).

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a lament, but also about lover’s sleeping outside a girl’s house-door.4 As a consequence, the motif of paraclausithyron is the song that the lover, as exclususamator, sings with the hope that he would be accepted by the young girl, with whom he has fallen in love. In other words, he tries to persuade her to let him come into her house. It is probable that the motif of paraclausithyron comes from a folk song, which is connected with the real daily life and social behaviour associated with the ancient Greek world and it is based on a stereotype structured incident, which is distinguished by specific stages and characteristics. Additionally, it is important to mention – based on the Greek literary tradition – that paraclausithyroncould not be characterised as an independent literary genre, as it can be found in every genre that is associated with love (elegy, bucolic poetry, comedy and mime). Whether one reads classical comedy, elegy, epigram, or lyric, he becomes familiar with the conventional figure of the exclususamatorand consequently with the motif of paraclausithyron.5 The subject of this article is the motif of paraclausithyron, as hint of performance in the Hellenistic poetry, as well as its association with the Hellenistic theatrical form of New Comedy, which is composed of comic episodes about the lives of ordinary citizens and scenes of everyday life, often from the lower levels of society. To be more specific, I will also try to point out the different depiction and dramatic role of the exclususamator in comparison with the usual one in the prior literary tradition (Theoc. Id. 11). Additionally, I will attempt to present not only the usual motif of paraclausithyron, but also the reverse side of it, known as Maiden’s Lament (Theoc. Id. 2; Pal.Anth. 12.153; 5.8). The Maiden’sLament no doubt offers us an example of the kind of popular mimes performed throughout the Hellenistic world.

2. The paraclausithyron and the term of ‘performance’6 The paraclausithyron is a motif associated with the dramatic poetry – especially with the New Comedy and exclususamator– as well as with 4. See also Theocr. 7.122: μηκέτι τοι φρουρέωμες ἐπὶ προθύροισιν ῎Αρατε; Philostr. VitaeSophist. I.2; Tib. II.6.47-8: saepe,egocumdominaedulcesalimineduroagnosco uoces, haec negat esse domi; Propert. II.6.1: Ephyreae Laidos aedes / ad cuius iacuit Graeciatotafores; Hor. Od. III.10.20: caelestispatienslatus, 5. Copley (1956: 1). 6. It is notoriously difficult to define the term of ‘performance’, but for the purposes of this article ‘performance’ is to be understood as not only acting or stage business, but also to what Aristotle described as opsis (ὄψις) in his Poetics. According to Aristotle ὄψις

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the term of ‘performance’, as it encompasses many theatrical elements and scenographic information.7 To be more specific, the lament of the exclususamator is based invariably on a dramatic scene: the lover, having a garland on his head, comes to the door of his beloved, which is shut against him. He sings his song addressing it to the girl or sometimes to the door, but even though he begs for pity and asks for admission, the door remains closed. He flings down his garland or hangs it on the doorway, and then lies down on the doorstep to await the coming of dawn.8 All the above mentioned elements are included or tacitly subsumed, as the scene remains the same even if the paraclausithyronis pointed out in lyric, elegiac, pastoral or epigrammatic form.9 A good explanation that could be pointed out for most features of the paraclausithyron lies in its connection withkōmos (κῶμος), a term which was used by the ancients together with the corresponding verbs κωμάζειν and ἐπικωμάζειν.10 In contrast, the paraclausithyron,as a technical term, is mentioned only by Plutarch and only for the song (Amat. 8.753B: τίς κολύωνἐστὶκωμάζεινἐπὶθύραςᾄδειντὸπαρακλαυσίθυρον). Firstly, the term of kōmos (κῶμος) was the drunken route or revel and the festive procession which followed after a symposium, in general. Secondly, it was identified with that particular form of the revel which ended in a κῶμος-song before the door of a brothel, and finally, to the paraclausithyronincident with its accompanying lament, the paraclausithyron itself.11 In other words, kōmos (κῶμος) was not only the song that was sung outside the house-door of a girl, but also during the procession to her house.12 Kōmos (κῶμος) is connected with the term ‘performance’, as many elements, which indicate its dramatic character, could be pointed out. These is constituted of all non-verbal dramatic elements, such as masks, costumes, props, scenography, song and music, theatrical space and physical surroundings, gestures, stagedirections, attribution of speaking parts, rehearsals (Liapis et al. 2013: 1-2). 7. For example, in token of his devotion the lover decorates the door with garlands, which the exclususamator takes from his head and leaves as evidence of his lonely and devoted waiting at the door (Tib. I.2.14), or writes verses upon it (Plaut. Merc. 408; Ov. Am. 3.1.53). Sometimes, the inscription is written upon the garlands (Anth. Pal. 5.189; 5.191). By way of variation he may sing a song known as paraclausithyron, sometimes addressing to the door which separates him from the object of his affection (Canter 1920: 356-357). 8. Plato mentions the phrase κοιμήσειςἐπὶθύραιςτῶνἐραστῶν (Symp.183α). 9. Copley (1942: 96). 10. κῶμος: Anth. Pal. 5.165.2; 5.190.2; 5.191.2-8; 12.23.2; 119.1; 167.2; 5.281.1. κωμάζειν: Theoc. 3.1; Anth. Pal. 5.64.4; 12.117.2-3; 12.115.3; 116.1. ἐπικωμάζειν: Anth.Pal. 12.118.1. 11. Copley (1942: 98). 12. Moreover, in a secular context, the komos invariably travels to an oikos, or as Pindar puts it, “from oikos to oikos” (Lape 2006: 94).

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specific elements (costumes, scenery, music, weather conditions, place and time) may enhance a ‘performance’ and can also be pointed out in the paraclausithyron.13 Consequently, there are many similarities between the κωμαστής and the singer of the paraclausithyron.For that reason, the existence of the basic stereotype elements of the paraclausithyron, which are connected with its dramatic character, could be explained through the comparison between these two characters. Both of them – κωμαστής and the lover/ singer of the paraclausithyron– are part of a ‘performance’ and can be characterized as dramatic figures. The κωμαστής, as well as the singer of the paraclausithyron, are under the influence of alcohol14 and wear garlands on their heads.15 These two elements play an important dramatic role, as they indicate and depict both the physical and the psychological condition of the performer. In the case of the singer of the paraclausithyron, the garland is a central point through which his thoughts and actions are pointed out and expressed, as it becomes a symbol of love.16 It is worth stating that in the paraclausithyron and its accompanying scene we have a conventionalized version of an ancient social custom – the revel through the streets – something that associates the motif of paraclausithyronwith the social norms and everyday life, in general. This element could be a connection between the motif of paraclausithyronand the Hellenistic theatrical form of New Comedy, which is composed of comic episodes about the lives of ordinary citizens and scenes of everyday life, often from the lower levels of society.17 It is a fact that the surviving plays and fragments of Menander’s comedy employ kōmos, a cultural institution and genre related to the chorus,18 as in at least four of Menander’s plays, the kōmos entered between the first and second acts.19 Additionally, in the four surviving examples of kōmos introductions, a 13. All these elements are used to help create the illusion of a different character, place and time or to enhance the special quality of the performance and differentiate it from everyday experience. 14. Arist. Eccl. 948; Anth.Pal. 5.167.1-2; 12.118.3; 12.117.2; 12.116.1. 15. Garland of the κωμαστής: Arist. Plut. 1040-1041; 1098-1099; garland of the paraclausithyron-singer Theocr. Id. 3.21; Anth.Pal. 5.145; 5.191.6; 12.116.2; 5.118. 16. Copley (1942: 104). 17. Menander and his colleagues wrote mostly plays dealing with the life of Athenian citizens (Bieber 1961: 88). Kōmosoccur also in Aristophanes (Eccl.938-975) and Plautus (Curc. 1-157). Menander constantly varies and inverts the idea (the end of Dysk., the openings of Mis. and Ter. Eun.). Consequently, komoiwere in dramatic and quasi-dramatic modes, something that could be a strong argument for the dramatic role of the paraclausithyronand its connection with the term of performance. 18. The earliest sources link the kōmos with the chorus but do not assimilate them; see Hom. h.Merc.480-481; Heath (1988: 184-186). 19. Men. Epitr. 169-171; Aspis 246-249; Pk. 261-262; Dys. 230-232 (Koerte 1908: 304).

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character describes an approaching band of drunken young men before leaving the stage.20 The installation of the kōmos in comedy would have produced new meaning in accordance with its regularized conventions, as the dramatic meaning produced by comedy’s komastic-chorus could be assessed by examining the traditional features and conventions of the kōmos, in other words, by treating the komos as an embedded genre.21 Additionally, as it is well-known, the term ‘performance’ has two essential elements, a performer and an audience, which in the case of paraclausithyron, can be easily indicated. The performer is the shut-out lover and the audience is his beloved, the door-keeper, we ourselves or other friends of his who sometimes accompany him.22 Sometimes, the audience can be won over and persuaded not only by the individual arguments of the lover/singer of the paraclausithyron/performer.23 3. The paraclausithyron in the Hellenistic poetry It is a fact that during the Hellenistic period the remains of dramatic poetry are scanty and the theatrical traditions seem to have lost their vitality. The favourite drama of the Hellenistic audience was no longer tragedy but New Comedy, which was connected with the everyday life and the figures were ordinary people from the lower levels of society.24 In contrast, the genre of tragedy developed no further, as even the tragedies that were written during the Hellenistic period, were not permitted to vary from the accustomed pattern and they represented the conditions existing among the upper levels of society. Consequently, during the Hellenistic period – in poetry as in Greek art – there was the tendency to portray the figures in detail. This tendency led to the development of mime, which probably did not enter the Greek theatre before the Roman period, even though mimes25 were played in private houses from the late Hellenistic period.26

20. Men. Epitr. 169-71. 21. Lape (2006: 94). 22. In the reverse aspect of paraclausithyron the performer is a maiden and the audience a puerdelicatus, as the song was in some cases sung by a woman to her lover as in the Alexandrian Erotic Fragment (Grenfell 1896: 23). There are also some other examples, as Theocr. Id.2; Anth.Pal. 5.8, 12.23. 23. Hunter (1999: 109). 24. The main aim of the poet in New Comedy was the clear delineation of the individual characters. It was, therefore, of prime importance to make these individual characters visible to the audience, something which influenced the theatre building during the Hellenistic period, as they were rebuilt on the Roman plan (Bieber 1961: 108). 25. The mimes were σπουδαῖοι and γελοῖοι, ἀνδρεῖοιand γυναικεῖοι. 26. Bieber (1961: 107).

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Although there were scanty remains of dramatic poetry during the Hellenistic period, hints of performance are present in many Hellenistic poems.27 It is a fact that in typical Hellenistic manner, purely dramatic forms for performance were mixed with other literary types to create innovative hybrid genres. Indicative examples that could be mentioned include Theocritean Idylls that combine mimelike speech by characters with narrative framing (2, 6, 7, 11, 14, 15), Callimachus’ hymns dramatizing ritual acts (Hymns 2, 5, 6) and Hellenistic epigrams, in which monologues or dialogues of people or objects that contain a notion of performance, can be pointed out. Theocritus is the first who has given a poetic form to the mime during the Hellenistic period, and Adoniazusae (Id. 15) is regarded as the best ancient mime.28 During the Hellenistic period the motif of paraclausithyron – it is strongly connected with the performance and the dramatic poetry – was widely utilized and it was connected with many literary genres, as it is doubtless that the custom of the lover’s lament at the closed door passes into Latin literature through Hellenistic influence.29 However, it is a fact that the paraclausithyron was differently used and presented, as the depiction and dramatic role of exclusus amator, which was connected with it, was quite different in comparison with the usual one in the prior literary tradition. Firstly, it is not necessary for exclusus amator to be intoxicated, as there are some examples so in Theocritus’ Idylls(3.12-14, 3.52-54), as in the rest Hellenistic –especially epigrammatic – poetry (Anth. Pal. 5.64.1-2, 5.145, 5.189) according to which the singer of the paraclausithyron is not tipsy. However, in some cases even in Hellenistic poetry the excluded lover is drunk, as his half-insane mood is that of a man driven out of his senses by drink (Theocr. Id.23). Consequently, the argument of drunkenness is very important, but it could not be constituted by itself as strong evidence, as the paraclausithyron in the Hellenistic poetry cannot be characterized in the point of drunkenness as a true exception to the rule.30 Additionally, in Hellenistic poetry the exclusus amatoris sometimes located in bucolic scenery (Theocr. Id. 11), as the excluded lover is strongly connected with it and he is simultaneously a pastoramator. To be more specific, in the case of Cyclops, who could be characterized as exclusus amator, it is impossible to detect the stereotype elements of 27. 28. 29. 30.

For more details about Menander and the New Comedy, see Bieber (1961: 87-107). Bieber (1961: 107). Canter (1920: 361). See also 12.23; 12.72; 12.167.

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the paraclausithyron, even though the Theocritean Idyll is about the lament of Polyphemus outside the place, in which Galatea lives. He is excluded not only because of Galatea’s rejection, but also because of his disability to get into the sea, where Galatea lives: ἐξένθοις, Γαλάτεια, καὶ ἐξενθοῖσα λάθοιο ὥσπερ ἐγὼ νῦν ὧδε καθήμενος, οἴκαδ’ ἀπενθεῖν (11.63-64).31 ‘Come forth, Galatea, from the waves, and coming forth forget (as I do, sitting here) to get thee home’.

This indication could denote that the motifs of paraclausithyron and exclusus amator are completely differently utilized, as they are viewed in the light of the bucolic conventions. However, despite the obvious similarities with the paraclausithyron of Idyll 3, the framing address to Nikias provide quite a different structure from the bucolic mimes of Idylls1, 3, 4, 5 and 7.32 Τhe exclususamator and the paraclausithyron are apparently transferred to the countryside though the urban character of the motifs and are called rustic komoi.33 As a consequence, the conventions of that form change, as the poem reproduces a mode already based on a displacement of ‘serious’ styles, something that is a basic element of the Hellenistic literary tradition.34 In the third Theocritean Idyll could be pointed out the paraclausithyron as a hint of performance, as it is highly dramatic not only in its pathos, but also in the structure which allows the speaker to pause or utter asides, after each small song-section.35 The dramatic character of the Theocritean Idyll and its connection with a dramatic or even a quasidramatic tradition can be indicated refocusing of scene after v. 5. Additionally, the change of tone after v. 5 to a self-pitying serenade reinforces the goatherd’s dramatic role. It is worth stating that though the similarities with the figure of exclususamator, the girl’s rejection (3.6-7) as well as the beloved herself is in the goatherd’s fantasy (3.8-9). The dramatic character of this Idyll and its connection with the paraclausithyronand

31. The rustic life and song of Polyphemus stand in contrast to the sea and the life of Galatea. Even though the aim of Polyphemus is to convince Galatea to give in his erotic desire, the convincing poetry of Theocritus could be set against the ridiculous poetry of his creation Polyphemus. For more details see Hutchinson (1988: 183) and Spofford (1969: 22-24). 32. Hunter (1999: 218). 33. Rustic komoi also occur in Bion fr. 11 and Euripides’ Cyclops. 34. Hunter (1999: 109). 35. Hunter (1999: 109).

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kōmosis indisputable not only because of the structure36 of the poem, but also because of the verb κωμάσδω, which could constitute a generic announcement.37 The majority of scholars have interpreted Idyll 3 as a parody of the paraclausithyron or kōmos, as a typical urban motif has been transferred into a rustic setting.38 For that reason it is presented in a different way in comparison with the paraclausithyron of the prior literary tradition. However, it constitutes a characteristic case of paraclausithyronas a hint of performance in the Hellenistic literary tradition. Apart from Theocritus’ Idyllsand the indication of the paraclausithyron, as a hint of performance in a ‘bucolic mime’, it is clear that one aspect of the paraclausithyron in the Hellenistic poetry as well as in the prior literary tradition, is connected with the erotic failure and the unsuccessful attempts of the lover to persuade a girl to succumb his erotic desire. For that reason, the poets try to invent some dramatic symbols and connect them with the motif of paraclausithyronin order to present the lover as a “tragic hero” who is called to be confronted with his failure.39 Starting with the κοιμήσειςἐπὶθύραιςτῶνἐραστῶν, it could be maintained that in many cases the singer of paraclausithyron refers to that condition: Οὕτως ὑπνώσαις, Κωνώπιον, ὡς ἐμὲ ποιεῖς κοιμᾶσθαι ψυχροῖς τοῖσδε παρὰ προθύροις· οὕτως ὑπνώσαις, ἀδικωτάτη, ὡς τὸν ἐραστὴν κοιμίζεις, ἐλέου δ’ οὐδ’ ὄναρ ἠντίασας. γείτονες οἰκτείρουσι, σὺ δ’ οὐδ’ ὄναρ· ἡ πολιὴ δὲ αὐτίκ’ ἀναμνήσει ταῦτά σε πάντα κόμη (Anth. Pal. 5.23). ‘Sleep like this, Conopion, as you make me sleep in front of these cold portals; sleep like this, cruel one, as you send him who loves you to sleep, without touching you a shadow of pity. The neighbours take pity on me, but you don’t even a shadow. One day shall the grey hairs come to remind you of all this’ 36. There is a clear ‘stanzaic’ pattern: 3 couplets (3.1-5; 3.6-11), 4 triplets (3.12-23), 5 triplets (3.24; 3.25-36), 4 triplets (3.37-39; 3.40-41), for more details see Wilamowitz (1906: 144). 37. Τhis verb is associated with the komastic epigrams as well as with comedy, as it is a dramatic monologue in which some information about the addressees, the place and the time are given to us. As far as the time is concerned, it is important to state that in contrast to the prior literary tradition, in the 3rd Theocritean Idyllthe activity of kōmosand the paraclausithyronis not nocturnal (Hunter 1999: 110-112). 38. The starting point is not a symposium, but a mountain. He performs his serenade not standing in the middle of the night in front of a closed door, but standing in the bright light of the day in front of a cave (Gutzwiller 1991: 115). 39. A tragic hero is a literary character who makes a judgment error that inevitably leads to his/her own destruction. Aristotle shared his view of what makes a tragic hero in his Poetics. Aristotle suggests that a tragic hero must evoke in the audience a sense of pity or fear.

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This is maintained to connect strongly kōmos with the song of paraclausithyron. Additionally, the κοιμήσεις ἐπὶ θύραις τῶν ἐραστῶν is simply an invention of the poets, devised as a dramatic symbol of love’s woes. The whole paraclausithyron is a lament and it would not only be natural, but it would also sound artistically that the song should culminate in some particularly striking instance of the lover’s suffering.40 Another dramatic symbol that is used in Hellenistic epigrammatic poetry in order to indicate the strong erotic desire and the despair of the lover, is the bad weather conditions. The presentation of the lover prostrating and being wet from the rain could be characterized melodramatic and sensational. It is a rhetorical ingenuity and invention of the epigrammatist which was imitated because of its vividness: Νεῖφε, χαλαζοβόλει, ποίει σκότος, αἶθε, κεραύνου, πάντα τὰ πορφύροντ’ ἐν χθονὶ σεῖε νέφη· ἢν γάρ με κτείνῃς, τότε παύσομαι· ἢν δέ μ’ ἀφῇς ζῆν, καὶ διαθεὶς τούτων χείρονα, κωμάσομαι. ἕλκει γάρ μ’ ὁ κρατῶν καὶ σοῦ θεός, ᾧ ποτε πεισθείς, Ζεῦ, διὰ χαλκείων χρυσὸς ἔδυς θαλάμων (Anth. Pal. 5.64).41 ‘Snow, hail, make darkness, lighten, thunder, shake out upon the earth all the black clouds! If you kill me, then I shall cease, but if you leave me live, though I have passed through worse than this, I will go with music to her doors; the god who is the master for you too, Zeus, compels me, (this god) by whom having been commanded you turned to gold, piercing the brazen chamber’

In some Hellenistic epigrams, in which the motif of paraclausithyron can be pointed out, the garland is emphasized as a dramatic symbol, as it indicates and expresses the thoughts and emotions of the lover allusively: Αὐτοῦ μοι, στέφανοι, παρὰ δικλίσι ταῖσδε κρεμαστοὶ μίμνετε, μὴ προπετῶς φύλλα τινασσόμενοι, οὓς δακρύοις κατέβρεξα· κάτομβρα γὰρ ὄμματ’ ἐρώντων. ἀλλ’ ὅταν οἰγομένης αὐτὸν ἴδητε θύρης, στάξαθ’ ὑπὲρ κεφαλῆς ἐμὸν ὑετόν, ὡς ἂν ἄμεινον ἡ ξανθή γε κόμη τἀμὰ πίῃ δάκρυα (Anth. Pal. 5.145).42

40. For more details about the connection between kōmos, paraclausithyron, oikos and κοιμήσειςἐπὶθύραιςτῶνἐραστῶν (Copley 1942: 101-106). 41. See also Anth.Pal. 5.164; 5.167; 5.168; 5.189; 5.190; 5.191. In these epigrams the time and the bad weather conditions are emphasized, in order to point out the difficult psychological and physical situation of the excluded lover. 42. Copley (1942: 102-103).

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‘Abide here, my garlands, where I hang you by this door, nor shake off your leaves in haste, for I have watered you with my tears – rainy are the eyes of lovers. But when the door opens and you see him, shed my rain on his head, that at least his fair hair may drink my tears’

Finally, drunkenness is another dramatic symbol, which indicates allusively the physical situation of the shut-out lover: Πυθιάς, εἰ μὲν ἔχει τιν᾽, ἀπέρχομαι· εἰ δὲ καθεύδει ὧδε μόνη, μικρόν, πρὸς Διός, ἐσκαλέσαις. εἰπὲ δὲ σημεῖον, μεθύων ὅτι καὶ διὰ κλωπῶν ἦλθον, Ἔρωτι θρασεῖ χρώμενος ἡγεμόνι (Anth. Pal. 5.213)43 ‘If anyone is with Pythias, I am off, but if she sleeps alone, for God’s sake admit me for a little, and say for a token that drunk, and through thieves, I came with daring Love for my guide’

However, in some cases – during the Hellenistic period – the result is not only the lover’s attempt to persuade a girl, because of an irrational impetus of desire, but it is an attempt totally calculated (Anth. Pal. 5.64), something that is clearly and apparently associated with the literary conventions and tendencies of the Hellenistic period. Another aspect of paraclausithyron, which can be pointed out in Hellenistic poetry, is a reversal of the usual motif, in which a young woman first utters her lament as she travels through the dark streets to her lover’s house and then begs for reconciliation when he reaches his door (Theoc. Id. 2; Anth.Pal.12.153; 5.8). As far as the Theocritean Idyll 2 is concerned, it is doubtless that it constitutes a characteristic example of the popular genre of mimes performed throughout the Hellenistic world. In this poem could be indicated the mixture of the literary genres, which is very usual during the Hellenistic period. In particular, according to the standard view of the bucolic genre, it mixes or contaminates the epic with the genre of mime, as Theocritus in this Idyll manages to connect emotion with narration and associate dramatic elements with bucolic songs and motifs of the

43. The use of dramatic symbols in the Hellenistic epigrams, in which the motif of paraclausithyron is pointed out, is an elementary characteristic of the epigrammatic, as the allusive language and the etymological wordplays are associated with the attempt of the poet to express many of his thoughts in few verses. In the case of the paraclausithyra the epigrammatist tries simultaneously to indicate their performativity and dramatic elements.

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prior literary tradition.44 One of these motifs is the paraclausithyron and particularly the reversal of it. As a consequence, Idyll 2 of Theocritus could be distinguished so from other theocritean bucolic poems (6, 7, 11), which lack the essential to mime dramatic form, as well as from the urban mimes (2, 14, 15) because of its language.45 To be more specific, the excluded girl, Simaitha, employs epic allusion to construct the narrative of her past relationship with Delphis (2.64-154). For that reason, she is presented to play the role of Homeric narrator and she attempts to incorporate narrative techniques into her monologue in order to interpret and define her past erotic experience in a particular fashion.46 Although in Delphis΄ speech the young lover tries to depict himself – when he is already in her house – as the potentially violent excluded lover, it is important to state that Simaitha plays the role of the exclususamator and articulates the pain of her exclusion from Delphis’ affections from her position inside her house. Even though it could be acclaimed that in Theocritus’ Idyll2 can be pointed out an inversion of the most typical behavior and characteristics of an excluded lover and the motif of paraclausithyron is used in completely different conventions,47 it is a fact that the motifs of komos and paraclausithyron play a dramatic role and it is distinguished by dramatic elements and symbols. This indication could support the argument for the use of paraclausithyron in the Hellenistic poetry as a hint of performance in association with hybrid dramatic genres.

4. Conclusion To summarize, the paraclausithyron is indigenous to Greek soil, something which is apparent from its occurrence in Aristophanes, Asclepiades, Meleager of Gadara, Callimachus and other poets of the PalatineAnthology. In Greek literary tradition lovers continued after the time of Plutarch to utter laments more or less literary before in front of the unyielding door. Lucian in one of his dialogues makes a character say that the title of true lover is reserved for those who come to sigh, to weep, and to watch by the door the long night through.48 With the sentimental poets of love, the song and all its elements are charged with subjective significance; in 44. 45. 46. 47. 48.

Hutchinson (1988: 213). Hutchinson (1988: 201). Andrews (1996: 21-22). Andrews (1996: 44). Luc. DMeretr. VIII. 2

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this last stage is laid the true paraclausithyron, a song which in a conventional setting describes the plight of the literary lover who has discovered his exclusion of his beloved house. In Hellenistic poetry the motif of paraclausithyron is strongly associated with the performance and the dramatic poetry, even though it is widely utilized in combination with many literary genres. It is a fact that during the Hellenistic period it is usual to mix purely dramatic forms for performance with other literary types in order to create innovative hybrid genres. However, the paraclausithyronwas differently presented, as the depiction and dramatic role of exclusus amator was quite different in comparison to the usual one in the prior literary tradition. The motif of paraclausithyron plays a dramatic role and is used as a hint of performance in the Hellenistic literary tradition, but the exclususamatorand his lament are not set in the typical conventions of the prior literary tradition.

REFERENCES Andrews, N.E., 1996, “Narrative and Allusion in Theocritus, Idyll 2”. In Harder et al. (eds.), Theocritus (HellenisticaGroningana 2), Groningen, pp. 21-53. Barsby, J.A., 1973, Ovid’sAmores.Bookone.EditedwithtranslationandrunningCommentary. Oxford. Bieber, M., 1961, The History of the Greek and Roman Theater. Princeton & N. Jersey. Canter, H.V., 1920, “The paraclausithyron as a literary theme”. AJPh 41.4, 355368. Copley, F.O., 1942, “On the Origin of Certain Features of the Paraclausithyron”. APhA 73, 96-107. Copley, F.O., 1956, Exclususamator:AstudyinLatinlovepoetry. Madison. Grenfell, B.P., 1896, AnAlexandrianEroticFragment. Oxford. Gutzwiller, K.J., 1991, Theocritus’PastoralAnalogies. London. Heath, M., 1988, “Receiving the komos: The Context and Performance of Epinician”. AJPh 109, 180-195. Hunter, R., 1999, Theocritus.ASelection:Idylls1,3,4,5,6,7,10,11and13. Cambridge. Hutchinson, G.O., 1988, HellenisticPoetry. Oxford. Koerte, A., 1908, “XOPOY”. Hermes45, 299-307. Lape, S., 2006, “The Poetics of the “Kōmos”-Chorus in Menander’s Comedy”, AJPh127.1, 89-109. Liapis, V. – Panayiotakis, C. – Harrison, G.W.M., 2013, “Making sense of ancient performance”. In Harrison G.W.M. et al. (eds.), Performance in GreekandRomanTheatre. (MnemosyneSupplements). Boston & Leiden, 1-42. Spofford, E.W., 1969, “Theocritus and Polyphemus”. AJPh90, 22-24. Yardley, J.C., 1978, “The Elegiac Paraclausithyron”. Eranos 76, 19-32. Wilamowitz, M.U., 1906, DieTextgeschichtedergriechischenBukoliker. Berlin.

DRAMA, PERFORMANCE AND AUTHORIAL SELF-REPRESENTATION IN HERODAS MIMIAMB 8∗ Barnaby CHESTERTON

1. Introduction The question of the performance status of Herodas’ work has aroused considerable academic attention: increasingly, scholarship has taken the position that an absolute delineation of the Mimiambsas either performed or literary poetry is reductive, taking into account the nuanced engagement with the tropes of both literary and performed poetry which the poems evince.1 Indeed, while it is apparent that approaching the Mimiambs as a text, in the context of other poetry – and intertextually reading them against one another – illuminates the poetic artfulness with which Herodas composes his work, lauding such ‘literary’ cleverness should not diminish his equally adept usage of dramatic and performative elements.2 ∗ My thanks to Donald MacLennan, Ivana Petrovic, Marijn Visscher and Eris Williams Reed for their feedback on drafts of this paper, and all the attendees at the 12th Groningen Workshop on Hellenistic Poetry for their thought-provoking questions and comments. 1. The chief proponent of the notion that the Mimiambs were primarily (and perhaps exclusively) intended for performance is Mastromarco (1979), with a revised and expanded English translation (1984); see especially Mastromarco (1984: 65-97), and (1984: 1-19) for an overview of prior scholarship on the subject. For direct criticism of his position, see Parsons (1981); Puchner (1993: 30-34). Many later investigations seek to moderate Mastromarco’s performance-exclusive conception of the poems: Hutchinson (1988: 241242, 257) advocates a wholly literary reception for the poems. Stanzel (1998: 121-122) suggests, by comparison of the Mimiambs with Theocritus’ Idylls, that literary reception for the corpus would be the more probable case: see further Stanzel (2010), cf. Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004: 33) on the greater import of dramatic overtones in the Mimiambs. Kutzko (2008) sees a literary reception as the most probable form, but stresses the importance of dramatic and performative aspects to the interpretation of the poems: see now also Kutzko in this volume. Zanker (2009: 4-6) suggests a middle ground, in which the poems were recited, which he argues negotiates the problem of staging visually complex poems, such as Mimiamb4, by encouraging a listener to supplement an imagined context; see further Zanker (1987; 2004: 85-86) and Männlein-Robert (2006). 2. A full list of Herodas’ borrowings and allusions would fill this paper: one might consider, as an example of the interplay between ‘high’ literary form and ‘low’ mimic context, the case of Mimiamb 7, in which Kerdon, encouraging customers to buy his ‘shoes’, lists Νοσσίδες and Βαυκίδες (Herod.7.57-58) amongst his wares – the reader being well aware, from Herod.6, that Kerdon is a purveyor not only of shoes, but of dildos. The profane transformation of the poet Nossis and Baukis, subject of Erinna’s Distaff, into sex toys to be sold by the lascivious Kerdon is compounded by the fact that Kerdon’s

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However, the performative dimension of Herodas’ work has largely been considered with a view to establishing the actual status of the dissemination and reception of Herodas’ poetry, and it is only comparatively recently that assessments of Herodas’ engagement with the concept of performance within his work have been undertaken.3 Critics of Mastromarco’s performance-exclusive conception of the Mimiambs have emphasised that the presence of elements traditionally found in performed works need not necessarily imply actual staged performance, but this line of thought remains underdeveloped.4 Hunter, in his appraisal of the presentation of the Mimiambs, notes the repeated invitations made by speakers across the corpus to ‘see’ objects or persons, and suggests that, far from such instances implying an actual stage-context, Herodas subtly acknowledges the ambiguous state of the performative dimension of the Mimiambs, playing upon a reader’s inability to see while simultaneously compensating for the absence of visual information through description.5 Such elements engage a reader – and in this paper I primarily consider Herodas’ poetryfrom the position of reading, as opposed to listening or spectating – in a reflexive apprehension of their own activity, at once aware of their (readerly) engagement with the poems, but equally conscious of their inherently performative dimension. The multivalent complexity of Herodas’ poetry with regards the evocation of performance, and the employment sales-pitch is delivered as a vulgar reimagining of Sappho’s love-stricken verses on a beloved (cf. Herod.7.108-112 and Sapp.fr.31.1-12). Herodas thus creates a complex re-deployment of female poetic voices, presented in a characteristically mimic and, indeed, choliambic fashion. 3. E.g., Hunter (1993: 38-40); Puchner (1993); Kutzko (2008; 2012, and also in this volume). We possess testimony that Herodas’ work was definitely read: Parsons (1981: 110) notes the evidence of a second hand on the papyrus, perhaps to aid in reading. Beyond this, Pliny the Younger praises his friend Arrius Antoninus for his epigrams and mimiambs, remarking thatCallimachummevelHerodenvel siquidmeliustenerecredebam (Plin.Ep.4.3.3). On Herodas’ later Roman literary reception, see Courtney (1993: 104-106); Hunter (1995); Panayotakis (2010: 21-22; 2014: 386-390). 4. E.g., silent characters, the use of deictic pronouns, objects alluded to during the course of speech. See e.g., Cunningham (1971:161-162); Hunter (1993); Puchner (1993); Zanker (2009: 4-6, 122-124); Esposito (2010). 5. Hunter (1993: 38-40). The simultaneous evocation of a visual context and compensation for its absence is particularly apparent in Koritto’s description of the dildos she saw, and touched, to Metro (Herod.6.66-73), and is thus a case in which the reader’s lack of visual perception is echoed in Metro’s own inability to behold the works Koritto describes. Similarly there is the case of Mimiamb 4 which is concerned throughout with visual perception and aesthetic appreciation; noteworthy is Kynno’s question to Kokkale as to who sculpted and dedicated the statuary under consideration, and Kokkale’s response οὐχ ὁρῇς κεῖνα | ὲν τῇ βάσι γραμματ’;, ‘can’t you see the writing on the base?’ (Herod.4.23-24). The question subtly highlights the role of visual supplementation in the literary reception of Herodas’ work, whilst also emphasising the work’s existence as a text. See further Zanker (2004); Männlien-Robert (2006).

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of the tropes of staged performance, discount the notion that the poet simply slavishly adheres – for example – to the conventions of mime. Thus, the interplay between the performed quality of the Mimiambs and their more characteristically literary elements becomes a means by which Herodas explores his poetic activity, and critical to the programmatic delineation of his poetry in Mimiamb8. Mimiamb 8 is the most fragmentary of the eight more complete poems we possess by Herodas but, from what can be reconstructed, it is apparent that the work is an illuminating reflection on the nature and form of his poetry: within the poem, Herodas’ authorial persona recounts a dream he has had to one of his slaves, and further provides a self-aggrandising interpretation of the same. At the level of narrative, Mimiamb 8 has a clear programmatic function, serving as a defence of Herodas’ poetic activity of genre-crossing through the allegorical triumph of his persona over the critics who seek to demean his poetry through their rapacious attacks upon his work. This defence is further legitimised through the appearance of Hipponax and Dionysus (both indirectly identified) who function, respectively, as poetic forebear and divine guarantor of Herodas’ mimiambic endeavours. Herodas, however, demonstrates his authority to compose mimiambic poetry beyond the level of narrative: within Mimiamb 8, the poet highlights the dramatic underpinnings of his œuvre, using the poem to reflect upon the presence of dramatic elements within his poetry and deploying elements of drama and performance to support his activity of self-representation and authorial legitimation. In this paper, I firstly consider the means by which Herodas evokes the mode and context of performance within Mimiamb 8, and argue that, by drawing not only on the mimic antecedents of his poetry, but also drama and performance in the broader vein, Herodas sets his persona’s triumph over his critics in a quintessentially performative context, and thereby reinforces his claim to legitimately create choliambic poetry with dramatic overtones. Secondly, I explore how Herodas employs the mechanisms of performance in his process of self-representation, through the construction of his authorial persona. I argue that the poet imbues his persona with the essence of Dionysian drama and Hipponactean choliambic by first establishing Hipponax and Dionysus as characters within the mimiamb, then ‘borrowing’ their voice and/or accoutrements for use by his own persona. I posit that Herodas, in effect, encapsulates Hipponax and Dionysus – and their respective spheres of poetic influence – through a re-performance of their characters as he has envisaged them within the poem. As a result, Herodas demonstrates his legitimacy to compose poetry with dramatic and choliambic elements on multiple

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levels. I conclude by positing that, in constructing the programmatic narrative of Mimiamb 8, Herodas works with a model drawn from dramatic poetry, thereby further evincing his command over the performative mode.

2. The performance context of Mimiamb 8 The narrative of Mimiamb 8 can be divided into three sections; in the first (Herod.8.1-15) Herodas’ persona awakens, rouses two slaves, Psylla and Megallis, with typical mimic vulgarity and calls another, Annas, to sit down with him and listen as he recounts his dream. The central section of the work (Herod.8.16-64) contains the narration of the dream, beginning with the persona describing how he was dragging a goat from a dell. The goat, however, was snatched up by goatherds, who proceed to rip it apart and consume it.6 Frustratingly, much of the central section of the poem is fragmentary; from what can be reconstructed we learn that the persona became involved in the goatherds’ celebrations (Herod.8.36ff.), and won the game of askoliasmos, successfully being held up by the inflated skin (Herod.8.46-47).7 Present during the celebrations was a person dressed in saffron clothing and wreathed with ivy, later referred to as the νεην[ίην], (Herod.8.63), a character undoubtedly representative of the god Dionysus. A figure identified as the πρέσβυς also features (Herod.8.59), who argues with the persona (the precise cause is lost) prompting the latter to call the young man to witness (Herod.8.63), presumably settling the disagreement, as the persona later speaks of sharing success with the old man (Herod.8.75ff.). Much as with the figure of the young man, the old man is conclusively revealed to be a persona of another – in this case, the poet Hipponax. The final section of the mimiamb (Herod.8.65-79) contains the persona’s interpretation of the dream, which I turn to momentarily. 6. That this occurs in these lines has been retroactively inferred from the interpretation in the final section of the mimiamb: αἰ]πόλοι μιν ἐκ βίης [ἐδ]αιτρεῦντο | τ]ὰ ἔνθεα τελεῦντες καὶ κρεῶ[ν] ἐδαίνυντο, ‘the goatherds violently carved up the goat, performing the rites, and feasted on the meat’ (Herod.8.69-70). Headlam and Knox (1922: 383) raise the possibility that the goat may have eaten the bark or leaves from a number of oak trees which was the reason the goatherds dismembered it, based on the mention of ἄλλης δρυὸς [, ‘of another oak’ at Herod.8.23 adducing Nonnus Dionysiaca46.145 as evidence of the connection between Dionysus and the oak tree. Veneroni (1971: 226) argues stridently for this interpretation, but as noted by Rist (1998: 356) and Fountoulakis (2002: 310-311), the papyrus is too damaged to follow this line of thought securely. 7. Latte (1957) examines the phenomenon of askoliasmosin detail. See also PickardCambridge (1968: 45).

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The first section of the poem sets the scene, establishing a physical setting,8 an approximate time,9 and a cast of characters, as well as immediately establishing the persona in a position of authority, albeit only over his small household. Herodas evokes a sense of place, implying a staged context to the Mimiamb,10 and creates bawdy humour through the persona’s admonishments of the slaves – a recurrent motif of Herodas’ work, occurring as an introductory scene at both Herod.6.1-17 and Herod.7.4-14, and also employed in Mimiambs 4 and 5.11 Kutzko (2012: 374) and Hordern (2004: 180-181) note that such a scene is a staple of mimic and comic works (Aristophanes’ Clouds is an important parallel for our consideration of Herodas here, as I discuss in section 4 below),12 and through its usage, alongside the evocation of the physical setting and reference to a cast of characters, Herodas implies a dramatic scene redolent of staged performance.13 However, the artificiality of this staged context is gradually made apparent by the lack of voices besides that of the persona. Despite the references to Psylla (Herod.8.1), Megallis (Herod.8.10) and Annas (Herod.8.14, 43, 66), none of these characters ever join the persona in dialogue: the entirety of the scene-setting occurs through the persona’s words, and the absent characters, props and set are 8. A farmhouse, suggested by the repeated mention of farm animals which require tending, e.g., τ]ὴν ἄναυλον χοῖρον ἐς νομὴν πέμψ[ο]ν, ‘send the discordant sow to pasture’ (Herod.8.7). 9. Sometime before daybreak, given that the persona asks Psylla to ἄψονλύχνον, ‘light the lamp’ (Herod.8.6.). It has been suggested by Cunningham (1971) that the remark that αἰ δὲ νύκτες ἐννέωροι, ‘the nights are nine years long’ (Herod.8.5) may be indicative of long winter nights, a season which would be appropriate if the dream-festivities are likened to the Rural Dionysia, although it is by no means certain that this is the festival depicted; see Latte (1957). Cf. Brown (1994) further on this and on the ‘Latmian sleep’ mentioned at Herod.8.10. 10. Cf. particularly Herod.1.1-7 and Mimiamb4 passim. Hunter (1993: 39-44) compares the manner in which Theocritus sets the scene in his poems with Herodas’ habit, noting that the former dwells on details to such a level as to emphasise the poems’ literary form. By contrast, Herodas offers only the necessary essentials of scene-setting, though I suggest that the poet is equally as interested in highlighting the artificial performative quality of his poetry, as I demonstrate below. See further Hutchinson (1988); Puchner (1993); Kutzko (this volume). 11. Brown (1994: 99) notes the particularly close correspondence between the opening of Mimiamb 6 and Mimiamb 8, comparing Korrito’s description of her slave as τάλαινα (Herod.6.3) with the persona’s description of Megallis as δει]λὴ, (Herod.8.10) meaning ‘wretch’ in both cases, and further the description of the slave in Mimiamb6 as τονθορύζουσαν (Herod.6.7) with the persona’s comparable remark to Psylla to τ]όνθορυζε, ‘go on muttering’ (Herod.8.8). Cf. Herod.7.77, where the verb is used of Kerdon, and Ar.Ra.747, of a slave that cannot speak freely. 12. E.g., Sophr.fr.10, 14, 15, 16; see also Hutchinson (1988: 238-240). 13. Cf. e.g., the establishment and explanation of the dramatic context at the outset at Ar.Ach.20, Ar.Lys.1-5, Ar.Th.26-29, Ar.V.54-74, Men.Dysc.1-6.

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all evoked through description and allusion alone. Herodas, therefore, does not present his work as a staged performance per se, but rather as an imitation of such a performance. The mimetic frame established in the introduction is shown, with the onset of the central section of the mimiamb and the narration of the dream, to be just that; a frame for the narrative, the principle focus of the mimiamb. In doing so, Herodas reflects the ambiguity of his mimiambic genre, an amalgam of dramatic and non-dramatic poetry which need not be restricted to the stage to capture the sense of drama. The central section contains the dream-narrative, and at the heart of this narrative is the game of askoliasmos, a practice intrinsically connected to festivals of Dionysus and the revels of the Bacchants.14 The persona’s description of the game highlights its agonistic, aggressive dimension (Herod.8.41-47): χοἰ μὲν μετώποις ἐ[ς] κόνιν κολυμβῶ[ντες ἔκοπτον ἀρνευτῆρ[ε]ς ἐκ βίης οὖδας, οἰ δ’ ὔπτι ἐρριπτεῦντο· πάντα δ’ ἦν, Ἀνν[ᾶ, εἰς ἒν γέλως τε κἀνίη []θεντα. κἀγὼ δόκεον δὶς μοῦ[νο]ς15 ἐκ τόσης λείης ἐπ’ οὖν ἀλέσθαι, κἠλάλαξαν ὤνθρωπ[οι ὤς μ’ εἶδ[ον ] τὴν δο[ρὴ]ν πιεζεῦσαν Some, plunging into the dirt on their foreheads, struck the ground with force, like divers, while others were thrown onto their backs. Everything, Annas, was a [mixture/combination] of laughter and pain. It seemed that I alone among so large a rabble twice leapt on to the skin-bag, and the men hollered when they saw the skin bearing me aloft.16

The persona vividly captures the spectacle of the game, the emotion of the participants and the thrill of success, and thus the imitation of performance continues, though now in an overtly diegetic manner, as opposed to the faux-mimetic mode of the introduction. In the fragmentary lines which follow, the interactions between the persona, the young man and 14. Latte (1957); Pickard-Cambridge (1968: 45); Rosen (1992: 209) all note that there was a confusion over the use of the term ἀσκωλιασμός even in antiquity, but that by the Hellenistic period an association had been formed betweenthe gameand Attic dramatic festivals. Cf. also Ver.G.2.380-384, schol.ad.Ar.Plu.1129. Zanker (2009: 226) notes that Dionysus and Ariadne are together depicted judging satyrs engaged in askoliasmos on a mosaic from Ostia. 15. Cunningham (2004); μ [ ]; Crusius and Herzog (1924); Zanker (2009); μοῦ[νο]ς. 16. The text of Herodas used is Cunningham (2004), with alterations noted. The translation is Zanker (2009), adapted.

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old man emphasise the agonistic tenor of the dream: the persona’s cry to the young man to bear witness to his struggle with the old man – μαρτύρ[ο]μαι δὲ τὸν νεην[ίην (Herod.8.63) – places that character in an adjudicatory role,17 and his appeal for aid to the goatherds, addressing them as ὦ παρεόν[τες] (Herod.8.61), implies that they now occupy the role of an audience of onlookers,18 already imparted by the remark that κἠλάλαξαν ὤνθρωπ[οι | ὤς μ’ εἶδ[ον ] τὴν δο[ρὴ]ν πιεζεῦσαν, ‘the men shouted when they saw the skin holding me aloft’ (Herod.8.4647).19 Equally, the persona’s statement that the situation of the festivities is ὤσπερ τελεῦμεν ἐν χοροῖς Διωνύσου, ‘as we perform in the choruses of Dionysus’ (Herod.8.40) further establishes the dramatic, overtly Dionysian character of the revels.20 This remark is particularly significant for the analysis of the performative dimension of the poem: Fountoulakis (2002: 314) notes the dual meaning of χορός, as both dramatic chorus and ritual dance, but argues that the meaning here is restricted to the latter alone.21 However, Kutzko (2012: 376-377) argues that the persona does not make a strict delineation of the character of the revels, preferring a multifaceted reading of τελεῦμεν ἐν χοροῖς Διωνύσου encapsulating both ritual and dramatic performance.22 I follow Kutzko’s assessment; the ritual dimension of the revels are echoed in the persona’s interpretation, where he relays that the goatherds destroyed the goat and τ]ὰ ἔνθεα τελεῦντες, ‘performed the rites’ (Herod.8.70),23 but this does not preclude an allusion to dramatic performance, particularly, as Kutzko (2012: 377 n.39) notes, given the use of the conjunction ὤσπερ which, he 17. Cf. Ar.Ra.809-813, 871-874. 18. See further Fountoulakis (2000). 19. The verb ἀλαλάζω is used to describe the shout of Dionysus and the Bacchae at E.Ba.593, 1133. 20. The persona’s possession of a goat at the opening of the dream has been suggested by Vogliano (1906: 41) as indicative of prior success in a dramatic agon (though whether the goat is indeed such a reward is not determinable from the text in its fragmented state), a situation which the dream undeniably evokes. However, Rosen (1992) raises the problem that Vogliano interprets the goat as a reward for the persona’s victory at askoliasmos which does not follow from the text; further I would add that such a case is impossible, given that the goat (or rather its remains) play a part in the proceedings of the games, as I discuss below. Whether the goat was actually given as a prize in dramatic festivals is unclear but, much as with askoliasmos, the phenomenon was rightly or wrongly considered to have been practiced by the Hellenistic period and beyond, as shown by e.g., Marm. Par.A.43 = FrGHist 239 A.43; Diosc.AP.7.410; Hor.Ars.220-224; see further Burkert (1966); Pickard-Cambridge (1962: 69, 123-124); Rist (1998: 356-357). 21. Cf. E.Ba.215-220, 485;Ar.Ra.354-357. See further Seaford (1981: 253). 22. See further Headlam and Knox (1922: 389-390). 23. Cf. E.Ba.40, 73; Ar.Ra.357. On τελεῖν, see Burkert (1987: 9-10); Fountoulakis (this volume).

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suggests, “leaves the semantic ambiguity of (χοροῖς) intact.”24 A comparable case can be observed at Aristophanes’ Frogs354-357: εὐφημεῖν χρὴ κἀξίστασθαι τοῖς ἡμετέροισι χοροῖσιν, ὅστις ἄπειρος τοιῶνδε λόγων ἢ γνώμῃ μὴ καθαρεύει, ἢ γενναίων ὄργια Μουσῶν μήτ᾽ εἶδεν μήτ᾽ ἐχόρευσεν, μηδὲ Κρατίνου τοῦ ταυροφάγου γλώττης Βακχεῖ᾽ ἐτελέσθη, Let him be silent and stand aside from our sacred choruses, he who has no experience of such utterances as this, or has not purified his mind, he who has never seen and never has danced in the rites of the noble Muses, nor ever has been inducted into the Bacchic mysteries of bull-eating Cratinus25

Dover (1993: 239) notes the continued ambiguity as to whether the reference is made to the procession of initiates enacted within the dramatic action of comedy, or to the comic chorus which enacts it; he further suggests that this ambiguity encapsulates the dual role of the god Dionysus, as presider over both Dionysiac mysteries and theatrical performance.26 I posit that Herodas evokes a similar ambiguity, for a similar purpose: while strongly asserting the religious character of the dream, the poet equally allows for the interpretation of the events as representative of a dramatic performance, thereby evoking Dionysus’ interconnected roles in both cult and theatre.27 In the establishment of this dualnatured aspect, Herodas represents the dream-narrative as both religiously and dramatically significant. Both elements have a clear importance for Herodas’ delineation of his poetic programme, as the ritualistic context which the dream-narrative suggests reinforces the notion that the dream itself possesses a heaven-sent origin.28 The evocation of dramatic performance is, as the interpretation of the dream shows, a critical aspect of Herodas’ assertion of the success of his hybrid poetic form, an assertion I turn to now. 24. Kutzko (2012: 377 n.39) 25. Text and trans., Dover (1993), adapted. 26. Dover (1993: 239, 242). See further Lada-Richards (1999: 224-225). 27. Cf. Fountoulakis (2002: 314) who argues that the lack of an explicit acknowledgement of a dramatic festival discounts the possibility of the evocation of dramatic performance. However, as Fountoulakis (2002: 317-218) notes, the poem is rife with ambiguity where the intersection of ritual and dramatic performance are concerned. 28. Cf. Aeschylus inspired by Dionysus (Paus.1.2.2), Homer by Helen (Isocr.Hel.65). On dreams as a sound basis for action, cf. e.g., Homer’s role in Alexander’s founding of Alexandria, Plut.Alex.26.1-5; Olymipas and Philip’s dreams on the birth and origins of Alexander, Plut.Alex2.2-5; Darius’ dream of Alexander wrongly interpreted by the Magi, Alex.18.6-8, cf. QCR.Hist.Alex.Mag.3.3.2-5; Alexander’s dreams of the siege of Tyre, Plut.Alex.24.5-9, cf. QCR.Hist.Alex.Mag.4.2.17-18, Arr.An.2.18.1; Alexander’s dream regarding the death of Cleitus, Plut.Alex.50-52.2. Theophrastus deconstructs this trope in his portrayal of the Superstitious Man: see Theophr.Char.26.

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The interpretation of the dream comprises the entirety of the last section of the mimiamb (Herod.8.65-79): καὶ τοῦτ’ ἰ[δ]ὼν ἔληξα. τὸ ἔνδυ[τον Ἀν]νᾶ δ[ὸς] ὦδε.29 τὦναρ ὦδ’ ἰ[  ]ν αἶγα τῆς φ[άραγγος] ἐξεῖλκον  κ]αλοῦ δῶρον ἐκ Δ[ιων]ύσου αἰ]πόλοι μιν ἐκ βίης [ἐδ]αιτρεῦντο τ]ὰ ἔνθεα τελεῦντες καὶ κρεῶ[ν] ἐδαίνυντο, τὰ μέλεα πολλοὶ κάρτα, τοὺς ἐμοὺς μόχθους, τιλεῦσιν ἐν Μούσῃσιν. On seeing this I stopped (dreaming). Give the cloak here, Annas. What went on in the dream in this way [ ]I dragged the goat from the gully ] a gift from handsome Dionysus. ] the goatherds violently carved up the goat, performing the rites, and feasted on the meat, very many will pluck at my corpus,30 my labours, among the Muses.

The persona first demands a cloak from Annas (Herod.8.65-66), then proceeds to interpret the dream’s meaning, revealing its allegorical character in the process. The goat, a gift from Dionysus (Herod.8.68), represented the poetry of Herodas’ persona and the goatherds ripped it apart and feasted upon it as their real counterparts will attempt to carve up his poetry for their own gain (Herod.8.68-72). The persona affirms the ritual dimension of the dream in the description of these figures’ destruction and consumption of his goat, alluding to the rituals of sparagmos and omophagia, intrinsically connected to Dionysian cult and myth,31 but equally re-emphasises the performative dimension of the dream narrative, with the reference to the goatherds performing the rites (Herod.8.70), echoing the persona’s likening of events to a performance for Dionysus ἐν χοροῖς (Herod.8.40) as discussed above. Awareness of the repeated allusions to performance is particularly important for the interpretation of the final lines (Herod.8.73-79) which are particularly fragmentary: τὸ μὴν ἄεθλον ὠς δόκευν ἔχ[ει]ν μοῦνος πολλῶν τὸν ἄπνουν κώρυκον πατησάντων, κἠ τῷ γέροντι ξύν’ ἔπρηξ’ ὀρινθέντι 29. Cunningham (2004: adloc.) gives ]ναδ[] ὦδε, but traces of the Ἀν of Ἀν]νᾶ can be read on the 1891 facsimile of the papyrus; PLitt.Lond.96 = PEgerton1, fr.4. δ[ὸς] suppl. Headlam and Knox (1922); Zanker (2009). 30. Zanker (2009: 232) suggests “corpus” to translate τὰ μέλεα, to capture some sense of both limbs and verses with the pun. 31. See further Henrichs (1978: esp. 143-152).

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] κλέος, ναὶ Μοῦσαν, ἤ μ’ ἔπεα κ[ ̣εγ’ ἐξ ἰάμβων, ἤ με δευτέρη γν[ ἐ]μ[οῖ]ς32 μετ’ Ἰππώνακτα τὸν παλαι[ τ]ὰ κύλλ’ ἀείδειν Ξουθίδηις †επιουσι[ Since I seemed to be the only one to have the prize among the many who had trodden on the air-tight skin bag, and since I shared success with the angry old man … by the Muse, who/either […] me verses [ from iambs, who/or33 me as a second[ ] after Hipponax of old [ to sing limping verses to [my own] sons of Xouthis.

The damage to these lines renders a definitive translation impossible. We can, however, reconstruct their meaning by considering them in the context of Herodas’ activity of generic mixing, and particularly with regards the evocation of dramatic performance within the dream. The persona begins by reiterating how he alone won the prize from jumping on the air-tight bag in the game of askoliasmos: Rosen (1992: 214) has argued that Herodas connects this victory with the dramatic, mimic character of his work, which he suggests is exemplified by Herodas’ statement that fame will come ἐξ ἰάμβων, reading this as an allusion to the iambs of comedy.34 This usage of iambs to encapsulate the entirety of the dramatic influences on Herodas’ work is, however, tenuous; Kutzko (2012: 379 n.49) notes, for example, that Callimachus calls Hipponax’ poems both ἴαμβον (Call.Iamb.1, fr.191 Pf., 3) and χωλά (Call.Iamb.13, fr.203 Pf., 14 and 66).35 While this does not discount the possibility that Herodas takes ἰάμβων to encapsulate drama toutcourt, it seems unwise to make the absolute opposition between ἰάμβων and τ]ὰ κύλλ’. A more concrete connection between the dramatic mode and the persona’s victory at askoliasmos is apparent in the manner in which the events of the dream evoke an agonistic context. The persona’s victory at askoliasmos, a winning performance, is evocative of his successful usage of the dramatic context 32. Cunningham (2004) gives ̣μ ς   ἐ]μ[οῖ]ς suppl. Crusius and Herzog (1924); Zanker (2009). 33. Rosen (1992: 214-215) reads the ἤ ἤ of Herod.8.76-77 as disjunctives, with the sense that the dual possibilities of fame offered either from iambic or choliambic poetry echoes the resolution of the dream. Cunningham (in Rusten and Cunningham (2002: 276) notes that ἤ ἤmight be either the feminine pronoun (the reading which Zanker (2009: 233) follows) or the disjunctive adverb. 34. What ἰάμβων refers to here is contested; Rist (1998: 359) suggests it may be a reference other poems Herodas may have composed in iambics, taking a reference to Herodas as an author of hemiambs in the scholiast on Nicander as evidence, while Kutzko (2012: 379) follows the view that ἰάμβων is taken alongside τ]ὰ κύλλ’ as generally representative of Herodas’ genre. 35. Cf. further Ar.Ra.661.

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of mime, an ability the poet clearly demonstrates in the opening section of the mimiamb. By primarily basing his persona’s assertion of fame in the usage of the dramatic mode, and simultaneously demonstrating his own aptitude at employing the tropes of mime and comedy within the mimiamb itself, Herodas metatextually validates the persona’s claim. However, he makes apparent that it is not only the dramatic aspect of his work that brings him success; equally, the persona’s remark that he shared success with the old man – suggesting that Herodas conceives of himself as an equal of Hipponax – emphasises that it is both the usage of mimic and choliambic material which will lead to his fame. Notably, the persona delineates the mode of his future poetry as song; though the final lines are fragmentary, the persona clearly plans τ]ὰ κύλλ’ ἀείδειν, ‘to sing limping verses’; in characterising his poetic production after the traditional mode of poetic performance, Herodas evokes the tradition with which his work engages but, by so closely adjoining the reference to sung poetry to a description of overtly dramatic performance, he equally emphasises the novelty of its hybrid form. The employment of performance as a motif in Mimiamb 8 is, as demonstrated, multifaceted. The evocation of mime and comedy in the opening section serves to pro-actively validate the persona’s claim to be successful in his usage of the dramatic mode through the allegory of the dream contest, but equally evokes the ambiguous generic position of the mimiambs, between literary and performed reception. The persona’s performance in the game of askoliasmos further emphasises the dramatic aspect of the work, but equally highlights the ritual dimension of the dream, subtly asserting the divine quality of the narrative and foreshadowing the persona’s programmatic and self-legitimising interpretation. Throughout the mimiamb, it is the persona’s engagement in performance, and with the theme of performance, which establishes that character’s authority: in the interpretation of the dream, the authorising force of performance is revealed, retroactively imbuing the performance the persona has been engaged in throughout the mimiamb – that is, as the performer recounting the narrative to Annas, and to the reader obliquely – with a similarly authoritative quality.

3. Herodas’ authorial self-representation and the re-performance of character I turn now to a consideration of the two central figures of the dreamnarrative: the young man and the old man. That these names mask the figures’ true identity – Dionysus and Hipponax – is subtly revealed over

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the course of the poem, but it benefits to consider precisely how these characters are depicted, and how they interact with Herodas’ persona. First, the old man: when assessing the characterisation of this figure, it is apparent that two attributes are repeatedly emphasised: his age and his irascibility. The persona describes the character generically as the γέροντι ὀρινθέντι,36 ‘angry old man’ (Herod.8.75) in his interpretation of the dream and, within the dream itself, the character is consistently identified by reference to his age.37 His wrathfulness is equally apparent in the threat which the persona reports the old man aimed at him; ἔρρ’ ἐκ προσώπου μή σε καίπερ ὢν πρέσβυς | οὔλῃ κατ’ ἰθὺ τῇ βατηρίῃ κόψω, ‘get out of my sight as, though I’m an old man, I’ll strike you down flat with the whole length of my stick’, (Herod.8.59-60). The sparseness of this characterisation is at odds with what we observe throughout Herodas’ other poems, in which characters, though perhaps redolent of a stock type, are nevertheless fleshed out through additional details, significant names and genealogies.38 The paucity of attributes ascribed to this character could be explained by the reasoning that the persona is the primary focus of the mimiamb, leading to a more reduced depiction of his supporting players (as seems the case with the hard-to-identify goatherds). I would, however, instead suggest that Herodas deliberately keeps his characterisation of the old man brief in order to emphasise the centrality of wrath and agedness to that character. Old age is a common characteristic applied to poetic predecessors,39 and encourages a reader to interpret this character as significant from a programmatic perspective. While the character’s age leads to a general identification of a poet, the emphasis on anger leads to a specific figure. In the character of the angry old man, Herodas evokes a poet who, by Herodas’ time, had become renowned for his irascibility: Hipponax. The biographical figure Hipponax had, by the early 3rd Century, largely been elided with the persona of the author Hipponax,40 and as a result, 36. ὀρινθέντι denotes anger rather than fear as at Hom.Od.17.261, on which see Cunningham (1971: 203); Esposito (2010). See further Sext.Emp. Adv. Math 1.298 = Test.57 Degani (1991: 20). 37. ὁ γέρων atHerod.8.62, referred to by the persona; πρέσβυς at Herod.8.59, a selfdefinition by the old man himself. 38. Ussher (1985: 66-67). 39. This is particularly notable in the case of statues of poets, e.g., Anacreon twice by Leonidas, Pl.306 = 31 GP, Pl.307 = 90 GP and Philitas by Posidippus, 63 AB. On statues of poets and the reflexive self-aggrandisement of depicting poetic forebears, see particularly Bing (1988). 40. A reading encouraged by the repeated appearance of a figure named Hipponax in the poet’s own work, e.g., fr.42 Deg. = 32 W., fr.44 Deg. = 36 W., in which Hipponax is given as the name of the speaker.

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the vituperation which characterised the poet’s work was perceived as an expression of the personality of the poet himself.41 This tendency – to present a biographical narrative based upon a reception of poetry – is one which the Hellenistic poets frequently evince, and in the case of Hipponax this trend is exemplified in three epigrams, by Leonidas, Alcaeus of Messene and Theocritus, purportedly written upon the choliambicist’s tomb.42 Each of the epigrams evoke a similar impression, that being that the dead poet is restless in his grave, liable at the slightest provocation to resume his invective attacks: both Leonidas and Alcaeus subvert a common trope of sepulchral epigram by warning all passers-by to stay away, rather than stop and pay homage,43 while Theocritus’ epigram warns that εἰ μὲν πονηρός, μὴ προσέρχευ τῷ τύμβῳ, ‘if you’re wicked, don’t approach the tomb’ (Theoc.AP.13.3.2). Such is the power of Hipponax’ spite that Alcaeus’ epigram relates that no vines will grow on his tomb, only brambles and the bitter wild pear.44 It is notable that Alcaeus withholds Hipponax’ name until the penultimate line of his epigram, instead identifying the deceased at first only as ὁ πρέσβυς (Alc Mess.7.536.1); given the prickly character of the grave’s plant-life, the ultimate identification of the deceased can hardly be a surprise to any reader with even a cursory knowledge of Hipponax’ reputation. Herodas, in utilising the stock tropes ascribed to Hipponax through the biographical interpretation of his poetry, capitalises upon the malleable historicity of such representations, utilising the stereotypical characteristics of his choliambic forebear as shorthand to indirectly identify the old man of his persona’s dream. A further proof of this character’s identity comes from his choice of words; the old man’s threat contains a direct quotation of a Hipponactean line, δοκέων ἐκεῖνον τῇ βακτηρίῃ κόψαι, and in this appropriation of Hipponax’ voice the ‘old man’ is conclusively revealed to be the poet in 41. This characterisation persists into the Roman period and beyond; see, e.g., Test.7, 8, 9b, 12a, 17a, 25, 57 Degani (1991: 3-8, 12, 20), Sud.s.v. Ἱππώναξ, (Adler ι 588), and further Acosta-Hughes (1996: 210-213). 42. Leon.Tarent.AP.7.408, Alc.Mess.AP.7.536, Theoc.AP.13.3. Philip, writing in the 1st Century AD, composed a comparable piece, particularly evocative of Leonidas’ epigram: Phil.AP.7.405. 43. Leon.Tarent.AP.7.408.1-2: Ατρέμα τὸν τύμβον παραμείβετε, μὴ τὸν ἐν ὕπνῳ | πικρὸν ἐγείρητε σφῆκ’ ἀναπαυόμενον, ‘Go quietly past the tomb, do not waken the spiteful wasp that lies at rest in sleep’; Alc.Mess.AP.7.536.5-6: ἀλλά τις Ἱππώνακτος ἐπὴν παρὰ σῆμα νέηται, | εὐχέσθω κνώσσειν εὐμενέοντα νέκυν, ‘But he who passes by the tomb of Hipponax should pray his corpse mercifully to rest’. 44. Alc.Mess.AP.7.536.1-4: Οὐδὲ θανὼν ὁ πρέσβυς ἑῷ επιτέτροφε τύμβῳ | βότρυν ἀπ’ οἰνάνθης ἥμερον, ἀλλὰ βάτον, | καὶ πνιγόεσσαν ἄχερδον, ἀποστύφουσαν ὁδιτῶν | χείλεα καὶ δίψει καρθαλέον φάρυγα.

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question.45 The persona’s justification in claiming the joint honour of shared success with Hipponax is, however, unclear from the interpretation alone. I suggest that Herodas provides this justification much earlier in the poem, by characterising his persona after the stereotypical representation of Hipponax. While waking his slaves, the persona threatens one, Psylla: τ]όνθρυζε καὶ κνῶ, μέχρις εὖ παραστά[ς σοι | τὸ] βρέγμα τῷ σκίπωνι μαλθακὸν θῶμα[ι, ‘go on muttering and scratching yourself till I stand over you and soften up your head with my stick’ (Herod.8.8-9). The language is not a direct quotation of Hipponax, but the intention behind the persona’s words is unmistakably the same, and thus the old man’s threat to deal out violence with his stick echoes this earlier threat. Furthermore, the word σκίπων and the equivalent σκῆπτρον have resonant poetic connotations; the σκῆπτρον is consistently employed by messengers, kings and priests as a symbol of command and, significantly for Herodas’ usage, Hesiod receives a σκῆπτρον from the Muses at the moment of his inspiration (Hes.Th.30).46 Hellenistic uses of the word continue to evoke the context of wisdom and power; Callimachus mentions a σκίπων in connection with two of the Sages; Pittacus possesses one, described as γεροντικὸν ὅπλον, ‘the old man’s weapon’ (Call.Epigr.1.Pf.7.), while Thales uses his to draw mathematical diagrams in the dust (Call.Iamb.fr.191 Pf.69).47 The word is therefore evocative of age, wisdom and power, and through its usage, Herodas imbues his persona with these attributes. Herodas’ persona, wielding the σκίπων, is symbolically elderly, a characterisation we observe repeatedly in the construction of other authorial personae, as well as poetic predecessors.48 More than just a symbol of age, however, this characterisation serves to elide Herodas’ persona with Hipponax’ representation implying, by their comparable attributes and personalities, that the claims of shared success at the close of the poem have substance. Herodas adopts the authorial voice and behaviour of Hipponax, through the usage of the choliambic metre and of Hipponactean language and characteristics.49 The persona’s threat seems to foreshadow that of the old man, in the development of the narrative, but in actuality the persona’s threat is an echo of the old man, as the events of the dream directly precede the onset of the mimiamb. On waking from 45. Hipp.fr.8 Degani (1991: 32). 46. Especially Il.2.101, 2.186-206, 2.265, 6.159, 9.38, 9.156, Od.11.569 Aesch.PB.172, 761, Hdt.7.52. 47. Cf. Ar.V.727, Hp.Art.52, Eur.Hec.65. 48. e.g., Call.Aet.fr.1.Pf.6, 21-22, 35-38, Posidipp.118 AB. 49. On Hipponactean words in Herodas, see particularly Ussher (1980).

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the dream, Herodas’ persona immediately adopts the voice of his poetic model, foreshadowing his later claim at sharing the fame of said model. This technique – the ‘resurrection’ of a poetic forebear in order to imbue poetry with their particular essence – is perhaps most notable in Callimachus’ Iambi where, as in Herodas, Hipponax is made to speak again in service of a programmatic delineation of the author’s poetic habit. In Iamb.1, Hipponax returns, quite literally, from the dead; Ἀκούσαθ’ Ἱππώνακτος· οὐ γὰρ ἀλλ’ ἥκω | ἐκ τῶν ὅκου βοῦν κολλύβου πιπρήσκουσιν ‘Listen to Hipponax, for indeed I have come from the place where they sell an ox for a penny’ (Call.Iamb.fr.191 Pf.1-2). AcostaHughes (2002: 37-43, 47) has emphasised the remarkable poetic effect achieved by this opening to the book; Hipponax, who attests his own posthumous status, nevertheless speaks out from the page, and the audience is at once confronted by a multi-layered poetic voice, in which Hipponax and Callimachus are indistinguishable.50 The choliambicist returns from the dead, but not unchanged; Callimachus reworks the poet for his own Hellenistic setting, shifting his forebear’s ire from his traditional opponents to the philologoi of Alexandria.51 Callimachus adopts the guise of his forebear, though not absolutely; ‘Hipponax’ remains for only a short time it seems, before he must return to the depths (Call.Iamb.1. Fr.191 Pf., 34-35), implying that, while the choliambicist might infuse his Hellenistic predecessor for a while, Callimachus does not see himself as Hipponax redivivus for all time. Indeed, in Iambus 13, a defence of Callimachus’ polyeideia as much as a continuation of the themes of Iambus1, Callimachus, responding to the criticism that he has not gone to Ephesus, birthplace of Hipponax, to become inspired responds that, indeed no, he has not gone to Ephesus (Call.Iamb.13. fr.203 Pf., 64-66). Rather, Callimachus has had Ephesus come to him; Hipponax’ anabasis and predicted katabasisin Iambus1 imbues Callimachus with the legitimacy of his forebear, without attaching him to that forebear in totality. In Herodas’ adoption of Hipponactean language and props, I posit that we observe a similar approach to the issue of reviving Hipponax as that of Callimachus in the Iambi. Callimachus reveals the identity of the poem’s speaker at the first juncture, but then subtly imparts that this is not the Hipponax of old, but rather a nuanced iteration, reformed for 50. See on the opening lines of the Iambus Kerkhecker (1999: 28-30). 51. Call.Iamb.1 fr.191 Pf., .3-4; Hipponax will no longer direct his iambic songs at Bupalus, one of the original targets of his scorn (see Plin.H.N.36.12, Sud.s.v. Ἱππώναξ, (Adler ι 588). Though the text is fragmentary, that his new opponents are the scholars of Alexandria is unsurprising, and is attested in the Diegesis(Dieg.6.3). See further AcostaHughes (2002: 32-35).

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a Hellenistic audience, aesthetics and polemic. With a similar degree of artful ambiguity, Herodas never explicitly reveals that the old man is Hipponax, only illuminating the persona’s perceived connection between his poetic activity and the choliambicist in the final lines of the mimiamb; the identity of the old man is never absolutely stated, but through language and characterisation, and the persona’s Hipponactean threat, an astute reader is prepared for the infusion of the persona with Hipponactean poetics. It is particularly telling that in the old man’s threat, he seemingly reveals that he is aware of the persona’s uptake of his attributes; while one can read ἔρρ’ ἐκ προσώπου as meaning ‘get out of my sight’,52 one might be tempted to read this more metaphorically as meaning ‘get out of my character’. As with Callimachus, Herodas does not make his persona a second Hipponax toutcourt; crucially, by establishing and resolving an agonistic relationship between the two within the mimiamb, Herodas is able both to suggest that his persona is an able adversary for the old man, and one worthy of the task of refashioning choliambic in a new form. Both poets evoke a poetic model, without ascribing themselves to that model in its entirety; their activity is legitimised through their engagement with Hipponax, but this sanctioning does not necessitate slavish adherence to tradition, but rather a validation of the process of adaptation and reformation. While Hipponax provides authority for the choliambic element of his poetry, Herodas equally desires legitimisation for his dramatic endeavours; he receives this legitimacy from Dionysus.53 Much as with Hipponax, Dionysus appears as a character within the dream and, though he is never named, is easily identified by his attributes. When the ‘young man’ is introduced, he is described wearing σχ[ιστὸν] κροκωτ[ὸν, ‘saffron-hued [dress]’,54 σ[τικτῆ]ς νεβροῦ χλαν[ι]δίω[ι] ‘a cloak of [dappled] fawnskin’,55 a κύπα[σσι]ν ἀμ[φ]ὶ τοῖς ὤμοις, ‘tunic about his shoulders’56 and having κό[ρυμβα δ’] ἀμφὶ κρ[ητὶ κ]ίσσιν’ ἔστεπτο ‘ivy [fruit clusters] wreathed around his head’ (Herod.8.28-33).57 When the persona 52. As it has been by Headlam and Knox (1922: 375, 393); Cunningham (in Rusten and Cunningham (2002) and Zanker (2009: 321). 53. See further Hutchinson (1988: 237). 54. Cunningham (2004) does not offer a supplementation for σχ[]κροκωτ[. Poll.4.116 attests the κροκωτός as the himation of Dionysus specifically. See Headlam and Knox (1922: 384); Zanker (2009: 229). 55. Cunningham (2004): σ[]ς; Headlam and Knox (1922); Zanker (2009): σ[τικτῆ]ς. 56. A possibly Hipponactean borrowing, cf. Hipp.fr42b.1, Degani (1991: 61). 57. Cunningham (2004): κo[] ἀμφὶ …

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later calls upon the young man to adjudicate the argument between the old man and himself (Herod.8.63), revealing the character’s authority within the agonistic context of the dream, the identification of the young man as the god is strongly asserted. Dionysus has personal importance for Herodas, particularly as his poetry is a gift from the god (Herod.8.68); within the dream it is Dionysus who, by settling the disagreement between the old man and Herodas, legitimises Herodas’ combination of the dramatic context and characters of mime with Hipponax’ metre, allaying the old man’s stereotypical rage at the adulteration of his genre by supporting Herodas’ activity with divine authority.58 This, however, is not the full extent of Dionysus’ presence in the mimiamb;59 Herodas uses the Dionysian context of the dream to imbue his persona with Dionysian attributes, in order to claim Dionysus’ legitimising role for himself in the world outside the dream. On completing his narration, Herodas asks Annas to give him an ἔνδυ[τον], translated as ‘cloak’ or ‘garment’ (Herod.8.65-66); I argue that Herodas has clear purpose in choosing the word ἐνδυτόν here owing to the specific Dionysian context the dream evokes, justifying the supplementation of the missing letters.60 It has been posited that Herodas requests a cloak in a desire to ward off the cold, either generated by the fear of awaking from a dream,61 or due to the setting of the mimiamb during winter,62 or more generally to emphasise the transition back to the dramatic setting,63 but I argue that the word has an added significance in the Dionysian context established by the dream. Ἐνδυτόν is used for items worn by the gods,64 and garments gifted by the gods to mortals,65 but it is particularly the use of the word in Euripides’ Bacchae which has significance for Herodas, as I argue here. The tragedian uses ἐνδυτόν in several plays, but most numerously in the Bacchae; it is not, however, the frequency of the word which we should note, but rather the context in which it is deployed, as it is a context with clear similarity to that of Herodas’ dream. 58. Cf. the role Apollo plays in Call.Aet.fr.1 Pf., or A.R.1.1ff., or Erato in A.R.3.1ff. 59. Cf. Rosen (1992); Fountoulakis (2002); Fernández (2006). 60. Headlam and Knox (1922) suggest τοὔνδυτον, while both Cunningham (1971) and Zanker (2009) accept ἔνδυ[τον]. 61. Cf. Call.fr.742 Pf., Ov.Am.3.5.45-6, Zanker (2009: 231); Headlam and Knox (1922: 395); Cunningham (1971: 201). 62. See Rist (1998); Zanker (2009: 231). 63. Cf. Kutzko (2008: 151-153). 64. χρύσεα τὠπολλωνι τό ἐνδυτὸν, Call.Ap.32. 65. As with the description of Achilles wearing the armour made by Hephaestus; περὶ σώματι χρυσέων ὅπλων Ἡφαιστοπόνων κεκορυθμένος ἔνδυτ᾽, Eur.IA.1070-1073.

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In the tragedy, the Chorus encourage all Thebes to adorn their στικτῶν… ἐνδυτὰ νεβρίδων, ‘garments of dappled fawnskin’, with soft sheep wool in preparation for the games and dances of Dionysus (Eur. Bac.111-114), and further describe how Dionysus himself is νεβρίδος ἔχων ἱερὸν ἐνδυτόν, ‘wearing the sacred garment of fawnskin’, while ἀγρεύων αἷμα τραγοκτόνον, ‘hunting the blood of slaughtered goats’ (Eur.Bac.136-139).66 Finally, the Messenger refers to the carcass of an animal killed by the Bacchants metaphorically as a σαρκὸς ἐνδυτὰ (‘garment of flesh’, Eur.Bac.746) which is torn apart. Taking into account the Dionysian context of the dream, Herodas’ request for an ἐνδυτόν as his first action upon concluding the dreamnarrative is significant. The garment allows the persona to adopt the raiment of the dream’s participants and that of the god himself, despite his return to the waking world. Furthermore, in donning traditional Bacchic clothing, the persona imitates the figure of Dionysus in the dream, the only other character whose physical appearance is described in detail and who has a correspondingly Bacchic style. In doing so, Herodas presents his persona outside the dream as an analogue of Dionysus within the dream, adopting the latter’s role as a legitimising force with which to impart his interpretation with authority. The command for an ἐνδυτόν separates the narration of the dream and its interpretation; Herodas jolts the reader from their immersion in the dream-narrative by alluding to the mimetic setting which frames the narrative, speaking once more to the slave Annas, and thus outwards to the reader. Putting on the ἐνδυτόν makes explicit Herodas’ change from narrator to interpreter, and it is the ἐνδυτόν which proactively legitimises Herodas’ prophesised fame from his dual-natured poetics. There is one other aspect of the ἐνδυτόν to consider: how it connects to the goat, the allegory of Herodas’ poetry. In the dream, Herodas creates an echo of Bacchic chaos in the destruction of his goat, reminiscent of a ritual sparagmos (Herod.8.20, 69-70).67 The revelation that the goat is the persona’s poetry, and that the rending of its limbs is akin to what his critics and imitators will do, is surprising to the reader, as it does not cause the persona to despair; just as the goat continued to serve him well despite its destruction (owing to its origins as the gift of Dionysus) so will his poetry, possessing as it does the blessing of the god.68 The goat’s skin, once flayed off, reappears as the inflated skin which holds 66. Cf. Herod.8.30. 67. Cf. Herod.8.40; Rosen (1992); Crane (1986); Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004: 4-5): Fountoulakis (2002: 314-319). 68. Cf. Fountoulakis (2002: 316).

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the persona aloft (Herod.8.47). He is the only one to win the prize from treading upon the ἄπνουν κώρυκον, ‘air-tight skin-bag’ (Herod.8.74),69 because the bag is his goat remade in a new form,70 and thus his poetry, now mutilated, continues to bring him alone fame. The persona’s lament that τὰ μέλεα πολλοὶ κάρτα, τοὺς ἐμοὺς μόχθους, ‘many will pluck at my corpus, my labours’ (Herod.8.71) is thus rather disingenuous, given that Herodas’ work requires, as demonstrated, a degree of interpretive mauling in order to reveal the extent of the author’s cleverness, which Herodas doubtlessly encourages. From the usage of ἐνδυτόν, however, I believe we can deduce that the bag is not the final form of Herodas’ poetry; its last role is to become, symbolically, the garment which the persona dons following his awakening from the dream, representing Herodas’ poetic guardian and his authorial power. The usage of ἐνδυτόν in the Bacchae is connected to ritual destruction of animals (Eur.Bac. 734-747) and specifically the destruction of goats (Eur.Bac.136-139) and moreover, in the first case the ἐνδυτόν is the destroyed animal; I posit that Herodas has in mind the metaphorical dimension of Euripides’ σαρκὸς ἐνδυτὰ when considering his own ἐνδυτόν. Herodas’ allegoric goat possesses the remarkable ability to retain its power when mutilated, as Herodas demonstrates through his victory at askoliasmos. The reader, receptive to the notion that the poetry takes multiple forms, and aware of Herodas’ allusion to the Dionysian revels of the Bacchae, could therefore interpret Herodas’ wearing of the ἐνδυτόν, a garment made from skins (like the ἄπνουν κώρυκον) as the author symbolically garbing himself in his own poetry – indeed, in figuratively placing himself within the context of performance by wearing the transfigured skin which facilitated the agonistic games of the dream. This notion is further supported by the programmatic character of the mimiamb; Herodas seeks to defend his work within his poetry, and in wearing the ἐνδυτόν – a garment which now symbolises his adoption of Dionysus’ legitimising role and performance more broadly – he presents himself as utilising his poetry to legitimise itself.

69. See Crane (1986: 89-90) for the meaning of ἄπνουν as “air-tight” rather than “breathless”. 70. This transformation from goat to bag might be explained in the fragmentary τὸν αἶγ’ ἐποίευν []π[ at Herod.8.25 or λῶπο[ς][πε]ποιῆσθαι at Herod.8.36.

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4. Mimiamb 8 as a re-performance of Clouds Finally, I wish to consider the possibility that the dream is itself a re-performance – or adaptation – of a narrative drawn from dramatic poetry. The importance of Euripides’ Bacchae to Herodas has been stated, but equally, we can detect the poet evoking a comic model as precursor to the action of Mimiamb 8.71 The scene-setting lines at the outset of the poem establish a general dramatic context, as outlined above, but equally recall a specific comedic opening, that being Aristophanes’ Clouds (Ar.Nu.1-5): ἰοὺ ἰού. ὦ Ζεῦ βασιλεῦ, τὸ χρῆμα τῶν νυκτῶν ὅσον. ἀπέραντον. οὐδέποθ᾿ ἡμέρα γενήσεται; καὶ μὴν πάλαι γ᾿ ἀλεκτρυόνος ἤκουσ᾿ ἐγώ. οἱ δ᾿ οἰκέται ῥέγκουσιν. Alas, alas, O Zeus the king, the nights are so long! Interminable. Will it never be day? I did hear a cockerel, ages ago, but the slaves snore.72

A number of parallels can be detected in Herodas’ opening lines (Herod.8.1-7): ἄστηθι, δούλη Ψύλλα· μέχρι τέο κείσῃ ῥέγχουσα; τὴν δὲ χοῖρον αὐονὴ δρύπτει· ἢ προσμένεις σὺ μέχρις εὖ ἤλιος θάλψῃ τὸ]ν κῦσον ἐσδύς; κῶς δ᾿, ἄτρυτε, κοὐ κάμνεις τὰ πλ]ευρὰ κνώσσουσ᾿; αἰ δὲ νύκτες ἐννέωροι. ἄστη]θι, φημί, καὶ ἄψον, εἰ θέλεις, λύχνον, καὶ τ]ὴν ἄναυλον χοῖρον ἐς νομὴν πέμψ[ο]ν Rise, slave Psylla: how long are you going to lie snoring? Drought tears the sow: are you waiting until the sun crawls up your fanny and warms it? Tireless worker, how have you avoided tiring your ribs with snoring? The nights are nine years long. Rise I say, and light the lamp if you please, and send the discordant sow to the pasture.

71. See Nelson in this volume, who offers a detailed consideration of the role of Old Comedy in Hellenistic poetic self-definition. 72. Text and trans., Henderson (1998), adapted.

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Herodas recapitulates the Aristophanic scene: both Herodas’ persona and Strepsiades dwell on the length of the nights (Ar.Nu.1; Herod.8.5), the laziness of their slaves – specifically their snoring and oversleeping (Ar Nu.5; Herod.8.2,4-5) – and make a request that a lamp be lit (which occurs later in Clouds, at Ar.Nu.18; Herod.6). The evocation of Aristophanes here serves a dual purpose – taken in conjunction with the recurrent nature of scenes in which masters berate their slaves, it is apparent that Herodas is broadly grounding the mimiamb within the dramatic sphere, as discussed above.73 However, I suggest that, in styling his persona’s introductory lines after the opening of Clouds, Herodas also subtly foreshadows the agonistic narrative of the mimiamb, and the conflict between Herodas’ persona and Hipponax. At the climax of Aristophanes’ comedy, having received an education in conniving arguments, Phidippides – Strepsiades’ son – beats his father, and proceeds to debate with him the relative merits of the act (Ar. Nu.1321ff.). Strepsiades relates the events which led up to this: the two quarrelled over poetry, with the son preferring the novelty of Euripides to Simonides or Aeschylus, much to the father’s chagrin (Ar.Nu.13691372), at which point, Strepsiades εὐθέως ἀράττω πολλοῖς κακοῖς καἰσχροῖσι, ‘straightaway struck with many bad and shameful words’ (Ar.Nu.1374) and the two fell to fighting (Ar.Nu.1375-1376). Phidippides relishes the chance to argue with his father now he is equipped with sophistry, remarking ὡς ἡδὺ καινοῖς πράγμασιν καὶ δεξιοῖς ὁμιλεῖν καὶ τῶν καθεστώτων νόμων ὑπερφρονεῖν δύνασθαι, ‘how fine it is to be au fait with novel, clever things, and to have the power to disregard established customs’ (Ar.Nu.1399-1400), and in short order triumphs over Strepsiades through cunning speech. The implement Phidippides uses to beat his father is not mentioned; however, Aristophanes foreshadows the conclusion of the play during the parabasis, in which he outlines typical comic scenes which the first version of Clouds did not possess (and which, it can be assumed, the present version does):74 οὐδὲ πρεσβύτης ὁ λέγων τἄπη τῇ βακτηρίᾳ τύπτει τὸν παρόντ’ ἀφανίζων πονηρὰ σκώμματα, ‘nor did an old man strike a bystander with his staff, concealing his bad jokes’, (Ar.Nu.541-542). The Aristophanic depiction of the

73. See also Kutzko (2012) on Herodas’ engagement with Lysistrata as an intertext in Mimiamb7. 74. On the versions and revisions of Clouds, see Hubbard (1991: 88-112); Rosen (1997); Biles (2011: 176ff).

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stock-scene of the πρεσβύτης75 beating a παρόντα76 with a βακτηρίᾳ77 clearly resonates in Herodas’ description of Hipponax’ threatened attack upon his persona, but, more than this, we can detect a comparable development in the narrative structure of both Aristophanes’ comedy and Herodas’ mimiamb: the parabasis seems to foreshadow the climax of the action, with the allusion to beating and harsh language, but in truth the situation is reversed – it is not the old man who delivers a beating, but rather he who receives one at the hands of a younger man, one who’s cleverness – and willingness to move beyond established custom – ensures his victory. Similarly, on detecting the true identity of the old man, a reader might assume his triumph, given Hipponax’ stereotypical propensity for abuse and violence. However, this is not the case – Herodas’ persona succeeds in the game of askoliasmos, his victory emblematic of the successful incorporation of dramatic material into choliambic verse (thus, an upheaval of customary generic boundaries), and legitimised through his alignment with the young man, Dionysus.78 By depicting his persona’s contest with the old man using language and a narrative that recalls an Aristophanic model, Herodas evinces, at yet another level, his authority in composing poetry with a hybrid dramatic and choliambic form.

5. Conclusion By moving beyond a consideration of those elements of the Mimiambs which suggest performance as a means to determine their intended mode of reception, and instead assessing how Herodas engages with the notion of performance on the level of content, I submit that – in Mimiamb 8 – we can observe the poet deftly employing dramatic tropes, scenes and mechanisms in the act of defining and defending his poetic activity. Herodas situates the events which allegorically legitimise himself as a poet within a quintessentially agonistic context, recalling the atmosphere of a Dionysiac festival: his persona’s success at askoliasmosdisplays the ability to incorporate the performative mode without the requirement for 75. Cf.Herod.8.59. 76. Cf. the persona’s appeal to his fellow askoliasmos-participants as παρεόν[τες] at Herod.8.61. 77. Cf. Herod.8.60. 78. Cf. the opening of the parabasis at Ar.Nu.518-519: ὦ θεώμενοι κατερῶ πρὸς ὑμᾶς ἐλευθέρως τἀληθῆ, νὴ τὸν Διόνυσον τὸν ἐκθρέψαντά με, “O Spectators, I’ll freely declare the truth to you, by Dionysus who raised me”.

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actual performance. By constructing his persona from facets of Hipponax and Dionysus – speech, props and costume drawn from those figures’ own representations as characters within the dream narrative – the persona subtly inherits their abilities and authority at the level of representation, mirroring and reinforcing his assertions to compose mimiambic poetry authoritatively in his interpretation of the dream. Through the recollection of Bacchae in the costume both his persona and Dionysus wear, and the employment of Clouds as a model for engagement with Hipponax, Herodas enacts his programmatic self-representation within a context redolent of the work of renowned dramatists. Drawing on Aristophanic and Euripidean material, Herodas proclaims his poetry’s dramatic lineage, but simultaneously displays – through the coming together of Hipponactean and Dionysiac elements in his persona, as in his poetry more generally – the inherent novelty of his mimiambic genre.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Acosta-Hughes, B., 1996, “Callimachus, Hipponax and the Persona of the Iambographer”. MD 37, 205-216. Acosta-Hughes, B., 2002, Polyeideia:TheIambiofCallimachusandtheArchaic IambicTradition. Berkeley. Biles, Z.P., 2011, AristophanesandthePoeticsofCompetition. Cambridge. Bing, P., 1988. “Theocritus’ Epigrams on the Statues of Ancient Poets”. A&A 34, 117-123. Brown, C.G., 1994, “The Big Sleep: Herodas 8.5”. ZPE 102, 95-99. Burkert, W., 1966, “Greek Tragedy and Sacrificial Ritual”. GRBS 7, 87-121. Burkert, W., 1987, AncientMysteryCult. Cambridge, MA. Courtney, E., 1993, TheFragmentaryLatinPoets. Oxford. Crane, G., 1986, “Three Notes on Herodas 8”. HSPh 90, 85-90 Crusius, O. & Herzog, R., 1924, “Der Traum des Herondas”. Philologus 79, 387-433. Cunningham, I.C., 1971, Herodas:Mimiambi. Oxford. Cunningham, I.C., 2004, Herodas Mimiambi, cum Appendice Fragmentorum MimorumPapyraceorum. Leipzig. Degani, H., 1991, HipponactisTestimoniaetFragmenta. Lepizig. Dover, K.J., 1993, Aristophanes’Frogs. Oxford. Esposito, E., 2010, “Herodas and the Mime”. In: J.J. Claus & M. Cuypers (eds.), ACompaniontoHellenisticLiterature. Oxford, 267-281. Fantuzzi, M. & R. Hunter, 2004, TraditionandInnovationinHellenisticPoetry. Oxford. Fernández, C.N., 2006, “Herondas por Herondas: autoficción en el mimo helenístico”. AC 75, 23-39. Fountoulakis, A., 2000, “᾽Ωπαρεόν[τεϛ in Herondas 8.61”. ZPE 131, 27-28. Fountoulakis, A., 2002, “Herondas 8.66-79: Generic Self-Consciousness and Artistic Claims in Herondas’ Mimiambs”. Mnemosyne 55.3, 201-319.

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Headlam, W. & A.D. Knox, 1922. Herodas: The Mimes and Fragments. (ed.) A.D. Knox, Cambridge. Henrichs, A., 1978, “Greek Maenadism from Olympias to Messalina”. HSPh 82, 121-160. Hordern, J.H., 2004, Sophron’sMimes.Oxford. Hubbard, T.K., 1991, TheMaskofComedy:AristophanesandtheIntertextual Parabasis. London. Hunter, R., 1993, “The Presentation of Herodas’ Mimiamboi”. Antichthon 27, 31-44. Hunter, R., 1995, ‘Plautus and Herodas”. In: L.Benz et al. (eds.),Plautusunddie TraditiondesStegreifspiels:FestgabefürEckardLefèvrezum60.Geburtstag. Tübingen. Hutchinson, G.O., 1988, HellenisticPoetry. Oxford. Kerkhecker, A., 1999, Callimachus’BookofIambi. Oxford. Kutzko, D., 2008, “All the World’s a Page: Imitation of Metatheater in Theocritus 15, Herodas 1 and Virgil Eclogues 3”. CJ 103, 141-161. Kutzko, D., 2012, “In Pursuit of Sophron”. In: K. Bosher (ed.), TheaterOutside Athens:DramainGreekSicilyandSouthItaly. Cambridge, 367-390. Lada-Richards, I., 1999, InitiatingDionysus:RitualandTheatreinAristophanes’ Frogs, Oxford. Latte, K., 1957, “ἈΣΚΩΛΙΑΣΜΟΣ”. Hermes 85, 385-391. Männlein-Robert, I., 2006, ““Hinkende Nachahmung.” Desillusionierung und Grenzüberspielungen in Herodas’ viertem Mimiambos”. In: M.A. Harder et al. (eds.),BeyondtheCanon, Leuven-Paris-Dudley, MA, 205-28. Mastromarco, G., 1979, IlPubblicodiHeronda. Padova. Mastromarco, G., 1984, ThePublicofHerondas. Amsterdam. Panayotakis, C., 2010, DecimusLaberius:TheFragments. Cambridge. Panayotakis, C., 2014. “Hellenistic Mime and its Reception at Rome”. In: M. Fontaine & A.C. Scafuro (eds.), OxfordHandbookofGreekandRoman Comedy, Oxford, 378-396. Parsons, P.J., 1981, “Review of G. Mastromarco’s Il Pubblico di Heronda”. CR 31, 110. Pfeiffer, R. 1949-1953, Callimachus, vol.1 Fragmenta & vol.2 Hymni et epigrammata. Oxford. Pickard-Cambridge, A.W., 1962, Dithyramb,TragedyandComedy. Oxford. Pickard-Cambridge, A.W., 1968, second ed. 1988. The Dramatic Festivals of Athens. Oxford. Puchner, W., 1993, “Zur Raumkonzeption der Mimiamben des Herodas”. WS 106, 9-34. Rist, A., 1998, “A Fresh Look at Herodas’ Bucolic Masquerade”. Phoenix, 51, 354-363. Rosen, R.M., 1992, “Mixing of Genres and Literary Program in Herodas 8”. HSph 94, 205-216. Rosen, R.M., 1997, “Performance and Textuality in Aristophanes’ Clouds”. TheYaleJournalofCriticism10, 397-421. Rusten, J.C. & I.C. Cunningham (eds.), 2002, Theophrastus, Characters; Herodas,Mimes;SophronandotherMimeFragments.Cambridge, MA. Stanzel, K.-H., 1998, “Mimen, Mimpen und Mimiamben”. In: M.A. Harder et al. (eds.),GenreinHellenisticPoetry. Leuven-Paris-Dudley, MA, 143-165.

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Stanzel, K.-H., 2010, “Neuer Wein in neuen Schläuchen? Kallimachos’ Iambik, die Mimepen Theokrits und die Mimiamben des Herodas”. In: G. Weber (ed.), AlexandreiaunddasptolemäischeÄgypten  :Kulturbegegnungenin hellenistischerZeit. Berlin, 187-207. Ussher, R.G., 1980, “The Mimiamboi of Herodas”. Hermathena 129, 65-76. Ussher, R.G., 1985, “The Mimic Tradition of ‘Character’ in Herodas”. QUCC 21, 45-68. Veneroni, B., 1971, “Ricerche su due mimiambi di Eroda [8, 2]”. RIL 105, 223-42. Vogliano, A., 1906, Ricerchesopral’ottavomimiambodiHeroda. Milan. Zanker, G., 1987, RealisminAlexandrianPoetry. London. Zanker, G., 2004, ModesofViewinginHellenisticArtandPoetry. Madison. Zanker, G., 2006, “Poetry and Art in Herodas’ Mimiamb 4”. In: M.A. Harder et al. (eds.),BeyondtheCanon, Leuven-Paris-Dudley, MA, 357-77. Zanker, G., 2009, Herodas:Mimiambs. Oxford.

THE PERFORMATIVE LIFE OF THE HELLENISTIC PERIOD THROUGH INSCRIPTIONS THE CASE STUDY OF DELPHI AND DELOS

Angela CINALLI

In the research on the poetivaganti of the Hellenistic period, the theme of the artistic paths pursued by the itinerant artists emerges with frequency. The analysis of evidence highlights the connections occurring between Delphi and Delos, since the catalogues of the ἀγῶνες and the decrees attest to a “περίοδος” of the loci Apollinei as a section of a wider artistic itinerary. In fact, the lists of the Amphictyonic Soteria in Delphi and the ἐπιδείξεις τῷ θεῷ in Delos testify to a conspicuous group of artists – mainly dramatic performers, but also instrumentalists and choristers – attending, in the third century BC, both the artistic appointments.1 The reception of artists continued over times, as the Delphian decrees matching the Delian inscriptions show. The Athenian κιθαρῳδός Menalkes, the Chiote poet Amphiklos, and the multiple talented Satyros from Samos2 were awarded honors and privileges in both places. The famous αὐλητής Xenophantos from Thebes, proxenos in Delphi, took part to the Delian ἐπιδείξεις τῷ θεῷ during his stay on the island.3 The service of artists in both places went on also in the first century BC, as the accomplishments of the herald Zenobios4 document. The path between the lociApollinei evidently was a small section of the possible artistic routes of the Hellenistic period. The artistic environments of Delphi and Delos share the same principle, necessarily consisting of the sacred nature of both places emerging all over their cultural and performative life. The praise of the god is the common leitmotif conveying in all the performances and in particular in the activity of the itinerant virtuosi chosen for the sacred celebrations of the loci of Apollo. Besides this and further affinities pointed out below, the performative life of Delphi and Delos evolves in different ways and its analysis gives us the chance to shed light on a fragment of the artistic and social phenomenon that pervasively touched at different levels the Hellenistic culture. 1. 2. 3. 4.

Nachtergael (1977: 243-244). In the order, see Appendix and infra: T.13a, T.8, pp. 51-52. See note 9. SEG 9 532.

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In order to draw a panorama as thorough as possible, the surviving testimonies of the Delphi and Delos artistic agenda are considered on both chronological and thematic basis. The inscriptions, for both places, are organized taking into consideration the quality of information: form and content of the performance (a), typology (b), combination of both aspects (a+b): see Tables. This approach shall support us in reconstructing the big picture.

1. Delphi Throughout the Hellenistic period, the city of Delphi was one of the core locations of the itinerant arts and its sacred nature constantly marked the expressions of artists and intellectuals passing by. Inscriptions attest to an extremely dynamic cultural life and to an intense turnout of professionals granted epigraphic memory not only for their performative activity and artistic production but also for public responsibilities.5 The parade of artists bestowed on proxeny for unknown reasons between the last years of the fourth and the beginning of the second century BC is also astonishing6. In this group we recognize intellectuals of major caliber,7 as for example Pythokles from Hermione, technites of the Isthmos and of the Nemea guild;8 the most celebrated αὐλητής Xenophantos from 5. Commitment in public life can be recognized in the decrees for accomplished intellectuals as Lykon the peripatetic (FD III 3 167; cf. IG II2 791d, l. 29); the ποιητὰς ἐπῶν Amphiklos from Chios sent to Delphi as hieromnemon(FD III 3 217), whom we can also find in Delos (see below pp. 51-52); Menekrates from Thebes, sculptor (Marcadé 1953: 82-83; Daux 1944-1945: 113-114 A-E: his signature appears three times in Delphi) and technites of the Isthmos and of the Nemea guild (Syll3 690, l. 22: he competed at the winter Soteria, as χορευτὴς κωμωιδοῦ). In a role in between intellectual and public commitment, two of the most renowned professionals of the fourth century BC were engaged: Aristoteles and his grand-nephew Kallisthenes, in charge with composing the πίναξ of the Πυθιονίκαι:FD III 1 400; see also FD 3 v: 58 ll. 42-43, 59B ll. 6-8, 60A, ll. 9-10; Plu. Sol. 11. 1-2. For detailed discussion: Chaniotis (1988: 195-196, 214-217, 293-296 E3); Spoerri (1988); Mari (2010: 52-57). 6. The standardized wording of these inscriptions does not allow any speculations on motivation of the rewards. For a general view on itinerant intellectuals being honored in Delphi, see Bouvier (1985: 126-129) and Liefferinge (2000). 7. Among less famous personalities (FD III: 1 21; 4 145 and 177; 2 75 and 158; Flacelière 1928: 201 10), we can also attest to the passage of renowned men as Nearchus, navarch in the army of Alexander the Great and author of voyage accounts (FD III 1 412); the historian Neanthes from Milet, pupil of Philiskos (FD III 1 429; FGrH II and Komm. 144f); two renowned intellectuals as Hegesianax of Alexandria Troad and Polemon of Ilion (Syll3 585, prox. 18 and 114) and plausibly also Demetrios of Skepsis visiting town in the middle of the second century for diplomatic reasons (FD III 1 288, ll. 12-15). 8. Nachtergael (1977: 428-429 15, 317-318). See also, for his numerous participations at the Soteria: FD III: 1 477, ll. 3-4, 14-15; 1 563, ll. 4-5; 1 477, ll. 15-16; FD III 4 356,

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Thebes, who played at the funeral of Demetrios Poliorketes and whose career can be reconstructed through epigraphy and literary passages;9 the famous author Nikandros of Kolophon.10 Epigraphy offers us the key to draw a vision of the artistic life of the Hellenistic Delphi, unveiling precious elements on form and content, typology, and arrangement of the performances. The catalogue of documents attesting the subjects of the performances in Delphi begins with compositions in awe of the gods presiding over town: Tab.I(a). Whilst we cannot hold our breath on Philodamos of Skarpheia being the author of the long paean to Dionysos (ca. 340/339 BC),11 three later documents testify to the activity of Aristonoos, hymnographer from Corinth (FD III 2 190). A standardized proxeny decree informs us that the rewards Delphi grants him are due to his ὕμνοι τοῖς θεοῖς, which actually still survive. A hymn praising Apollo and the installation of the god at Delphi and another one for Hestia,12 are the living proof that his poetic work had resulted in being so popular and successful as to induce the Delphians to leave an eternal memory on the stone. At the middle of the third century BC, the Boeotian Xenotimos was bestowed proxeny and other privileges for offering an ἆισμα μετὰ χοροῦ13 to the god (FD III 3 86). We cannot determine whether the ἆισμα was an excerpt of his own compositions or what role the Boeotian artist had in the performance. No doubt though, on his expertise consisting in choral singing, that he had the occasion to show off – in the same

ll. 7-8; Nachtergael (1977: 416-417 8, ll. 30-31). For his victories at the most famous ἀγῶνες of Greece, among which the Pythia: Nachtergael (1977: 429 15bis, 318-323). 9. FD III 3 115. Plu. Dem. 53, 5; Philod. 3. 2. fr. 21; Sen. De Ira 2. 2. 6. Several occurrences testimony his presence in Delos, at the ἐπιδείξεις for the god: IG XI 2: 106, ll. 15-16; 161B, l. 89; 199B, l. 22; 220, l. 9; 287B, l. 60. See Stefanis (1988: 1911). 10. Syll3 452. On the debate arisen on the identity of this Nikandros, see, among all the related bibliography, Pasquali (1913). 11. Syll3 270: the inscription contains a hundred lines of poetry organized in 12 stanzas and, at the bottom of the stone, the decree for Philodamos and his brothers, whose role is not specified. Cf. IG II2 3045: Philodamos’ name might appear in the 350 BC at Athens as διδάσκαλος for the Dionysia men’s chorus. Basic updated bibliography on the paean: Stewart (1982); Käppel (1992: 375-380); Furley-Bremer (2001 I: 121-128). See also Sheppard (this volume). 12. The hymn for Apollo is inscribed on the same stone as the decree. FD III 2 191, 192. Furley-Bremer (2001 I: 119-120). 13. The line with motivation is quite entirely integrated, nevertheless we have a valuable parallel of the expression ἆισμα μετὰ χοροῦ in the inscription for the αὐλητής Satyros: T.8.

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years as the decree – during the Soteria festival14 performing as a παῖς χορευτής in the dithyramb. This last clue shows he was still a juvenile age at the time of his frequentation of the locusApollineus. Some documents dating between the end of the second and the first century BC, support us in reconstructing the performances agenda delivered by itinerant artists and intellectuals in the Apollinean town. These occurrences attest that art kept living despite the unlucky period Delphi and the Greece all was facing (with the Romans at the door, the Mithridatic war, and the Thrace incursion15), finding shelter principally into the gymnasion: Tab.I(b). There, were hosted the ἀκροάσεις of a young epic poet from Skepsis (T.1), as well as several other appointments: a workshop pursued by a Roman ἀστρολόγος (T.2), the ἀκροάσεις πλείονες in which the Roman rhetor Dekmos Iounios was successful (T.3); the wellappreciated classes offered by the grammatikos Menandros (T.4),16 and conceivably also the teaching (διδασκαλίαι) to the sons of the Delphians in μάθημα καὶ τοῦ βίου ἀναστροφή held by Apollonios from Aigira, who stood out also with his ἐπιδείξεις (T.5). The Delphian roster of the first century poeti vaganti is emblazoned by two more artists, awarded proxeny and other privileges for pursuing the profession (τᾷ περὶ ἐπιτάδευμα τέχνᾳ): a μαγῳδός (Robert: 1938a 7 1, ll. 2-6), i. e. “mime lirique”,17 and an anonymous μουσικός impressing the audience with exhibitions in the theater (Daux 1949: 286-287 35, ll. 2-5, 8). A group of Delphian decrees defines both context and nature of performances delivered in Delphi between the last decades of the third and the end of the second century BC: Tab.I(a+b). The Theoxenia sacrifice in ca. 230-225 BC was enriched by the prosodion, paean, and hymn for

14. Nachtergael (1977: 420 9, l. 27) (258/7 or 254/3 BC). Also his older brother Apollonios performed at the Soteria among the ἄνδρες χορευταί: Nachtergael (1977: 413 7, l. 23; 423 10, l. 40). We have here one of the several examples of artistic families involved in festivals and probably connected to the guilds of technitai, likely the one of the Isthmos and Nemea: Pomtow (1897: 819-820); Nachtergael (1977: 301-304); Manieri (2013: 139-140) with a compendium of the issue. On the presence also of the Athenian guild at the Amphictyonic Soteria: Aneziri (2007: 76 note 44). Cf. the Boeotian festivals: Le Guen (2001: 98 12, 324 6); Manieri (2009: 38-44). 15. Daux (1936: 392-410); Nachtergael (1977: 376-378). 16. This intellectual bears a double citizenship, of Thyrrheion in Acarnania and of Kassope (ll. 1-2). At Delphi, he is highly rewarded with the summoning to the heart of town (Cinalli 2015: 20-24) for offering his knowledge (ἀπαρχή) to the god and to Delphi. 17. The ancient authors are concordant in condemning the μaγῳδία as a form of corruption of ancient poetry and traditional values: Str. 14. 1. 41; Ath. 14. 621c-d.

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Apollo written by the Athenian Kleochares,18 ποιητὴς μελῶν, whom Delphi awarded laurel crown and praise among proxeny privileges (T.6). The chorus of παῖδες, instructed by the annual chorodidaskalos, performed these compositions. Plenty of information for a single inscription that seems to unveil the typical executions and protagonists of the Delphian Theoxenia19 where also another professional stood out during his stay in town. The complex activity held by Hermokles from Chios in Delphi is documented by a decree of the end of the third century BC recording his achievements, whether in order of relevance or of chronology or both we are not allowed to reckon (T.7). As we can argue from the inscription, he was in Delphi during the spring sent as hieromnemon for the first annual gathering of the Amphictyony, where he celebrated the sacrifices.20 He also took active part to the celebrations of the Theoxenia.21 These seem the most important actions revolving around his principal role in Delphi. His activity as a poet and scholar ensues from the composition of the hymn and the ἀπολογισμός delivered in front of the ekklesia.22 Some points remain blurry though, for example, the occasion for the hymn to be performed – if it was ever meant to – and why he was called to confirm the friendship between the Ionians and Delphi. One could imagine the hymn to be performed at the sacrifice he participated as hieromnemon but this is highly speculative in the absence of further clues. As for his second artistic product, the mention to the common freedom the Chians stood up for (l. 7), could recall the context of the war against Antiochus when Chios took the side of the Romans.23 As a matter of fact, it could also refer to the First Macedonian War, which would better fit the dating of the inscription. Livy informs that the Ionians – wishing for the conflict to end principally for commercial reasons –24 feared the Macedonians could put the common freedom in danger but at the same time were also worried by the bellicose nature of the Aetolians.25 Hence this concern would conceivably inspire his speech. It emerges from this decree that the double profile of Hermokles, both 18. The relation between the family of this poet and Delphi continued over times, as the name of Kleochares’ son in the list of ca. 230-220 BC theodorochoi attests: Plassart (1921: 5 col. I, l. 31). 19. On Kleochares and his pièces: Bélis (1994: 49); Grandolini (1987-1988: 38-39; 1991: 127, 129-130); Sourvinou-Inwood (2004: 145-147, 154). 20. D-S (1877-1919: 176, 235-236), s.v. “Amphictyones”; (176), s.v. “Hieromnemon”. 21. For the silver bowl: Hdt. 1. 51. 22. Cf. ID 1512, ll. 14-17: The pupil Myrinos, in front of the assembly, exalts (ἀπολογισμὸς ποιέω) the grammatikos Dioskourides from Tarsos. 23. Chaniotis (2009a: 262-263); Rutherford (2009: 164). 24. Walbank (1981: 89-90). 25. Liv. 27. 30.

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hieromnemon and intellectual, cannot be split and that his artistic competences are a tool to his diplomatic mission. It is worth pointing out that one more document attests that Chios made good use of his men of letters as, some decades before Hermokles, the town sent as hieromnemon to Delphi the epic poet Amphiklos, whose steps we can follow also in Delos (see further p. 51-52). While the Theoxenia hosted Kleochares compositions and the sacrifices celebrated by Hermokles, the Pythia were likely the place for an acclaimed Samian artist to perform. For him, both Delos and Delphi raised statues but, whereas his activity on the island is unknown,26 the record of his endeavors on the mainland has endured (T.8).27 In the first quarter of the second century BC, Satyros of Samos found himself competing alone with the aulos at the ἀγών without any rivals.28 Nonetheless, he was considered suitable to offer more of his performances at the σταδίον during the sacrifice, after the ἀγὼν γυμνικός. Admittedly, the hypothesis of him performing at the ἀγὼν μουσικός of the Pythia which used to precede the athletic contests29 is compelling and the exhibition at the ἀγών could be considered as a preliminary phase where the artists judged worthy30 were admitted to confront with important displays, i.e. the sacrifices of the festival. Satyros agenda after the ἀγών consists of the ἆισμα μετὰ χοροῦ (cf. above p. 41-42 the Boeotian Xenotimos) named Dionysos – that could be either a song of the tradition or a composition of his own –,31 and the highlight from Euripides’ Bacchae,32 26. IG XI 4 1079. 27. The steps of his career have also been recognized elsewhere: Stefanis (1988: 1501). 28. Cf. the different translation of ll. 2-4 given by Prauscello (2006: 105): “He had good fortune to be the first and only performer to win the pipe-players contest without competition …”. This interpretation though would entail for aulein the meaning of “winning the pipe-players contest”, which does not find any literary or epigraphic comparison. In case of victory, indeed, we would expect for example ἐνίκα Πύθια, as in FD III 4 202. 29. Amandry (1990: 306-310). 30. Also the τραγῳδός Nikon (T.13b) seems to be “pre-judged” in his skills. 31. Chandezon (1998: 51): both possibilities, of a traditional or of a new composition, are considered. 32. We must acknowledge that, according to another line of reasoning (Eitrem et al. 1955: 27; Gentili 1977: 17-19; Dihle 1981: 31; Xanthakis-Karamanos 1993: 125-126; Tedeschi 2003: 111-112; Prauscello 2006), the ἆισμα μετὰ χοροῦ and the κιθάρισμα would be two sections of the same revival from the Bacchaeperformed with the kithara by Dionysos’ character and the chorus. Nevertheless, we choose here to follow the interpretation of one pièce (Nachtergael 1977: 327; Csapo-Slater 1994: 45; Perrin 1997: 213 n. 64; Chandezon 1998: 50-53, Wilson 2002: 63; Hall 2002: 13; Chaniotis 2009b: 84), considering it more consistent: 1/ with the structure of the sentence; 2/ comparing it with the Boeotian Xenotimos’ ἆισμα μετὰ χοροῦ (see p. 41-42), whose drama and character

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confirming the fame of the tragedian among the poeti vaganti. 33 The pièces Satyros played lead both towards Dionysos and admitting the performances at the sacrifice of the Pythia – which took place in the month of Boukatios (August-September) -34 would entail the extension to the spring of the Dionysiac cult in Delphi in a spirit of inclusiveness of the sacred sphere.35 Even with some indistinct edges, we have here the picture of a multiple talented itinerant artist: Satyros competes with the aulos and performs in singing, even accompanied by the kithara. Likely, if the song Dionysos were not a traditional pièce, he would also be a composer, in addition to the profile of a versatile performer. As we will observe in Delos, so in Delphi itinerant art reflects the political situation and the encomium is the favorite instrumentum to pursue the celebration of occasional masters. The panorama of the second century BC performances is strongly linked to the progressive presence of Romans in Greece36 and Delphi variously attests to this fact37 through the presence of Roman artists we already touched on (cf. T.2, T.3) and through artistic products. In the middle of the second century BC, the ἱστοριογράφος Aristotheos from Trezene performed for many days in ἀκροάσεις on his historical works (τὰ πεπραγματευμένα38) and gave public readings39 of ἐν[κώ]μια on the Romans (T.9). The allusion here seems the ἐγκώμια λογικά largely attested in Boeotian contests and that we can also suppose for the third century BC activity in Delos of Eukles from Tenos (see below p. 50-51).

are not mentioned. Two detailed studies on Satyros’ inscription have just been published by the author of this paper for the proceedings of the International Conferences of Studies “Gli agoni poetico-musicali della Grecia antica: storia, religione, letteratura” (Perugia, 27-29 October 2015). 33. Cf. the actor / boxeur in a dedication of his victories (at the Soteria too) from Tegea, whose expertise was ancient tragedy and especially Euripides: Syll3 1080. For the reperformances of ancient dramas, see: Gentili (1977: 8-23); Nervegna (2007: 18-21, 25-31). 34. As Plutarch 389c informs, it was custom in Delphi to perform dithyrambs for Dionysos during the three months of winter, and paeans for Apollo from spring onwards. Cf. also B.fr. 16.5-12 S.-M. 35. There is a spring attitude also in Philodamos’ paean for Dionysos: Furley-Bremer (2001 I: 126-128). 36. Robinson (1969: 263-271); Spawforth (1989); Spawforth (2007). 37. In Boeotia, the epigraphy of performances extensively testifies to the Roman presence: Manieri (2009: 38-40). 38. Cf. T.14, T.17. 39. In this case the public readings are indicated by the verb παραναγιγνώσκω (LSJ s.v.: «read beside, compare, collate one document with another»), whereas we are used to expect ἀναγιγνώσκω / ἀναγνώσεις. As far as we know, no further occurrences document this kind of performance in Delphi, so that we might consider it an alternative way to intend the public readings. It would sound awkward interpreting it as a session of comparative encomia on the Romans.

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Through this insight into the performative life of Delphi, we can observe that, although some fresh approaches and new masters were welcomed, the town tended to stick to cultural heritage and to make a flagship of it. Between the middle and the end of the second century BC, two couples of artists rise as the champions of the tradition and during their stay in Delphi they make a point of it through their art. The siblings Thrason and Sokrates from Aigira gave the résumé of the intervals and scales of archaic poetry. About forty years later, Kleodoros and Thrasyboulos, siblings from Pheneos, displayed their techne through the rhythms of the ancient poets that were suitable to the god and the polis. T.10 a, b Even casting a glance at the documents, the parallel elements appear obvious. Both are couples of μουσικοί possessing the techne rather than the episteme of music: accordingly, they can play proficiently but their skills in composing music are not declared. Furthermore, they are called to re-propose through ἐπιδείξεις the poetic heritage, specifically what of the archaic poetry is decent and appropriate to Apollo and Delphi, in different ways though. The first couple from Aigira makes a display of harmony (τῶν λυρικῶν συστήματα)40: being the music system founded on the fingerings of lyre,41 these siblings properly selected the most suitable to tradition. The latter couple reaches the same outcome focusing on the rhythmic aspects (ἀριθμοί)42 of text and music. In the decree for the siblings from Pheneos is also stressed the educational validity of their presence at Delphi. Whereas, for the first couple, the ἐπιδείξεις appear only in the performative aspect, in their case instead they could result more as demonstrations directed particularly to the youngest part of the audience. Or even the siblings might have articulated their stay at Delphi through διδασκαλίαι other than ἐπιδείξεις. As for the sacred celebrations, of which we had a sneak peek with Kleochares activity, the last decades of the second century BC bear the memory of their greatness through two further compositions whose both texts and vocal and instrumental notation are inscribed onto the Athenian Thesauros (CID 3 1, 2). The in-dept analysis of these special epigraphic documents and of the decree honoring the Athenian technitai conducting the Pythais of the 128 BC to Delphi (FD III 2 47) has allowed envisaging various aspects concerning performances and authors.43 The compositions, as the headings of the Thesauros’ inscriptions inform, are attributable to Limenios and Athenaios(?), two Dionysiakoitechnitai active in 40. 41. 42. 43.

LSJ s.v. σύστημα: «system of intervals, scale». Grout (1984: 43). LSJ s.v. ἀριθμός: «rhythm». Bélis 1988; 1992.

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town at the end of the third quarter of the second century BC. In the Pythais decree they are respectively registered as paean singer and kithara player,44 nevertheless the hymns’ headings allow us to infer that they both were also skilled in μελοποίησις, as was Kleochares (T.6) but, unlike him, they participated in the staging of their own compositions. Athenaios(?) arranged for a rich vocal ensemble supposed to play acappella the paean and hyporchema for the god, while the Limenios’ paean and prosodion were intended to be sung and accompanied by a large orchestra of choristers and wind instruments (T.11 a, b). Both the compositions were to be performed in occasion of the celebrations of the sacred mission at Delphi, whether both in the 128 BC or in different years cannot be yet determined.45 In framing the panorama of the artistic journeys to Delphi, we cannot disregard the ἀγῶνες (Tab.III). Although the epigraphic sources at our disposal scarcely document the Pythia,46 the lists of participants and victors of the Soteria, from the Amphictyonic period to the grandeur of the Aetolian editions,47 allow us to focalize the interference between the sphere of contests and extra-agonistic performances. In Delphian contests, we can find young artists attempting their “shortcut to fame”48 and the most celebrated competitors chasing further accomplishments for their career. Whether worthy, the city could anchor their reputation to the glory of additional performances and rewards.49 An explicatory example is the decree for the κιθαρῳδός50 Athanadas from Rhegion, valiantly performing at the Soteria (without gaining any prize, though)51 and then 44. FD III 2 47, ll. 20, 23. 45. There is a debate as to whether the compositions by Limenios and Athenaios(?) were both performed during the Pythais celebrations of 128 BC or not (according to some scholars’ hypothesis, the Limenios’ one should be dated to 138 or even to 107 BC). Basic bibliography on the matter: Pöhlmann (1970); Bélis (1988; 1992); Schröder (1999); Furley-Bremer (2001 I: 129-138). 46. Amandry (1990). 47. Nachtergael (1977: 404-495). 48. Luc. Herod. 3. 49. The catalogues of the Amphictyonic Soteria register the presence of some artists granted also with proxeny and other privileges by the city (FD III 3 86; iv 361). As for the Pythia, it is likely that Satyros from Samos participated at the ἀγὼν μουσικός and Polygnota from Thebes came to compete but, owing to the Mythridatic war, the ἀγῶνες were cancelled: T.8, T.13e. According to the restorations by Couve and Pomtow (see note 124), also the other χοροψάλτρια participated to the Pythia: T.13d. 50. The κιθαρῳδοί were able to sing while they were playing, so their art is valued more than the one of the κιθαρισταί. See Bélis (1995). 51. This seems the sense of εὐδοκιμέω. For the use of the verb to praise also doctors and men of culture: Chaniotis (2009b: 88).

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offering his own recital on the kithara (T.12). His case is also valuable for possibly opening up an insight on the ἀγῶνες, whose contests could consist of various rounds (eliminating round, semi-final and final phase) conducted in different days.52 Moreover, other artistic appointments can be tracked down helping us to reconstruct at different levels the activity of performers of music and literature in the city. A group of decrees, spanning from the third to the first century BC, attests to occasions that, despite the verb ἀγωνίζομαι indicating them, do not correspond to the formal contests we are acquainted with in Delphi. These testimonies have been extensively discussed in a study of recent publication (Cinalli 2014b) whose main points, advantageous to our purpose, are sketched out here. T.13 a-f: through these inscriptions, we record in Delphi anonymous ἀγῶνες where high-leveled professionals were called on worth and prestige. The τραγῳδός Nikon is pre-judged53 in his skills at the Soteria in order not to disappoint the expectations of the audience during most important displays (13b). The travel of the Athenian κιθαρῳδός Menalkes, former of this group (13a),54 and of the χοροψάλτρια Polygnota from Thebes (13e) is inspired by the ἀγῶνες of the Pythia and Soteria and, during their stay, the town demands more of their art. The performances of the ὕδραυλος Antipatros from Eleutherna (13f), traveling with his crew,55 were deliberately requested by the Delphians. Depending on their artistry and fame, these performers were officially asked by the town to show off for one or more days and were awarded, in due proportion, extremely distinctive honors and privileges.56 In this roster, we find an extensive expertise that joins together the double-faced scenario of Delphi fostering both traditional tendencies and the avant-garde, with specialists of the accompanied singing and drama (the κιθαρῳδός Menalkes, the two female harpists playing 52. See Cinalli (2014b). The Athanadas decree, compared with the Lucian narration of the Pythia competition of κιθαρῳδία and the lists of participants of the earlier Amphictyonic Soteria (both supposed to be competed over one day: Luc. Ind. 8-10; Nachtergael 1977: 404-413 2-11), supported me in this deduction. 53. Cf. Satyros of Samos: T.8. 54. His agenda in Delphi is also attested by the catalogue of participants to the Soteria (Nachtergael 1977: 416-419 8, ll. 35, 82) and he is also awarded proxeny in Delos: IG XI 4 575. 55. Delphi invited to the Prytaneion him and οἱ μετ’ αὐτοῦ. It is more than reasonable to imagine a team whose members attended to the instrument activating its pumps, preparing it properly for the performance and providing to its maintenance and transport: Sachs (1985: 333); Apel (2000: 396-397), s.v. “Hydraulis”. 56. The assignement of the statue (Antipatros and plausibly the χοροψάλτρια from Kyme), the dispatch of the ξένια (Aristys and Antipatros), the invitation at the Prytaneion (the drama couple, Polygnota, and Antipatros with his team), the offering of a victim for the sacrifice (to Polygnota). Only Nikon, who is previously judged worthy, receives more formal awards. For the invitation at the Prytaneion, see Cinalli (2015: 14-44 Tab. 3).

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with the χορός,57 the τραγῳδός Nikon,58 and the drama couple of Aristys and Damokles from Aigion59) and of a young instrument as the ὕδραυλις (Antipatros from Eleutherna)60. I have proposed to recognize the performances documented in these inscriptions as conventionsoftopplayers whose achievement consists in the appreciation of the public and the confirmation or affirmation of their artistic profile. The ideaofcompetition is implied by the demonstration of skills in front of the audience and in comparison to other professionals performing. According to this reconstruction, we would have, in the Delphian performative panorama, kermesses measuring the excellences in between demonstrations and competitions,61 besides the parade of artists showing off in extra-agonistic exhibitions and competing at the ἀγῶνες. 2. Delos Epigraphy witnesses the main factors influencing the history and the artistic veins of the island: its sacred nature and the longa manus of the Athenians. The social, economic, architectural, and cultural structure of Delos focused altogether on the sanctuary of Apollo.62 This particular identity placed Delos at the heart of ancient travel routes but also exposed it to danger over times. In particular, the Athenian influence – enhanced by the religious imprint of the domination – strongly conditioned the Hellenistic history of the isle that, after a long period of independence, came back under the Athenian flag in the second quarter of the second century BC. 57. This stands whether we refuse to restore, for the χοροψάλτρια from Kyme (T.13d), the Pythia ἀγῶνες at ll. 5-6 and accept such conventions. Robert (1938c: 36-8); Bélis (1988: 244-246). As a matter of fact, the psaltria is not necessarily a harp but a string instrument played without the plectrum: Bélis (1999: 259 note 57). For the women travelling in antiquity: Bielman (2002: 229); Loman (2004: 64). Here, of the two χοροψάλτριαι, only Polygnota (T.13e) seems chaperoned (cf. Aristodama from Smyrna: FD III 3 145; Syll3 532): on the matter, see Cinalli (2014b). 58. Nikon travels with his team, who is invited with him at the Prytaneion: cf. the ὕδραυλος Antipatros (T.13f). 59. It cannot be determined if they perform either in tragedy or in comedy: O’Connor (1908: 114 73); Ghiron Bistagne (1976: 313, 317) inexplicably attributing their performance at the Soteria; Stefanis (1988: 375, 575). 60. The ὕδραυλις was projected in the third century BC by the Alexandrian engineer Ktesibios: Ath. 4. 174b-e. See Tannery-De Vaux (1908); Farmer (1931: 127-28). When introduced in Rome, this instrument had immediately huge success: Cic. Tusc.Disp. 3 43. 61. Such artistic occasions have been tracked down also elsewhere, beyond Delphi: see Cinalli (2014b). 62. In the 426, BC the Athenians completed the purification of Delos, forbidding birth, death, and war: Th. 3. 104. 2; Hdt. 1. 64; Str. 10. 426.

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The documentation on the poeti vaganti and situation of Delos – of independence before and of subjection then – see eye to eye. A less intense reception of artists than Delphi and yet a substantial one, supports us in our attempt of reconstruction. The plethora of honorary and proxeny decrees (ca. 500) of the period of the Independence, includes about twenty inscriptions praising artists and intellectuals for their service to the Delians and to the sanctuary and for their performances. During the third century BC, Delos bestows honors and privileges on well-known professionals for their public activity. Among them, we find the peripathetic Praxiphanes from Mytilene and the historiographer Mnesiptolemos from Kyme63 awarded high honors64. Whether the turnout of intellectuals and artists offering their “civil” services for Delos was quite conspicuous during this time, so it was the presence of performers showing off. Through their inscriptions, we can gather elements to draw a vision on itinerant professionals’ activities in Delos. Let us start with inscriptions testifying to the works itinerant artists used to perform on the island of Apollo. Tab.II(a) At the beginning of the third century BC, Eukles from Tenos appears as an intellectual with civil credit65 who celebrated the sanctuary (IG XI 4 573, ll. 10-11: κοινεῖ τὸ ἱερὸν| ἐγκωμιάζει66 οὗ ἂν ἀφίκηται). Given 63. IG XI 4: 613, 697. Among the seventeen decrees for itinerant artists and intellectuals, four of them – beyond the ones for Praxiphanes and Mnesiptolemos – attest to unspecified public activities for the sanctuary and the Delians: IG XI 4: 567, 575, 638, 646. Only the inscription of Praxiphanes details he has been χρήσιμος and does as good as he can to the Delians λόγωι καὶ ἔργωι. 64. They are public acclaimed and receive the laurel crown, which is a rarely granted pair and seems a further step than the proxeny. Another extremely rare honor is the statue, awarded to Satyros from Samos (T.8) for unknown matters. For a general study on the decrees of Delos, see Habicht (2002). 65. The decree informs he was diligent towards the Delians appealing to him for their needs and, by this, we infer he had to be quite powerful. We could suppose that his position had something to do with his birthplace that had an intimate connection with Delos, lying not only “sur les liens naturels de l’île avec le centre de les Cyclades” (Étienne 1990: 183) but also on the political and religious relations between the two isles (Hdt. 4. 32-34) from which the Teniotes benefited. From the fourth century BC onwards in fact, Delos worked as a bank to Tenos for public and private loans and inscriptions register that the Teniotes used to rent in Delos real estates and manage funds, works, and properties: IG XI 4 763-764; ID: 104(11) A, l. 20; 1416 B I, ll. 84-87; 1417 B II, l. 142. 66. A valuable epigraphic comparison for the verb ἐγκωμιάζω can be recognized in the decree for the Athenian Demokrates performing at Oropos. I. Oropos, 63, ll. 3-4 (second half of the third century BC): τὸν θεὸν προαιρεῖται ἐνκωμιάζειν διὰ ποημάτων. As we can see in Delos, ἐγκωμιάζω is used in a simpler way. Cf. the inferences of ὑμνέω: T.16, T.17.

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the generic way the verb is used here, we could acknowledge a simple praise, not necessarily delivered through the proper form of ἐγκώμιον. Admitting a proper ἐγκώμιον instead,67 it would not be a unicum for the record of the itinerant performances but the earliest testimony, preceding the second century BC examples delivered in Delos68 and for Delos.69 Although we are not able to speculate any further, nonetheless we can recognize, at the beginning of the Independence period, a propagandistic celebration towards the sanctuary, in between the public and performative sphere. During the first decades of the third century, two poets sang the praises of the sanctuary: Demoteles from Andros and Amphiklos from Chios. Their decrees inform us on the content of their artistic products and the section of the rewards granted to them70 allows us to assume they were successfully performed and publicly known. Demoteles from Andros treated the argument of the sanctuary and polis and wrote on local myths (T.14): the clichè of the propaganda, just few decades after the proclamation of the Independence, in order to strenghten positive relations between Delos and his homeland.71 Amphiklos from Chios is – after Eukles – another example of man of politics and arts: we find this ποιητὰς ἐπῶν also in Delphi as hieromnemon for his birthplace.72 It is likely that in Delos, where he performed gracing the Delians and the sanctuary with poetry (IG XI 4 572, ll. 2-4: [κ]αὶ ἐπιφανῶς ἐν τῆ[ι]| ποιήσει κεκόσμηκεν καὶ τὸ ἱερὸν καὶ| Δηλίους),73 he likewise held some public role. As well as his compatriot Hermokles (T.7), this man was efficiently capable at joining together his public and artistic skills. Even though we are not allowed to ascertain what the performances of these two poets’ compositions were like, we infer they had great success in holding high the name, history, and traditions of

67. We could suppose an ἐγκώμιον λογικόν or καταλογάδην, as in the Boeotian ἀγῶνες (I.Oropos: 521, 524, 526, 528; IG VII 2727; IThesp.: 175, 177-179) 68. T.17  : τὰ [π]επραγματευμένα ἐ[γκώμια]. 69. ID 1512: the encomium for Apollo composed by Dioskourides from Tarsos and delivered in Knossos. 70. Demoteles and Amphiklos are to be included among the few personalities receiving the laurel crown and the acclamation in Delos: see note 64. 71. All the Cyclades, including Andros, used to send periodically theoroi to Apollo: see Homolle 1880 (345-348 1). 72. See note 5. 73. It is worth to highlight the elegance of the lexicon used in the motivation section of this decree, whose focus is the verb κοσμέω. Paying attention to form and content of the motivation seems to be a peculiarity of various Delian decrees: see also, e.g.: IG XI 4, 511, 544; T.16.

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Delians and the sanctuary, according to the special honors and privileges Delos bestows them. At the middle of the second century BC, a poetically inspired epigram attests to the celebration of the gods by a παῖς, the ἀοιδός74 Apollonios arriving from Kaystrianos75 to celebrate (in a hymn?)76 the immortals of the celestial sphere, as the παράσημον on the stele indicates.77 (T.15) Whilst the documents just discussed support us in defining what themes the artists used to treat, some inscriptions can enhance our knowledge on the typologies of performances delivered on the sacred isle between the third and the middle of the second century BC. Tab.II(b), Tab.II(a+b) Herakleitos from Kalchedon offered public lectures to the Delian audience (IG XI 4 618, ll. 8-9: ἀναγνώσεις τε τῶι θε[ῶι]| ποιούμενος) but it is not clear whether he tested his own compositions – as well as Demoteles with his myths and the historiographer Mnesiptolemos ἀνάγνωσιν ποιησαμένου τῶν ἱστοριῶν78 at the Seleucid court79 – or if he proposed the classics of the local tradition. In Delos the specialty of the ἀνάγνωσις does not seem to be included in the performative program of the festivals80 but, as an extra-agonistic performance, it is attested to have been privileged also by the young poet Ariston (see further, T.17).

74. For this term, see Hardie (2000: 166). 75. For the proposal of the birthplace, see Robert (1973: 472-477). Grounding his thesis on numismatic and geographic evidences, he rejects the proposals of Ephesus and Colophon suggested by Roussel (1915-1916: 105-106 39). 76. We cannot ascertain whether ὑμνέω is here referring to a proper hymn or if intends a generic praise through poetry. 77. Atop the stele, which was found in the Serapeion B, the sun, a star, and the sickle moon are represented. As for Robert (1973: 478), according to these clues, Apollonios praised in his poetry the Egyptian divinities through mythological and astrological themes. 78. Ath. 10. 432b. 79. Mnesiptolemos, whose privileged position at the Seleucid court gained him the attention and probably also jealousy of other erudite colleagues, is recalled with irony for the ἀνάγνωσις of his histories on the king Seleukos showing the futility of the matters treated: Ath. 10. 432b-c; Epin. CAF III 330,1; Hegesand. FrHGr IV, fr. 23. Even though the case of Mnesiptolemos is quite peculiar for the bound with the Seleucid dynasty and all that derives from it, we can acknowledge how risky a performance could be for the good fame of an artist. 80. Casting a glance abroad, the lists of victors of Chios and Teos (Syll3 959, ll. 8-9; CIG 3088, l. 3) and the agonistic catalogue of Pergamon (MDAI(A) 37 (1912) 277 1+ 35 (1910) 436 20, b, ll. 7-8) inform us the ἀνάγνωσις competition was included into the program of their ἀγῶνες, especially for the categories of παῖδες and ἔφηβοι, given the interdependence of this specialty with the gymnasion education and the ἀποδείξεις: Scholz (2004); Gauthier-Hatzopoulos (1993: 75-76); Delorme (1960: 323).

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The last testimonies here considered represent a valuable resource to track the trends and better define forms and contents of performances on the island: Tab.II(a+b). As the epigram of Apollonios (see right above, T.15), these decrees belong to the period of the Second Athenian Domination starting over in the 167/6 BC as a result of a Senatus Consultum Romanum.81 Even though epigraphy and archaeology document a large presence of foreigners on the sacred isle for this period, there are fewer inscriptions of artists staying in Delos during the period of Independence. Nevertheless, they are precious tesserae for our mosaic. In this time, the leitmotif of the praise to Apollo joins the flattery for the Athenians and these elements together gain to artists honors and privileges. At the first stage of the Athenian Domination, two artists visiting Delos offer in several occasions their performances: an anonymous μουσικός (ID 1502), probably connected to the gymnasion,82 delivering [ἀκροάσεις] πλείονας, and the μουσικὸς καὶ μελῶν ποητής Amphikles from Rhenaea,83 whose inscription is filled of details disclosing new perspectives (T.16). This artist not only delivered plenty of performances himself but also staged his own composition on the sacred isle. First of all, he gave ἀκροάσεις καὶ πλείους, as he had also done at Oropos,84 presumably on well-known pièces of the tradition, since the subsequent part of the motivation section of the decree points out that he was the author of the προσόδιον ἐμμελές written (γράψας) to please (ὕμνησεν)85 not anymore only the gods but also the restored masters of the ἀξιωτάτη νῆσος. Besides the role of author,86 Amphikles had training responsibilities, for

81. Plb. 30. 20. 3-8, 32. 7. For historical reasons leading to the restoration of the Athenian influence, see Roussel (1987: 7-18) with complete bibliography on the matter. 82. Ll. 14-17.The decree is in an extremely fragmentary state. 83. As it is not directly advantageous to our discussion, we herein leave aside the complicated matter concerning the birthplace of this artist, which though is extensively discussed in Cinalli (2014a: 69-73). 84. I.Oropos 211 154-155, l. 4: ἐπιδημήσας τε παρ’ ἡμῖν ἀκροάσεις καὶ πλείους πεπόηται. 85. It is not clear whether the verb ὑμνέω implies the composition of a hymn or simply the celebration of the gods and Athenians. The structure of the sentence though seems to suggest that ll. 10-15 focus on a single situation, i.e. the composition, training, and performance of the prosodion. Two more middle second century decrees for foreign artists attest to the use of the verb ὑμνέω with the same ambiguous meaning: T.15, T.17. 86. Amphikles is defined with accuracy as both μουσικός and μελῶν ποητής, intending by this the skills of performing and composing music to be sung, in its instrumental and vocal parts (differently from the ποιητὴς κρουμάτων: Bélis 1994: 47). He indeed has not only the techne but also the episteme of music.

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he was also charged with instructing the παῖδες πολιτῶν87 in singing the melody (τὸ μέλος).88 Whether or not we have the opportunity to productively speculate on place and content of the auditions, we can gather some clues to determine the context of the prosodion. As proposed in a recent study (Cinalli 2014a), this composition seems to be anchored to the tradition89 and suitable to be performed in a religious occasion rather than an agonistic one, as it is the case of the compositions by the Athenian Kleochares intended to be performed at the Delphian Theoxenia (T.6).90 Furthermore, according to the strong propagandistic nature of the composition in the first years of the Athenian restoration and to the presence of the chorus of boys in a celebration including the pompe beyond the sacrifice in its program, we could attempt in placing the première at the celebration of the Apollonia-Athenaia,91 when the procession and sacrifice took place. We also have the possibility to pursue the reconstruction of Amphikles’ prosodion through a passage by Lucian (Salt. 16),92 describing the sacred ceremonies of Delos. Joined to the 87. In this occasion, Amphikles worked as a chorodidaskalos but the educational responsibilities in instructing the citizens’ sons seem implied. Actually, this role appears as a high privilege: whilst being a foreigner, he had the occasion to be engaged into the community arrangement, differently from the Athenian Kleochares (T.6) charged on Delphi with only the composition for the Theoxenia. 88. We intend with τὸ μέλος the music line, complete of rhythm and text: Plat. Resp. 398d. 89. The new prosodion is said ἐμμελές (for the allusion to solemnity and elegance through this adjective, see e.g. Aristox. Harm. pp. 46. 13; Plut. Aem. 33) and worthy of the gods’ honor and of the Athenians (ll. 14-15). Differently from the criticized avanguarde works, its textual aspect seems to be valuable as well as the instrumental one (for the debate between experimental music and the conservative tendencies, see e.g. Catoni 1997: 1026-1027 n. 43; Pretagostini 1998: 622-633; Musti 2000: 35-45, 53-55; Pagliara 2000: 172 n. 39; Rossi 2000: 69-74; Gentili 2006: 48-56). Though, it bears on its side an element of innovation in the lyre chosen on the traditional aulos to accompany the melody. Nevertheless, it has to be said that the prosodion was at the time at an advanced stage of development, as showed by the famous one in Delphi by the technites Limenios meant to be accompanied by the kithara: see above, T.11b. 90. Epigraphic occurrences attest to prosodion contests in Delos (IG XI 2 120, l. 49: 236 BC) but such an accurate decree would have mentioned the victory or at least the participation by Amphikles, if it were the case. 91. Bruneau (1970: 18, 76). 92. ἐν Δήλῳ δέ γε οὐδὲ αἱ θυσίαι ἄνευ ὀρχήσεως ἀλλὰ σὺν ταύτῃ καὶ μετὰ μουσικῆς ἐγίγνοντο. παίδων χοροὶ συνελθόντες ὑπ᾽ αὐλῷ καὶ κιθάρᾳ οἱ μὲν ἐχόρευον, ὑπωρχοῦντο δὲ οἱ ἄριστοι προκριθέντες ἐξ αὐτῶν. τὰ γοῦν τοῖς χοροῖς γραφόμενα τούτοις ᾄσματα ὑπορχήματα ἐκαλεῖτο καὶ ἐμπέπληστο τῶν τοιούτων ἡ λύρα. “At Delos, indeed, even the sacrifices were not performed without dancing, but with that and along with music. Coming together, the choirs of boys danced accompanied by flute and kithara, those who had been selected among them as the best performed the hyporchema. Indeed, the songs that were written for these choirs were called hyporchemes and the lyre harmonizes with them.”

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EtymologicumMagnum 690. 41,93 it allows us to infer that this new pièce was sung in procession by the chorus of boys whose best elements then moved apart towards the altar in order to perform the hyporchema. 94 Thus we have a multiple talented artist,95 presumably a distinguished one,96 whose artistic “περίοδος” from Boeotia ends up in Delos. Lingering here, he got the chance to enhance his fame through a series of performances that directly and indirectly bring his signature. His participation in the artistic life of the island could be envisaged as a climax of visibility, moving from public recitations in front of occasional audiences to a city sacred ceremony for which he had to collect all his skills. The decree for the young epic poet Ariston from Fokaia is the last treasure of information at our disposal about the performative life in Delos (T.17). Although the structure of the sentence and the missing part of the inscription can cast doubts,97 we can reasonably gather that the enfantprodige98 pursued a double activity while staying on the island, in the same manner as Amphikles: he delivered several ἀκροάσεις in the ekklesiasterion and in the theater, supposedly on traditional pièces, and then he gave further demonstration of his skills in composition. Differently from Amphikles though, he did not compose τὰ [π]επραγματευμένα99 ἐ[γκώμια?] during his stay but it seems he gave ἀνάγνωσις100 of his forte, performing himself. Staying by the integration of l. 9 and by his expertise pointed out at ll. 4-5, we understand that the specialty of this artist was the ἐγκώμιον ἐπικόν that can be considered the development of the hymns for gods and heroes. Along the lines of Theocritus’ Idyll 17 for Ptolemy Philadelphus and of the list of victors at the Boeotian

93. Färber (1936 II: 14). 94. For a deeper discussion on this reconstruction, see Cinalli (2014a: 78-79). Standing by Lucian testimony, the prosodion composed by Amphikles was accompanied both by a wind and a string instrument, probably to better support the chorus (see above: notes 89, 92). 95. For further examples of artists skilled in various specialties, see Chaniotis (1990). 96. It is unlikely that a young artist, still searching for achievement, was commissioned with a composition of the Delian heritage (as it is known, Delos was a privileged place for the tradition of prosodion: Paus. 4. 4. 1; 4. 33. 2; 9. 12. 6), intended to involve members of the community in a performance of high visibility. 97. The lacuna following l. 12 prevents from a thorough interpretation of the motivation section of the decree. Actually, we could also refer the ἀκροάσεις to the ἀνάγνωσις of the πεπραγματευμένα ἐγκώμια, and ὑμνέω could indicate a further action (the composition of a hymn or another kind of celebration, the missing lines do not allow us to infer). 98. Cf. T.1, T.15for further examples of enfantsprodiges performing initinere. 99. Cf. T.14, ll. 5-6; T.9, ll. 5-6. 100. Cf. Herakleitos from Kalchedon (see above p. 52).

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ἀγῶνες101 attesting both the divinities of festivals and the Romans as the object of poetic encomia, it makes perfect sense that the composition by Ariston extolled the religious and the politic masters of Delos (the Archegetes, the other gods of the island, and the Athenians as well). We need to conclude this parabola of the Delian performative life by briefly considering the festivals: Tab.III. Besides the extra-agonistic performances, we are acquainted with third and second century catalogues of artists referring to the Apollonia and Dionysia festivals.102 One might be surprised by the header formulas introducing them: οἵδε ἐπεδείξαντο τῶι θεῶι (284-259)103 and οἵδε τῶι θεῶι ἠγωνίσαντο (236 onwards).104 It is challenging to argue for the nature of these competitions and the replacement of the formula in the third quarter of the third century. One could propose that ἀγωνίζομαι is intended in a way similar to the Delphian “middle-way” kermesses discussed above but the 170/169 catalogue, mentioning the victory of the αὐλητής Kallistratos, might confirm the actual existence of a competition.105 The formula hinting at the ἐπιδείξεις seems instead to corroborate the demonstrative nature106 of the prior occasions. Defacto, a change of terminology does not seem accidental and should imply an evolution from display-situations towards proper competitions in the arrangement of these artistic appointments.107 Additional remarks are required: in so far as they do not seem attested among the typologies of the extra-agonistic performances, the ἐπιδείξεις seem to be narrowed down to the context of festivals. Lastly, the spheres of extra-agonistic performances and the demonstrative – competitive exhibitions seem to be disengaged from one another in Delos, so that, as far as we know, the artists in the catalogues are not awarded privileges and honors.108 101. The Amphiaraia of Oropos, the Soteria of Akraiphia, the Mouseia and the Erotideia of Tespie (first centuries BC and AD): Manieri (2009: 52). 102. For the detailed reconstruction of the Delian festivals, see Bruneau (1970). 103. IG XI 2 105-110, 112, 113, 115. 104. IG XI 2 120, 123, 128, 133. To this list, we shall add IG XI 2 129, 130, where the integration of the verb ἐπεδείξαντο seems unsuitable, for chronological reasons. 105. IG XI 2 133, l. 72. 106. For the demonstrative nature of these appointments: Bruneau (1970: 74-75); Manieri (2013: 142-143). One could propose a sort of affinity of these ἐπιδείξεις with festivals whose catalogues do not record the victors but the participants: the Amphictyonic Soteria, commonly considered “une exhibition plus qu’un concours” (Robert 1936: 22; Ferguson 1934: 324; Gentili 1977: 43; Slater 2007: 47 n. 165). 107. On the contrary, Slater (2007: 35) sustains the equivalence of the formulas. 108. To be thorough, we acknowledge some decrees that seem to mention the competitions of the Apollonia (?) but they are too fragmentary to define if artists were involved and if ἀγωνίζομαι effectively refers to contests: cf. IG XI 4 652, 744.

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3. Final remarks Tab.IV Bearing in mind the testimonies hitherto analyzed, let us sum up. My paper revolved around the discussion of two groups of evidence – mainly consisting of honorary and proxeny decrees – from Delphi and Delos. Both of them suffice to envision the big picture, but the conspicuous dossier from Delphi adds colors and nuances that allow defining better the performative life of the mountainous locus Apollineus. In the attempt to lead this reconstruction, we cannot deny that our vision is sometimes hampered by the loss of poems and of precious elements that would otherwise clear the ground. For instance, in Delos the use of ὑμνέω and ἐγκωμιάζω either for proper hymns and encomia or for generic celebrations leaves us in some quandary. It is likewise for the identification of specific performative situations, as the pièces of Satyros from Samos and the hymn of the hieromnemon Hermokles. Other deductions though seem extremely helpful in describing the variety of performances that enriched the scenario of both the lociApollinei. Being richer in evidence, the Delphian environment discloses some remarkable points that, generally speaking, enhance study of the poeti vaganti performances. The inscription for Satyros from Samos (T.8) introduces the theme of the institution of re-performances that directly interacts with and intersects the “movement” of the Hellenistic itinerant intellectuals. Re-performances of ancient dramas and poetry are variously attested in the epigraphic sources of the Hellenistic period and indicate the social and cultural recognition that the playwrights enjoyed, Euripides in particular. We acknowledge through the Delphian evidence that women (T.13d-e), chaperoned or not, participated in the itinerant journey of the arts and that some artists used to travel together with their own team supporting them with the preparation of the performance (T.13b, f, c.1-2). This element restores the complexity of the travel arrangement and offers us a sneak peek of real life behind the curtain of formalities and awards. Speaking of which, the decrees of Delphi very often point out the effect of a performance, whether particularly successful, as if, in the case of a missing victory at a contest, the appreciation would work as a consolation prize (Athanadas from Rhegion T.12). If these factors stand for Delphi, on several matters both the lociApollinei share principles and variants, further confirming the filrouge that bonds them.

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In Delphi and in Delos, the individual demonstration of artistic skills is primarily obtained through ἀκροάσεις and ἐπιδείξεις. Both terms seem to be used in similar ways and contexts but it seems worth stressing out some nuances. With the ἀκροάσεις the focus is on the listening to the musical and / or textual line, while in the ἐπιδείξεις the purpose is demonstrating something, through form or content of the art. The ἐπιδείξεις often apply to performances connected with the educational sphere, as the classes held by the first century professionals in the gymnasion of Delphi (T.1-5) and the demonstrations of the archaic rhythms delivered by the siblings from Pheneos (T.10b). It seems also meaningful that the largest amount of occurrences attesting the ἐπιδείξεις comes thus far from Delphi, and this specimen opens up a perspective on the geographical specificity of the lexicon of performances.109 In both places, we find artists performing their own compositions and, more often in Delos than in Delphi, the ἀνάγνωσις seems one favorite way to experiment in presenting them in front of the audience, as the young poet Ariston does in the ekklesiasterion and in the theater (T.17). Beyond him, the Hellenistic evidence attests to the passage of three more enfants prodiges performing in poetry and singing (the hymnographer Apollonios from Kaystrianos T.15, the παῖς from Skepsis T.1, and the Boeotian Xenotimos), meaning this was a category that enjoyed the favor of the public. Moreover, the παῖς Ariston testifies with his activity to the multiple talents we acknowledge for the majority of artists passing through the loci of Apollo. He is capable to compose his poetry and perform both his own production and traditional pièces. So too can Amphikles and the technitai Limenios and Athenaios(?). And again, Menekrates can be a sculptor and a chorister110 and Satyros from Samos (T.8) is the perfect example of a multitasking artist, capable to play two instruments, to perform also in singing, and conceivably to create his own poetry. Any performance of the poeti vaganti in a guest city is associated to its history and traditions. In the loci Apollinei the praise to the god is a constant element. Even in the celebration of the new masters – the Athenians and the Romans – mainly obtained through the forms of the encomium in poetry and in prose and of theἀπολογισμός, the divine is a required association in so far as it contributes to strengthen the social identity. As a matter of fact, the recall of tradition, through either words 109. E.g., the expression ἀποκαθήμενος ἐν τῶι γυμνασίωι: T.3, T.4. 110. See note 5.

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or music, is strongly preferred by the audience of both places and by the cities granting honors and privileges. The activity of Demoteles from Andros (T.14), writing on the μύθοι ἐπιχωρίοι of Delos must be thus understood into this perspective. Nevertheless, fresh air arrives in Delphi by untraditional professionals of young instruments – as the ὕδραυλος is (T.13f) – or arts ordinarily considered lascivious and corrupted, as the μαγῳδία. At a deeper level, performances insisting on the local heritage theme can represent the conjunction between artistic and public activity for intellectuals committed both to art or public life, as the cases of the Chiote poets and hieromnemones exemplify. In particular, Hermokles (T.7) is capable to reinforce the connection between his birthplace and the host city molding the image of the past through the aesthetic of the narration (“mnemopoetic”).111 Through the memory of stone, the cities of Delos and Delphi witness also performances delivered elsewhere, as they are considered the touchstones of traditional heritage. In fact, in Delphi is registered the memory of the ancestors offered in the nearby Chaleion by the ἐπέωμ ποιήτρια Aristodama from Smyrna;112 in Delos instead, we find notification of the Cretan audience assisting to the ἐνκώμιον for Apollo by the grammatikos Dioskourides from Tarsos, highlighting the connection between Knossos and the Cycladic sanctuary.113 In both the places of Apollo, tradition inspires the performances connected to teaching commitment. The musicians from Pheneos (T.10b), demonstrating to the young audience the decency in ancient poetry, prove this concept. These poetivaganti offer the samples of their knowledge in the gymnasion of Delphi and assign their own compositions to the performance of the chorus of παῖδες. Amphikles and Kleochares (T.6, 16), 111. Chaniotis (2009a: 254). 112. FD III 3 145, ll. 9-10. Furthermore, a detailed decree (Syll3 532) passed by Lamia and framed on behalf of the Aetolian league, in which Aristodama is awarded citizenship beyond many other honors, enlightens on both typologies and content of her performances: she delivered several ἐπιδείξεις of her ποιήματα commemorating the ethnos of the Aetolians and the ancestors of the people and making her exposition (ἀπόδειξις) with complete enthusiasm (ll. 4-7). For basic bibliography on Aristodama, see: Guarducci (1927-1929: 639, 655-656 XVII-XVII); Ferrandini Troisi (1998; 2006: 146-149); Loman (2004: 60-62); Rutherford (2009). 113. ID 1512. The composition was performed at Knossos by Dioskourides’ pupil, the epic and melic poet Myrinos. Since the encomium κατὰ τὸν ποιητάν, i.e. following the Homeric model, praised Apollo Delphinion and remarked upon the ancestral connection between the two isles, a copy (the only one left) of the inscription was sent to Delos. For an in-dept-analysis of this inscription, see: Guarducci (1927-1929: 637-638, 654-655 XVI), and Chaniotis (1988: 341-342 E59).

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respectively charged by Delphi and Delos with the compositions of sacred pièces, step aside in order to let the young generation perform. Their examples are also enlightening in introducing another theme common to both places: the more accomplished and renowned an artist can be, the more he is allowed to step into the life of the town and its conventional appointments. An inexperienced artist would unlikely be charged with the composition or the performance destined to prominent occasions as the sacrifices of the Pythia and the Theoxenia in Delphi, or the Apollonia-Athenaia in Delos. Only accomplished experts could be taken into consideration for such endeavors. Whereas in Delos this can be implied by the high-caliber profile and career of Amphikles (T.16), in Delphi the pre-judgmental phase attested for Athanadas from Rhegion (T.12), Satyros from Samos (T.8), and for the τραγῳδός Nikon (T.13b) attest to this point. They all are proven worthy before being allowed to offer114 their performance to the god. The practice of offering “prémices de l’art”115 to the god seems to be a distinctive characteristic of the itinerant performers staying in Delphi. The ἐπίδοσις τῶι θεῶι is often part of the agenda of the professionals performing in the “conventions with spirit of competition”. These artists are also awarded honors and privileges as an allowance for their performative activity, and yet they give back to the god one more piece of their art. Theἀγῶνες are crucial tesserae in the mosaic of the performative life of the Hellenistic Delphi and Delos. Through the catalogues of participants and victors, we are allowed to gain a general vision on large-scale movements. As we have observed at the beginning of this discussion, we can acknowledge an artistic path following through the loci Apollinei where both young and accomplished artists seek the appreciation of the public through competitions and extra-agonistic performances. Furthermore, in both places we can recognize occasions alternative to the ἀγῶνες but in different ways: in Delos, the demonstrations of the first half of the third century BC; in Delphi, the performative conventions for highleveled artists that imply the idea and not the actual engagement in the competition.

114. Syll3 690, note 5: ἐπέδωκαν sc. δωρεάν Pomtow; Pouilloux 1976: 25 (ad FD III 4 356): “offrir gratuitement et volontairement”. See Robert (1929: 40-41) and Liefferinge (2000: 151). On the ἐπιδόσεις in general: Migeotte (1992: 5 and passim). 115. Robert 1938d, explaining the value of the verb ἀπάρχεσθαι at FD III 3 249, l. 6 (T.13e). Cf. also: FD III 3 129; FD III 3 338 (ἀπαρχὴν ποιεῖσθαι); SEG II 184 (Tanagra).

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One last point needs to be noted: as also the catalogues of the Soteria show, with guilds of technitai of the Isthmos and Nemea (and possibly also of Athens)116 engaged in and outside117 the festivals, Delphi does not appear as an “artists stable”.118 All over the Hellenistic period, the town receives talent from all Greece and sometime it even petitions for specialists to perform (see Antipatros from Eleutherna, T.13f). For Delos the picture is less defined, as we cannot confirm the presence of local artists in the ἀγῶνες and ἐπιδείξεις catalogues which record names without the ethnic, even though this seems the most reasonable deduction.119 However, it is significant that both Delphi and Delos can count only two poeti vaganti holding their torch abroad: the Delphian σαλπιστής Polemon competing at the Rhomaia of Thebes and a Delian κιθαρῳδός performing in Siphnos.120 This insight onto two of the favorite places for the artistic routes of the virtuosi of the Hellenistic period has enlightened a composite scenario where various elements match. The impression here is to have reconstructed a fragment of a long journey of the arts that awaits for other tesserae to be located. Even from this limited portion of a greater vision, it ensues that the path of ‘Performances’ – in all its variations – crosses the ones of ‘Travel’ creating the osmotic levels of a cultural and popular phenomenon whose memory epigraphy preserves. The ‘Travellers’ are the focus of this picture and their performances attests to the accomplishment of the journey implicitly explaining its reasons. Performers do not wander but deliberately plan their artistic iter, inspired by ambition or necessity, renewing their fame or taking a chance upon it. All over the Hellenistic period, many undertook the challenge of the itinerant life seeking all kinds of rewards. In due proportion, some were chosen in narrating the performative agendas of the lociApollinei. Nonetheless the surviving testimony is valuable.

116. See note 14. 117. The technitai were also involved in performances for sacred celebrations outside the festivals, as Athenaios(?) and Limenios composing for the Pythais (T.11a-b). 118. On the contrary, Boeotia is notorious for raising aulos players performing both inlocoand abroad. 119. In detailing the foundation of Demetrieia (early third century BC), the μίσθωσις τῶν τεχνιτῶν is mentioned: IG XI 4 1036, ll. 10-11. We might expect their presence also at the Apollonia and Dionysia, even though we cannot put the finger on their provenance. 120. Knoepfler (2004: 1247, ll. 5-6); IG XII 5 482 + Add. p. 318.

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APPENDIX EPIGRAPHICA Delphi T.1 FD III 1 273, ll. 3-5 (ca. 132 BC): ἐπειδὴ — — ․․]μογένους Σκήψιος| [ποιητὴ]ς ἐπῶν ἐν τᾶι τοῦ παιδὸς ἁλι[κίαι — — ἐπιδαμήσας ἐν τ]ὰν πόλιν ἁμῶν ἀκρ[ο|άσεις ἐποιήσατο] ἔν τε τῶι γυμν[ασίωι καὶ — — T.2 Robert 1938b, 15, ll. 1-4 (ca. 29 BC): ἐπεὶ Ἀ[—c.15—λου Ῥωμαῖος],| ἀστρολόγος, ἀνὴρ ἀγαθὸς ἐνδα[μήσας ποθ’ ἁμὲ ἐπιδείξεις ἐποιή|σ]ατο σχολὰς καὶ πλείονας ἐν τῶι γυ[μνασίωι ἁμέρας —ca.12—]|μεγαλείως T.3 Daux 1939, 168-169, ll. 1-9 (first century BC): [ἐπειδὴ Δέκμο]ς Ἰούνιος Δέκμου υἱ|[ὸς Ρωμαῖος, ἀνὴρ] καλὸς καὶ ἀγαθός, ῥή|[τωρ, ἐπιδα]μήσας εἰς τὰν πόλιν| [ἁμῶν, ἐποιήσ]ατο τάν τε παρεπιδα|[μίαν καὶ ἀνασ]τροφὰν ἀξί[α]. τοῦ τε| [αὐτοσαυτοῦ δ]άμου κα[ὶ τᾶς ἁ]μετέ|[ρας πόλιος καὶ] ἀποκαθή[μενος] ἐν τῶι| [γυμνασίωι] ἀκροάσε[ις ποιε]ίμενο[ς| πλείονας εὐ]δοκίμ[ησε T.4 FD III 3 338. ll. 5-10 (end first century BC): ἐπεὶ παραγενόμενος| ἐν Δελφοὺς (sc. Μενάνδρος γραμματικός) ἀπαρχὰν ἐποήσατο ἀπὸ τοῦ μαθήματος τῶι θεοῖ καὶ τᾶι πόλει,| ἀποκαθήμενος ἐν τῶι γυμνασίωι καὶ διατιθέμενος σχολὰς ἐν αἷς καὶ εὐδοκίμησε,| διδομένου τε αὐτῶι καὶ ἐράνου ὑπὸ τᾶς πόλιος οὐκ ἐδέξατο, φάμενος ἐπιδεδα|μήκειν ἐν Δελφοὺς τᾶς τε τοῦ θεοῦ τιμᾶς ἕνεκα καὶ τᾶς Δελφῶν καταλογᾶς, ὃν καὶ ἐπὶ| πάντοις τούτοις ἔδοξε καὶ ἐπὶ τὰν κοινὰν ἑστίαν καλέσαι· T.5 FD III 3 223, ll. 1-3 (first century BC): Δελφοὶ προξενίαν ἔδωκαν Ἀπολλωνίωι Διονυσίου Αἰγιράτηι παιδεύ|σαντι Δελφῶν υἱούς, καὶ ἐπιδείξεις ποιησαμένωι, καὶ φανέντι ἀγαθῶι| ἔν τε τᾶι διδασκαλίαι τοῦ μαθήματος καὶ τᾶι τοῦ βίου ἀναστροφᾷ· T.6 FD III 2 78, ll. 1-5(ca. 230-225 BC): ἐπειδὴ Κλε[οχ]άρης Βίωνο[ς]| Ἀθηναῖος, φυλῆς Ἀκαμαντίδος, δήμου Κικυνέως, ποιητὴς μελῶν, ἐπιδαμήσας εἰς τὰν πόλιν, γέγραφε τῶι| θεῶι ποθόδιόν τε καὶ παιᾶνα καὶ ὕμνον, ὅπως ἄιδωντι οἱ παῖδες τᾶι θυσίαι τῶν Θεοξενίων · ἀγαθᾶι τύχαι, δεδόχθαι| τᾶι πόλει τὸμ μὲν χοροδιδάσκαλον τὸν κατ’ ἐνιαυτὸν γινόμενον διδάσκειν τοὺς παῖδας τό τε ποθόδιον καὶ τὸμ παι|ᾶνα καὶ τὸν ὕμνον, καὶ εἰσάγειν τοῖς Θεοξενίοις· T.7 FD III 3 224, ll. 1-6 (end third century BC): ἐπειδὴ Ἑρμοκλῆς| [Φαινομένου ἀποσταλεὶς ἱερομνάμων ὑπὸ τᾶς πόλιος τῶ]ν Χίων τάς τε θυσίας τῶι θεῶι συνετέλεσ[ε| κὰτ τὰ πάτρια λαμπρῶς καὶ φιλοτίμως καὶ τὸν κρατῆρα ἐ] κέρασε τὸν ἀργύρεον τοῖς Θεοξενίοις καὶ ὕ|[μνον γέγραφε τῶι θεῶι καὶ τὰν ἐπιδαμίαν ἐποιήσατο ἀ]ξίως τοῦ τε ἱεροῦ καὶ τῶν ἀποστειλάντων| [αὐτὸν καὶ ἐπελθὼν ποτὶ τὰν ἐκκλησίαν τὰν οἰκειότ]ατα τὰν ὑπάρχουσαν ἀπὸ Ἴωνος ἀπελογίξατο| [ποτί τε τὸν θεὸν καὶ τὰν πόλιν· T.8 FD III 3 128 (200-175 BC): Σάτυρος Εὐμένους Σάμιος·| τούτωι πρώτωι συμβέβηκεν μόνωι| ἄνευ ἀνταγωνιστῶν αὐλῆσαι| τὸν ἀγῶνα καὶ ἀξιωθέντα ἐπιδοῦ|ναι τῶι θεῶι καὶ τοῖς Ἕλλησι μετὰ| τὸν γυμνικὸν τῆι θυσίαι ἐν τῶι στα|δίωι τῶι Πυθικῶι ἆισμα μετὰ χοροῦ| Διόνυσον καὶ κιθάρισμα ἐκ Βακχῶν| Εὐριπίδου

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T.9 FD III 3 124, ll. 3-7 (middle second century BC): ἐπειδή Ἀριστόθεος Νικοθέου [Τρο]ζάνιος ἱστοριαγράφος παραγενόμενος [ἐ]ν τὰν| πόλιν τὰν τε ἀναστροφὰν ἐπ[οιή]σατο ἀξίως τοῦ τε ἱεροῦ καὶ τᾶς ἰδίας πατρίδος,| ἐποιήσατο δὲ καὶ ἀκροάσεις ἐπ[ὶ π]λείονας ἁμέρας τῶν πεπραγματευμένων| αὐτῶι, παρανέγνω [δὲ καὶ] ἐν[κώ]μια εἰς Ῥωμαίους τοὺς κοινοὺς τῶν Ἑλλάνων| εὐεργέτας121 T.10 (a) – FD III 1 49, ll. 2-4 (160 BC): ἐπειδὴ Θράσων καὶ Σωκράτης Πάτρωνος Αἰγιρᾶται παραγενό|μενοι ποθ’ ἁμὲ ἐπιδείξεις ἐποήσαντο τῶι θεῶι διὰ τῶν λυρικῶν συστημάτων προφε|ρόμενοι [τ]ῶν ἀρχαίων πο[ητ]ᾶν ἃ ἦν πρέποντα ποτί τε τὸν θεὸν καὶ τὰν πόλιν ἁμῶν (b) – Syll3 703, ll. 3-12 (118 BC): ἐπειδὴ Κλεόδωρος| καὶ Θρασύβουλος οἱ Θεοξενίδα Φενεᾶται παρα|γενόμενοι ποθ’ ἁμὲ ἐπιδείξεις ἐποιήσαντο τῶι| θεῶι διὰ τὸς μουσικὰς τέχνας, ἐν αἷς καὶ εὐδοκί|μουν, προφερόμενοι ἀριθμοὺς τῶν ἀρχαίων ποιη|τᾶν, οἳ ἦσαν πρέποντες ποτί τε τὸν θεὸν καὶ τὰν πό|λιν ἁμῶν ἔτι δὲ καὶ τὰν ἐνδαμίαν καὶ ἀναστροφὰν| καὶ διδασκαλίαν τῶν παίδων ἐποιήσαντο ἀξίως| αὐσωτῶν τε καὶ τᾶς ἰδίας πατρίδος καὶ τᾶς ἁμε|τέρας πόλιος T.11 (128 BC?) (a) CID 3 1, l. 1: [παιὰν καὶ ὑπόρχημα ε]ἰς τὸν θεὸν ὃ ἐ[πόησεν Ἀθ]ήναιος (b) CID 3 2, ll. 1-2: [πα]ιὰν δὲ καὶ π[ροσό]διον εἰς τ[ὸν θεὸν ὃ ἐπό]ησε[ν καὶ προσεκιθάρι|σε]ν Λιμήνι[ος Θ]οίνο[υ] T.12 Daux 1949: 276-277 27, ll. 3-8 (150/149 BC): ἐπεὶ Ἀθανάδας Ζωπύρου Ῥηγῖνος κιθαρωιδὸς παρα|γενόμενος ἐπὶ τῶι ἀγῶνι τῶν Σωτηρίων ἀγωνίξατο ἁμέρας δύο, ἐπαιτηθεὶς δὲ καὶ ὑ[πὸ| τ]ο[ῦ] δ[ά]μο[υ] ἁμέραν ἐπέδωκε τῶι θεῶι καὶ τᾶι πόλει καὶ εὐδοκίμησεν τῶι ἀγῶνι ἀξίως το[ῦ| τε θε]οῦ καὶ τᾶς πόλιος τᾶς [Ῥηγίνω]ν καὶ τᾶς ἁμετέρας πόλιος ἔν τε τᾶι ἐπιδαμίαι ἀνε|στράφη καλῶς καὶ εὐσχῃμόνως T.13 (a) FD III 4 361, ll. 5-9 (259/258 or 255/254 BC?): ἐπειδὴ Μενάλκης ὁ κιθαρωιδὸς| παραγενόμενος εἰς Δελφοὺς εἰς τὰ Σωτήρια| τόν τε ἄλλον ἀγῶνα καλῶς καὶ φιλοτίμως ἠγωνί|σατο καὶ προσεπέδωκε τῶι θεῶι καὶ τοῖς Ἀμφικ[τύ]|οσι τὸν ἀγῶνα ⟦— —0.09m— —⟧122 (b) FD III 1 48, ll. 3-5 (165 BC): ἐπειδὴ Νίκων Νικία Μεγαλοπολίτας τραγωιδὸς καὶ πρότερον μὲν| εὔνους ὢν διετέλει τᾶι πόλει καὶ ἐνδαμήσας δὲ ἀξιωθεὶς ἐπέδωκε τῶι θε|ῶι ἁμέραν καὶ ἀγωνίξατο καὶ εὐδοκίμησε (c.1) (157 BC)FD III 3 125, ll. 3-5: ἐπειδὴ Ἄριστυς Ἀριστομένεος Αἰγιεὺς ἐπέ|δωκε τῶι θεῶι ἁμέραν κ[α]ὶ ἀγωνίξατο καὶ εὐδοκίμησε (c.2)FD III 3 126, ll. 3-5: ἐπειδὴ [Δ]αμοκλῆς Τιμοκράτεος Αἰγιεὺς ἐνδαμήσας συναγωνίξατο [μ]ετὰ Ἀρίστιος (d) Syll3 689 + Robert 1938d: 38, ll. 2-6 (134 BC): ἐ[πειδὴ| ․․․8․․․․ Ἀριστο] κράτεος Κυμαία, χοροψάλτρια, παραγενηθεῖσα ἐν Δε[λφούς| καὶ παρακληθεῖ] σα ὑπό τε τῶν ἀρχόντων καὶ τᾶς πόλιος ἐπέδωκε [τῶι θεῶι| ― καὶ ἀ] 121. For the formula: Robert (1970: 448 3). Cf. FD III: 2 70a, l. 46; 3 261, ll. 17-18. 122. l. 9: for the martelage, see Habicht (2002: 24); Cinalli (2014b). Cf. the decrees for Polygnota from Thebes and Antipatros from Eleutherna (T.13e, f), beyond Syll3 737; FD III 3 249. Pomtow (ad Syll3 431: 674n5) considers likely the restoration ⟦τόν Σωτηρίωι⟧.

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γωνίξατο123 ἁμέρα[ς δύο ?] καὶ εὐδοκίμησε ἐν τῷ ἀγῶνι [―|― ἀξίως τ]οῦ124 τε θεοῦ καὶ τᾶς πόλιος ἁμῶν (e) FD III 3 249.4-9 (86 BC): ἐπει]δὴ Πολυγνώτα Σακράτους Θηβαία χοροψάλτρια ἐνδαμήσασα ἐν Δελ|[φοὺς ἐν ὧι και]ρῶι ἔδει συντελεῖσθαι τὸν ἀγῶνα τῶν ΙΕΙ Πυθίων διὰ δὲ τὸν ἐνεστακότα| [πόλεμον οὐ συ]ντελειμένου τοῦ ἀγῶνος αὐθαμέ ἀπάρξατο καὶ ἐπέδωκε ἁμέραν, παρα|[κληθε]ῖσα δὲ ὑπό τε τῶν ἀρχόντων καὶ τῶν πολιτᾶν, ἀγωνίξατο ἐ|[πὶ ἁ]μέρας τρεῖς καὶ εὐδοκίμησε μεγαλομερῶς ἀξίως τοῦ τε θεοῦ| [καὶ] τοῦ δάμου τοῦ Θηβαίων καὶ τᾶς ἁμετέρας πόλιος (f)Syll3 737.3-7 (86 BC): ἐπεὶ Ἀντίπατρος Βρεύκου| [Ἐλευθερν]αῖος, ὕδραυλος, ἀποστειλάσας ποτ’ αὐτὸν τᾶς πόλιος πρεσβεί|[αν παραγ]ενηθεὶς ἐν Δελφοὺς καὶ παρακληθεὶς ὑπὸ τῶν ἀρχόντων καὶ τᾶς| [πόλιος] ἀγωνίξατο ἁμέρας δύο καὶ εὐδοκίμησε μεγαλομερῶς καὶ ἀξίως| [τ]οῦ τε θεοῦ καὶ τᾶς πόλιος τῶν Ἐλευθερναίων καὶ τᾶς ἁμετέρας πόλιος Delos T.14 IG XI 4, 544, ll. 4-8 (290-280 BC): ἐπειδὴ Δημοτέλης Αἰσχύ[λου]| Ἄνδριος ποιητὴς ὢν πεπραγ[μά]|τευται περί τε τὸ ἱερὸν καὶ τ[ὴν| π]όλιν τὴν Δηλίων καὶ τοὺς μύθου[ς]| τοὺς ἐ[π]ιχωρίους γέγραφεν T.15 ID 2551 (middle second century BC): οὕτως παῖς Μενεδήμου Ἀπολλώνιος ἀοιδὸς| οὐρανίου κόσμου ὕμνεεν ἀθανάτους,| ὅμ ποτε Μαινδρία ἔτεκεν παρὰ ῥεύματι Καστρο[υ]| καὶ Φοίβου τεμένει· Μοῦσα δ’ ἐφῆκε πνοήν. T.16 ID 1497, ll. 5-15 (165/164 BC): ἐπειδὴ| Ἀμφικλῆς, μουσικὸς καὶ μελῶν| ποητής, ἀκροάσεις καὶ πλείους| ἐποήσατο καὶ προσόδιον γράψας| ἐμμελὲς εἰς τὴν πόλιν τούς τε| θεοὺς τοὺς τὴν νῆσον κατέχοντας| καὶ τὸν δῆμον τὸν Ἀθηναίων| ὕμνησεν, ἐδίδαξεν δὲ καὶ τοὺς τῶν| πολιτῶν παῖδας πρὸς λύραν τὸ| μέλος ἄιδειν, ἀξίως τῆς τε τῶν θεῶν| τιμῆς καὶ τοῦ Ἀθηναίων δήμου T.17 ID 1506 ll. 4-12 (146/145 or 145/144 BC): ἐπειδὴ Ἀρίστων Ἀκρισίου Φωκαιεὺς [ποι|ητὴς ἐπῶν ὑπάρχων ἐν τεῖ τοῦ παι[δὸς]| ἡλικίαι, παραγενόμενος εἰς τὴν ν[ῆσον],| ἐποιήσατο καὶ πλείο[νας ἀ]κροάσεις [ἔν τε]| τῶι ἐκλ[η] σιαστηρίωι καὶ ἐν τῶι θεάτ[ρωι, ἀνά|γνοὺς τὰ [π]επραγματευμένα ἐ[γκώμια καὶ| ὕ]μνησεν τόν τε ἀρχηγέτην Ἀπόλλ[ωνα καὶ| τ]οὺς ἄλλους θεοὺς τοὺς κατέχον[τας τὴν| ν]ῆσον κ[αὶ] τὸν δῆμον τὸν Ἀθηνα[ίων — —]

123. ll. 4-5: [τῶι θεῶι/ αὐθαμέραν καὶ ἀ]γωνίξατο Pomtow ad Syll3 689. 124. ll. 5-6: τ[ῶν Πυθίων| ἀξίως] Couve in ed. pr. 1894: 82-84 6; τ[ῶν Πυθί/ων καταξίως τ]οῦ τε θεοῦ καὶ τᾶς πόλιος ἁμῶν Pomtow ad Syll3 689.

composition of prosodion, paean, hymn for the Theoxenia performed by the chorus of παῖδες

(a+b)content/ form+typology hymn, ἀπολογισμός at the ekklesia on the friendship between the Ionians (end 3rd - end 2nd cent. BC) and Delphi

competing at the ἀγών alone with the aulos; at the σταδίον after the ἀγὼν γυμνικός: αἶσμα μετὰ χοροῦ named Dionysos, highlight from Euripides’ Bacchae

ἀκροάσεις on his works; public readings on encomia of the Romans

– Athenian Kleochares, ποιητὴς μελῶν T.6

Satyros from Samos T.8

Aristotheos from Trezene, ἱστοριογράφος T.9

TechnitaiT.11

Siblings T.10

paean + prosodion for chorus and wind orchestra

Limenios b

on rhythms (ἀριθμοί)

paean + hyporchema for choir acappella

Athenaios(?) a

from Pheneos b

from Aigira a

on harmony (τῶν λυρικῶν συστήματα)

auditions (?)

Anonymous μουσικός

ἐπιδείξεις

ἐπιδείξεις, διδασκαλίαι τοῦ μαθήματος καὶ τᾶι τοῦ βίου ἀναστροφᾷ

Apollonios from Aigira T.5

– HermokleshieromnemonT.7

offering of σχολαὶ ἀπὸ τοῦ μαθήματος

MenandrosgrammatikosT.4

for the Pythais

τῶν ἀρχαίων ποητᾶν

in the theater

ἀκροάσεις πλείοναι

Dekmos Iounios, rhetor from Rome T.3

(b)typology (end 2nd-1st cent. BC)

ἐπιδείξεις, σχολαὶ καὶ πλείοναι

Roman ἀστρολόγος T.2

in the gymnasion

ἀκροάσεις

The young poet from Skepsis T.1

(a)content/form (end 4th-half 3rd cent. BC)

hymns to the gods (Apollo, Hestia) paean to Dionysos offering of ἆισμα μετὰ χοροῦ to Apollo

– Aristonoos from Corinth – Philodamos from Skarpheia? – The young Xenotimos from Boeotia

Tab. I. THE PERFORMATIVE LIFE IN DELPHI

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65

praise of the sanctuary (in form of ἐγκώμιον?) compositions on town, sanctuary, local myths gracing the sanctuary with his poetry celebrating the immortals of the celestial sphere (in form of hymn?) ἀναγνώσεις τῶι θεῶι ἀκροάσεις καὶ πλείους; προσόδιον ἐμμελές to be performed (at the Apollonia-Athenaia?) by the παῖδες πολιτῶν instructed by himself πλείονας ἀκροάσεις at the ekklesiasterion and theater, ἀναγνώσεις of his poetic encomia, praising the Archegetes, the gods, and the Athenians

Eukles from Tenos

The poet Demoteles from Andros T.14

Amphiklos from Chios, ποιητὰς ἐπῶν and hieromnemon in Delphi

young Apollonios, ἀοιδός T.15

Herakleitos from Kalchedon

Amphikles from Rhenaea, μουσικὸς καὶ μελῶν ποητής T.16

Ariston from Fokaia, ποιητὴς ἐπῶν T.17

Tab. II. THE PERFORMATIVE LIFE IN DELOS

(a+b)content/form+typology (middle 2nd cent. BC)

(b) typology (3rd cent. BC)

(a)content/form (init. 3rd-middle 2nd cent BC)

66 ANGELA CINALLI

ὕδραυλος Antipatros from Eleutherna T.13f

✓

✓

Drama couple: Aristys and Damokles from Aigion T.13c

✓ ✓

✓?

χοροψάλτρια from Kyme T.13d

✓

✓

CONVENTIONS WITH SPIRIT OF COMPETITION

Nikon τραγῳδός T.13b

✓

✓

Menalkes κιθαρῳδός T.13a

PYTHIA

Polygnota from Thebes, χοροψάλτρια T.13e

✓ (various rounds in competition?)

SOTERIA

Athanadas from Rhegion, κιθαρῳδός T.12

Artists

DELPHI Engagement between the sphere of extra-agonistic performances and ἀγῶνες/conventions

Tab. III. AGONES AND CONVENTIONS

– ἐπιδείξεις τῶι θεῶι (284-259 BC) – ἀγῶνες τῶι θεῶι (236 BC onwards)

DELOS Disengagement of the sphere of extra-agonistic performances from the one of demonstrative – competitive exhibitions

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67

ἀκροάσεις ἐπιδείξεις classes public readings

– sacred compositions (hymn, paean, prosodion, hyporchema); choral songs (Apollo, Dionysos); encomia for Romans; ἀπολογισμός; re-performances (Euripides)

– astrology; diplomacy; archaic poetry

Theoxenia Pythais Pythia?

gymnasion theater ekklesia stadium

offerings of art (at advanced stage of career); teams; women; technitai; tradition/innovation in music

TYPOLOGY

FORM

CONTENT

OCCASION

PLACE

VARIA

DELPHI

ἀγῶνες: connection/no connection with extra-agonistic performances demonstrative conventions with spirit of competition

PLACE

ekklesiasterion theater

Apollonia-Athenaia

OCCASION

public service tradition

– local myths, gods and sanctuary, Athenians

– encomium, hymn

ἀκροάσεις ἀναγνώσεις

CONTENT

FORM

TYPOLOGY

DELOS

educational purposes multiple talents

enfantsprodiges

compositions for sacred celebrations of town: instruction/no instruction of the chorus

artistic περίοδος

BOTH

gods + new masters: associated celebration (encomia)

Tab. IV. PERFORMANCES IN BOTH PLACES

68 ANGELA CINALLI

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69

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Lupiensia. Dallo studio dei materiali allo studio dei testi (Aspetti della ricerca papirologica 11). Galatina, 87–187. Walbank, F.W., 1981, TheHellenisticWorld. London. Wilson, P., 2002, “The musicians among the actors”. In: P. Easterling & E. Hall (eds), Greek and Roman Actors. Aspects of an Ancient Profession. Cambridge, 39-68. Xanthakis-Karamanos, G., 1993, “Hellenistic drama: developments in form and performance”. Platon 45, 117-133.

Y A-T-IL DES MODALITÉS PARTICULIÈRES DE LA PERFORMANCE VOCALE FÉMININE DANS LA POÉSIE HELLÉNISTISQUE ? UNE PAROLE CONTRAINTE. Christophe CUSSET

Si le statut de la femme évolue de manière très sensible entre l’époque classique et l’époque hellénistique, si certaines femmes, comme Arsinoé II ou Bérénice II, jouent un rôle politique de premier plan dans l’Égypte lagide1, peut-on dire pour autant que dans l’univers poétique alexandrin la place de la femme connaisse une transformation importante ? Cette place de la femme dans la poésie alexandrine concerne essentiellement les modalités de la prise de parole féminine et des conditions dans lesquelles un discours est proféré par une instance locutrice féminine. Cette évolution peut être observée, sur des échelles très différentes, à deux niveaux: d’une part, sur un plan externe dans lequel c’est la voix du poète qui est une voix féminine — et l’on songe ici aux deux figures majeures d’épigrammatistes que sont Anytè et Nossis2 ; d’autre part, sur un plan interne à la fiction, dans lequel le poète-narrateur (en général de sexe masculin) délègue sa voix à des instances locutrices secondaires : de multiples exemples sont ici envisageables, sur des échelles très diverses, qu’il s’agisse des Syracusaines de l’Idylle XV et de la magicienne Simaïtha de l’IdylleIIde Théocrite ou de leurs semblables dans les Mimiambesd’Herodas, des figures mythologiques comme Hypsipylé, Arété ou Médée dans les Argonautiques d’Apollonios de Rhodes, de Cassandre dans l’Alexandra de Lycophron, de Diké dans les Phénomènes d’Aratos, de la prêtresse dans l’Hymne pour le Bain de Pallas de Callimaque ou encore de la jeune femme amoureuse et anonyme dans le FragmentumGrenfellianum. Mais ces deux modes (externe et interne) de discours féminins relèvent d’un traitement bien différent des genres : si, dans le cas des épigrammatistes féminines, il y a le plus souvent homologie de genre entre la voix de la poétesse et la voix locutrice, dans la seconde série d’exemples en revanche il y a toujours une frontière nette entre d’une part la voix masculine du poète (et éventuellement la 1. Sur la femme dans la société hellénistique, voir notamment Bielman (2002) ; Pomeroy (1984). 2. Voir notamment Gutzwiller (1997) ; Gutzwiller (1998: 54-88) ; Greene (2005).

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voix du narrateur principal) et la voix féminine du locuteur secondaire. De sorte qu’il semble souvent se présenter quelques difficultés à la prise de parole féminine dans le cadre d’une poésie émanant d’un narrateur-poète masculin, en ce que la voix féminine est souvent perçue comme relevant d’une forme d’altérité ou d’étrangeté. Dans les exemples évoqués ci-dessus, on trouve plusieurs modalités du discours masculin pour créer un discours féminin secondaire qui n’est pas aussi ouvertement possible ou légitime. Ainsi, la voix libre des poétesses épigrammatistes, qui, par son étrangeté générique, situe le lecteur dans une situation de forclusion apriori (dans la mesure où le lecteur est accoutumé à une production poétique masculine), peut nous suggérer, par comparaison, toute l’habileté que le poète masculin doit déployer pour prendre en charge dans son propre discours une voix secondaire féminine, et nous faire mesurer toute la dette de ces mêmes poètes aux discours féminins antérieurs (comme celui de Sappho) ou contemporains pour maîtriser la parole féminine : on peut signaler par exemple l’importance de l’intertexte saphique dans les discours à locuteurs féminins de Théocrite, qu’il s’agisse des propos de Simaïtha dans l’Idylle II ou de l’épithalame d’Hélène prononcé par le chœur de jeunes filles de l’IdylleXVIII ; mais tout aussi bien cet intertexte saphique reparaît dans la bouche de Médée chez Apollonios ou dans la plainte du FragmentumGrenfellianum. Sans pouvoir prendre en compte ici l’intégralité des situations variées que nous offre la poésie hellénistique, essentiellement masculine, nous voudrions examiner quelques cas qui éclairent particulièrement les conditions de l’exécution (ou de la non exécution) d’un discours féminin au sein d’une écriture masculine3 afin de montrer en quoi ces manières de prendre (ou de ne pas prendre) la parole sont, pour une instance féminine, une expression de cette altérité perçue de l’intérieur du discours masculin, de sorte que bien souvent la parole féminine apparaît comme une parole contrainte.

3. Je laisserai donc temporairement ici de côté d’une part l’écriture féminine des épigrammatistes, mais aussi les œuvres fictionnelles où des femmes prennent la parole dans un contexte davantage marqué par la féminité, même s’il ne s’agit pas d’une féminité ‘stricte’ : je n’aborderai ici ni les Idylles mentionnées ci-dessus de Théocrite qui construisent un véritable cadre féminin, ni par exemple les Hymnes de Callimaque qui construisent un cadre rituel essentiellement féminin, même si le genre du narrateur peut relever d’une certaine ambiguïté.

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1. Au départ de l’expédition dans les Argonautiques d’Apollonios de Rhodes : de la mise en scène de la plainte à l’enfermement dans le mutisme Alors qu’une situation d’énonciation très masculine a été mise en place depuis le début du récit dans l’épopée (notamment par la prééminence affirmée d’Apollon sur les Muses) et alors que ce récit a commencé luimême par faire la liste de tous les héros qui se réunissent autour de Jason, après une première réaction de la foule indistincte4, la première prise de parole directe dans le récit lorsque les Argonautes se réunissent pour partir est celle, commune, des femmes anonymes de la cité (I, 247-260) : αἱ δὲ γυναῖκες πολλὰ μάλ’ ἀθανάτοισιν ἐς αἰθέρα χεῖρας ἄειρον, εὐχόμεναι νόστοιο τέλος θυμηδὲς ὀπάσσαι. Ἄλλη δ’ εἰς ἑτέρην ὀλοφύρετο δακρυχέουσα· “Δειλὴ Ἀλκιμέδη, καὶ σοὶ κακὸν ὀψέ περ ἔμπης ἤλυθεν, οὐδ’ ἐτέλεσσας ἐπ’ ἀγλαΐῃ βιότοιο. Αἴσων αὖ μέγα δή τι δυσάμμορος· ἦ τέ οἱ ἦεν βέλτερον, εἰ τὸ πάροιθεν ἐνὶ κτερέεσσιν ἐλυσθεὶς νειόθι γαίης κεῖτο, κακῶν ἔτι νῆις ἀέθλων. Ὡς ὄφελεν καὶ Φρίξον, ὅτ’ ὤλετο παρθένος Ἕλλη, κῦμα μέλαν κριῷ ἅμ’ ἐπικλύσαι· ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐδὴν ἀνδρομέην προέηκε κακὸν τέρας, ὥς κεν ἀνίας Ἀλκιμέδῃ μετόπισθε καὶ ἄλγεα μυρία θείη”. Αἱ μὲν ἄρ’ ὣς ἀγόρευον ἐπὶ προμολῇσι κιόντων. Les femmes, elles, levaient sans cesse les mains au ciel à l’attention des dieux, en les priant de leur accorder le terme du retour qui réjouit le cœur ; tout en versant des larmes, de l’une à l’autre elles se lamentaient : “Misérable Alcimédé, pour toi aussi le malheur, quoique tard venu, est arrivé et tu n’as pas achevé ta vie dans la sérénité. Aison lui aussi connaît une bien grande infortune ! Assurément, il aurait mieux valu pour lui être auparavant enveloppé du vêtement funèbre et enseveli sous terre, en étant encore ignorant de cette expédition de malheur. Plût aux dieux que Phrixos eût aussi été englouti par le sombre flot avec le bélier quand périt la vierge Hellé ; au contraire, ce monstre de malheur fit entendre une voix d’homme qui allait procurer par la suite à Alcimédé des chagrins et des douleurs par milliers”. Elles parlaient ainsi tandis que les héros gagnaient le port. 4. Les propos des vers 242-246 relèvent plus du discours intérieur que de la prise de la prise de parole effective. Cette parole est encore essentiellement masculine, car il faut comprendre que l’expression λαῶν πληθύς désigne les hommes auxquels s’opposent ensuite les femmes au vers 247 ; seuls des figures masculines sont nommées dans ces vers : Zeus, Pélias, Aiétès et les héros. Le distributif ἕκαστος du vers 240 semble suggérer que les propos des hommes sont plus des réactions intérieures à la vue des héros. Au contraire, les femmes ont des manifestations beaucoup extérieures avec des gestes expressifs et leur prise de parole est commune ; elles parlent alors d’une seule voix, formant une sorte de chœur qui suit en procession les héros vers le port.

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Si les interrogations intérieures des hommes sollicitaient le jugement de Zeus dans les vers qui précèdent, ici les prières des femmes adressées aux Immortels ne sont pas rapportées, mais seulement résumées. Ce qui semble immédiatement déterminant, c’est la communauté que les femmes forment entre elles et la communication qui s’établit entre elles (ἄλλη δ’ εἰς ἑτέρην, 250) pour former une plainte à l’unisson, alors que les réflexions masculines n’étaient qu’une juxtaposition cumulative de pensées. Cette idée de communauté féminine se retrouve dans les propos prononcés puisque c’est le sort d’Alcimédé, la mère de Jason, qui préoccupe avant tout ces femmes du peuple : le nom Ἀλκιμέδη encadre toute la plainte (251 et 259). Car c’est bien de plainte qu’il s’agit : la fin du vers 250 (ὀλοφύρετο δακρυχέουσα) le souligne en effet avec ces deux pentasyllabes de façon appuyée5. Du fait de cette clôture et du caractère à la fois convenu et topique de cette intervention polyphonique, on peut se demander assez légitimement si le discours féminin ne risque pas d’être figé dans cette modalité plaintive qui s’impose d’emblée. Il est assez troublant de constater que dans ce passage un traitement assez différent est réservé à l’évocation du sort des femmes et à celui des hommes. Tout se passe comme si les femmes étaient vouées au malheur et faites pour assumer le malheur, comme si leur vie devait inévitablement, tôt ou tard, déboucher sur le malheur, et sur la déploration qui l’accompagne. Le personnage féminin se trouverait enfermé d’emblée dans une attitude stérile de lamentation. C’est la raison qui pousse ici ces femmes à plaindre Alcimédé qui n’échappe pas à ce destin féminin dans son âge avancé. L’indicatif aoriste qui fait le constat de ce malheur accablant (ἤλυθεν, ἐτέλεσσας) se trouve aussi employé au sujet d’Hellé (ὤλετο). Par opposition, l’infortune des hommes est surtout évoquée selon les modalités de l’irréel ou du regret, de sorte que c’est moins l’accablante réalité qui est envisagée à leur sujet qu’un autre sort peutêtre meilleur. Alors que pour les hommes une autre possibilité de destin est au moins envisagée (même si elle ne s’est pas accomplie), les femmes sont au contraire accablées et enfermées dans un sort funeste inévitable6. C’est la raison pour laquelle l’entreprise héroïque qui a été posée comme le sujet du poème par le narrateur est perçue d’une tout autre manière par les femmes au sein de la fiction elle-même : c’est une vue uniquement 5. L’expression, qui transforme une fin de vers homérique (Iliade, VIII, 245 : ὀλοφύρατο δάκρυ χέοντα), la fait passer d’un contexte masculin (Zeus réagit aux plaintes d’Agamemnon) à un contexte féminin. On a ici l’unique emploi par Apollonios du composé homérique fréquent δακρυχέουσα. Sur l’expression, voir Ardizzoni (1967: 132). 6. On soulignera ici la répétition du terme κακός sous une forme adjectivale ou substantivée (251, 255, 258).

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négative qui est donnée de l’entreprise des Argonautes ; loin d’être source de gloire, de κλέος (ce qui est réservé aux hommes), celle-ci n’apporte aux femmes que des douleurs sans nombre (ἄλγεα μυρία)7. Cette plainte ne semble avoir pourtant aucun effet sur les héros qui continuent leur progression vers le port (260) sans réagir d’aucune façon, sans qu’on sache même s’ils entendent ces accents plaintifs. Peut-être faut-il considérer que cette opposition entre la plainte féminine et le trajet masculin vers le port a une valeur métapoétique de ce que peut-être un discours épique : pour écrire une épopée, il faudrait d’abord délaisser la parole plaintive féminine qui relève plus du lyrique que de l’épique et prendre en charge le récit des aventures masculines au fil des errances et progressions des héros. La seule valeur narrative que l’on semble pouvoir attribuer à cette intervention des femmes est d’installer dans le récit la modalité de la lamentation qui est immédiatement après ce passage reproduite à propos des parents de Jason. Aison, son père, tout d’abord ne cesse de gémir, mais il est cloué au lit par la vieillesse. Même s’il se plaint, sa plainte n’est pas donnée à entendre au lecteur, comme s’il ne devait pas y avoir place ici pour une plainte masculine : cette modalité du dire dans son développement textuel est bien réservée aux femmes. Et c’est la mère de Jason, Alcimédé qui, après avoir été plainte par les femmes du peuple, assume à son tour une posture de pleureuse, confirmant ainsi que la voix féminine se trouve dès l’abord figée dans la paralysie de la lamentation ou que la lamentation doit être ici l’apanage des femmes (I, 268-293) : Μήτηρ δ’ ὡς τὰ πρῶτ’ ἐπεχεύατο πήχεε παιδί, ὣς ἔχετο κλαίουσ’ ἀδινώτερον, ἠύτε κούρη οἰόθεν ἀσπασίως πολιὴν τροφὸν ἀμφιπεσοῦσα μύρεται, ᾗ οὐκ εἰσὶν ἔτ’ ἄλλοι κηδεμονῆες, ἀλλ’ ὑπὸ μητρυιῇ βίοτον βαρὺν ἡγηλάζει· καί ἑ νέον πολέεσσιν ὀνείδεσιν ἐστυφέλιξε, τῇ δέ τ’ ὀδυρομένῃ δέδεται κέαρ ἔνδοθεν ἄτῃ, οὐδ’ ἔχει ἐκφλύξαι τόσσον γόον, ὅσσον ὀρεχθεῖ· ὣς ἀδινὸν κλαίεσκεν ἑὸν παῖδ’ ἀγκὰς ἔχουσα Ἀλκιμέδη, καὶ τοῖον ἔπος φάτο κηδοσύνῃσιν· “Αἴθ’ ὄφελον κεῖν’ ἦμαρ, ὅτ’ ἐξειπόντος ἄκουσα δειλὴ ἐγὼ Πελίαο κακὴν βασιλῆος ἐφετμήν, αὐτίκ’ ἀπὸ ψυχὴν μεθέμεν κηδέων τε λαθέσθαι, ὄφρ’ αὐτός με τεῇσι φίλαις ταρχύσαο χερσίν, τέκνον ἐμόν· τὸ γὰρ οἶον ἔην ἔτι λοιπὸν ἐέλδωρ ἐκ σέθεν, ἄλλα δὲ πάντα πάλαι θρεπτήρια πέσσω. 7. Natzel (1992: 166).

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Νῦν γε μὲν ἡ τὸ πάροιθεν Ἀχαιιάδεσσιν ἀγητὴ δμωὶς ὅπως κενεοῖσι λελείψομαι ἐν μεγάροισι, σεῖο πόθῳ μινύθουσα δυσάμμορος, ᾧ ἔπι πολλὴν ἀγλαΐην καὶ κῦδος ἔχον πάρος, ᾧ ἔπι μούνῳ μίτρην πρῶτον ἔλυσα καὶ ὕστατον. ἔξοχα γάρ μοι Εἰλήθυια θεὰ πολέος ἐμέγηρε τόκοιο. Ὤ μοι ἐμῆς ἄτης· τὸ μὲν οὐδ’ ὅσον, οὐδ’ ἐν ὀνείρῳ ὠισάμην, εἰ Φρίξος ἐμοὶ κακὸν ἔσσετ’ ἀλύξας.” Ὣς ἥ γε στενάχουσα κινύρετο· ταὶ δὲ γυναῖκες ἀμφίπολοι γοάασκον ἐπισταδόν· ‘Mais sa mère, comme elle avait aussitôt fait glisser ses deux bras autour de son fils, le retenait en pleurant plus abondamment ; comme une jeune fille qui se retrouve seule éprouve du réconfort à tenir enlacée sa nourrice aux cheveux blancs pour se lamenter ; elle n’a plus d’autres appuis familiaux et traîne une existence pénible sous les ordres d’une marâtre ; et celle-ci l’a maltraitée par de multiples reproches ; alors, tandis qu’elle se plaint, son cœur en elle se trouve enchaîné par le malheur et ne peut laisser échapper dans leur bouillonnement autant de sanglots que ce qui palpite en lui : ainsi Alcimédé pleurait abondamment en tenant son fils embrassé et, dans son inquiétude, elle lui tint ce langage : “Ah si seulement en ce jour où j’ai entendu, pour mon malheur, le roi Pélias formuler le commandement funeste, j’avais sur l’heure rendu l’âme et oublier mes soucis pour que, en personne, tu m’ensevelisses de tes mains chéries, ô mon enfant ! Il n’y avait que cela qu’il me restait à souhaiter de ta part ; voilà longtemps que je jouis de tous les autres fruits de mes soins. Mais voici qu’aujourd’hui, moi qui fus jadis admirée par les Achéennes, comme une esclave, je vais me retrouver abandonnée dans un palais déserté, me consumant, infortunée, à force de te regretter, toi par qui j’avais auparavant grand honneur et grand prestige, toi le seul pour qui j’ai dénoué ma ceinture pour la première et la dernière fois ; car la déesse Eilithyie s’est totalement opposée à ce que j’eusse une nombreuse progéniture. Hélas ! Quel malheur est le mien ! Je n’aurais pas pensé, non pas même en rêve, que Phrixos en se sauvant, ferait mon malheur !” Ainsi se lamentait-elle à chaudes larmes et ses servantes sanglotaient à ses côtés.’

Sans qu’il soit nécessaire de revenir ici sur l’arrière-plan homérique et tragique de cette scène de lamentation et notamment de la comparaison qui l’introduit8, on ne peut manquer d’admirer comment le pathétique de 8. L’étude en a été menée pour la comparaison notamment dans Reitz (1996: 7-15) et Cusset (1999: 229-231). Quant à l’ensemble de la scène d’adieu, J. J. Clauss (1983: 31-44) a montré que le départ de Jason était traité en relation constante avec la mort d’Hector dans l’Iliade. Cette intertextualité homérique donne au motif de la lamentation un poids et une profondeur beaucoup plus grands, tout en jouant de l’écart ironique. Là où en effet, chez Homère, le sort funeste d’Hector justifiait pleinement les pleurs et les lamentations, dans l’épopée d’Apollonios, ces plaintes féminines paraissent presque excessives et ne semblent plus être l’effet que d’une atrophie, d’un engourdissement progressif du discours féminin : Apollonios installerait ainsi au début de son épopée la voix féminine dans cette tonalité

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la scène est élaboré par un habile dispositif aussi bien textuel que corporel qui donne aux paroles de cette mère éplorée tout leur poids. Alcimédé prend en effet immédiatement la pose, figée dans la posture protectrice adoptée par Aphrodite dans l’Iliade pour protéger son fils Énée, blessé par Diomède9. Mais la mère éplorée transforme le mouvement protecteur de la déesse en geste de supplication et de résistance. La mère et son fils se trouvent retenus (ἔχετο, ἀγκὰς ἔχουσα) dans l’immobilité de la douleur et la plainte redoublée de la mère que signale le comparatif ἀδινώτερον va pouvoir se développer dans cet instant suspendu. Mais pour en souligner davantage l’importance, le texte use de différents moyens pour construire un cadre à cette plainte. Selon un schéma narratif traditionnel dans l’épopée, la douleur plaintive est notée au début et à la fin du passage par l’association redondante d’un verbe à un mode personnel et d’un participe : à la fin de l’épisode, l’expression στενάχουσα κινύρετο tient ce rôle ; à l’ouverture, c’est le même verbe κλαίω employé d’abord au participe (κλαίουσα, 269), puis à l’imparfait (κλαίεσκεν, 276), comme cadre de la comparaison, qui en fait office, tandis que le chiasme avec l’adverbe ἀδινώτερον / ἀδινὸν renforce l’effet de clôture. Ce jeu d’échos crée dans le texte un espace resserré propice à la lamentation qui nous fait entrer dans l’étreinte même de la mère et de son fils. La comparaison, première comparaison développée de l’épopée d’Apollonios, qui s’insère dans ce cadre, a notamment pour effet10 de solenniser la parole de la mère qu’elle retarde, tout en en anticipant la tonalité par le caractère hyperbolique de ses propres sanglots. Le temps de la comparaison correspond en outre au temps des larmes versées par Alcimédé qui empêchent toute parole, avant que celle-ci ne se mette à parler à son fils dans une attitude inquiète qu’exprime le terme κηδοσύνη sans doute forgé par Apollonios11.

figée pour mieux l’en faire sortir ensuite ; le jeu de l’intertextualité servirait alors à dénoncer ce caractère convenu et artificiel du discours féminin dans l’épopée. 9. L’expression d’Apollonios est en effet une légère variation sur le vers 5, 314 de l’Iliade (ἀμφὶ δ᾽ἑὸν φίλον υἱὸν ἐχεύσατο πήχεε λευκώ, « et tout autour de son fils, elle fit glisser ses deux bras blancs »). Cf. Ardizzoni (1967: 134). 10. Cette comparaison a bien d’autres effets sur le plan narratif : la jeune fille qui se plaint à sa nourrice à cause de sa marâtre a des accents d’héroïne tragique (on songe à la Phèdre ou à la Médée d’Euripide), mais il y a quelque chose de paradoxal et de décalé dans l’analogie entre une vieille mère et une jeune fille, ce qui pourrait bien annoncer déjà en creux le destin de Médée comme le suggère Natzel (1992: 166) ; la relation mère-fils se trouve transposée par l’analogie dans un univers entièrement féminin, ce qui préfigure peut-être certains aspects de la ‘féminité’ de Jason. 11. Ce terme n’est employé que par Apollonios, et se trouve en deux autres occurrences (III, 462 et IV, 1473), toujours au datif pluriel.

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À bien des égards les propos d’Alcimédé ne font que reproduire ceux déjà prononcés par les femmes quelques vers plus haut : on y retrouve les mêmes thèmes, à savoir le regret de ne pas avoir connu la mort plus tôt, la fin de vie dans le malheur, les conséquences néfastes du salut de Phrixos. Mais il ne s’agit pas d’une simple reprise, comme dans le style formulaire homérique qui est systématiquement évité par Apollonios. Les propos d’Alcimédé sont au contraire beaucoup plus vifs et saisissants que ne l’était la plainte convenue des femmes, et ce pour plusieurs raisons. Tout d’abord, c’est Alcimédé elle-même qui se plaint sur son propre sort, et non des femmes anonymes ; les différents motifs de la plainte sont tous rapportés à Alcimédé elle-même qui regrette d’être arrivée à ce point de sa vie et les conséquences funestes et futures de l’histoire passée ont beaucoup plus d’impact dans le cœur de cette mère éplorée, dont le sort imaginé est d’autant plus cruel qu’elle le met en parallèle avec son bonheur passé ; la douleur du fils enlevé à sa mère est en outre renforcée par le fait qu’il s’agit d’un fils unique. Surtout, l’effet de cette plainte est rendu beaucoup plus fort par la situation d’énonciation : au lieu que des femmes anonymes se lancent entre elles des plaintes qui ne les concernent pas, c’est ici Alcimédé elle-même qui s’adresse à son fils qu’elle tient dans ses bras. D’une lamentation à l’autre, on peut donc observer un double effet de focalisation et d’intensification : on passe des rues de la ville à l’étreinte maternelle, de voix multiples anonymes à une voix unique12, d’une réaction convenue à une peine vécue dans sa chair par Alcimédé. On pourrait dès lors s’attendre à ce qu’une telle évolution de la plainte ait une certaine efficacité. Or, il n’en est rien : la réponse que Jason fait à sa mère est extrêmement représentative de la manière dont est reçue la lamentation féminine en ce début de récit et de la place réservée à la femme dans l’univers épique (I, 295-305) : “Μή μοι λευγαλέας ἐνιβάλλεο, μῆτερ, ἀνίας ὧδε λίην, ἐπεὶ οὐ μὲν ἐρητύσεις κακότητος δάκρυσιν, ἀλλ’ ἔτι κεν καὶ ἐπ’ ἄλγεσιν ἄλγος ἄροιο. Πήματα γάρ τ’ ἀίδηλα θεοὶ θνητοῖσι νέμουσι, τῶν μοῖραν κατὰ θυμὸν ἀνιάζουσά περ ἔμπης τλῆθι φέρειν· θάρσει δὲ συνημοσύνῃσιν Ἀθήνης ἠδὲ θεοπροπίῃσιν, ἐπεὶ μάλα δεξιὰ Φοῖβος ἔχρη, ἀτὰρ μετέπειτά γ’ ἀριστήων ἐπαρωγῇ. 12. On note qu’aux vers 292-293 la plainte des femmes, des servantes d’Alcimédé cette fois, est toujours présente (γοάασκον) mais ne sert plus que d’accompagnement (ἐπισταδόν), de fond sonore aux propos d’Alcimédé. Mais ce rappel discret d’une voix féminine plurielle renforce le lien qu’il convient d’établir entre les deux moments plaintifs, singulier et collectif.

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Ἀλλὰ σὺ μὲν νῦν αὖθι μετ’ ἀμφιπόλοισιν ἕκηλος μίμνε δόμοις, μηδ’ ὄρνις ἀεικελίη πέλε νηί· κεῖσε δ’ ὁμαρτήσουσιν ἔται δμῶές τε κιόντι.” ‘“Ne t’abandonne pas, je te prie, mère, à des chagrins aussi cruels comme tu le fais, car tu n’éloigneras pas le malheur par tes pleurs, mais tu pourrais bien encore ajouter une souffrance aux souffrances Car ce sont des fléaux imprévisibles que les dieux distribuent aux mortels : malgré le chagrin que tu éprouves en ton cœur, aie la force de supporter le destin que tu en reçois ; aies confiance dans les manifestations de la faveur d’Athéna et dans les oracles divins puisque Phoibos en a rendus de très favorables, ainsi que dans l’aide des héros pour la suite. Allons, maintenant, reste tranquillement avec tes servantes ici en ta demeure et ne sois pas un oiseau de malheur pour le navire. Mes proches et mes serviteurs m’accompagneront tandis que je m’y rends.”’

Le premier élément frappant de la réponse de Jason est son refus de la lamentation en raison de sa stérilité même : le rejet de δάκρυσιν au vers 297 n’est pas seulement d’ordre métrique, mais exprime la position de Jason à l’égard de la plainte et des pleurs13. Il ne faut pas en effet se figer dans la lamentation car elle obéit à un principe vicieux d’auto-engendrement et ne peut produire rien que de négatif comme le suggère l’expression ἐπ’ ἄλγεσιν ἄλγος (297) ; la lamentation qui n’a pas d’efficacité positive ne saurait convenir à des héros qui entreprennent une expédition périlleuse et installe celui qui s’y adonne dans une passivité aussi néfaste qu’improductive. En rappelant à sa mère tous les signes positifs qui entourent l’expédition, Jason prétend pour ainsi dire préserver la narration épique du risque d’immobilisme qui lui ferait courir un excès de lamentation. Dans le même temps, il oppose nettement l’attitude active et positive des héros qui l’entourent et la passivité plaintive des femmes. Cette opposition a pour conséquence la claustration des femmes dans la maison familiale et dans le silence, tandis que les hommes (qui peuvent parler librement dans un récit taillé à leur mesure) partent hors de chez eux pour vivre leurs aventures et accomplir leurs exploits. L’excès plaintif a ainsi pour conséquence de refermer l’univers féminin sur lui-même et de le séparer des hommes et de la communauté qu’ils forment. Le départ des Argonautes semble donc ainsi correspondre à un partage du monde et des tâches selon les sexes : les hommes s’accomplissent en parcourant le monde et en affrontant les dangers, tandis que les femmes sont recluses dans l’univers de la maison et enfermées dans un mode de

13. Jason pourtant ne pourra s’empêcher de pleurer en quittant le rivage de sa patrie (1, 534-535), mais à la différence d’Alcimédé sa douleur restera muette et Jason ne sombrera pas dans la lamentation.

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discours auquel elles semblent s’adonner avec une certaine facilité. Cette représentation assez caricaturale pourrait étonner de la part d’un poète du IIIe siècle vivant à une époque où les relations entre hommes et femmes ont changé de manière assez notable ; Apollonios semble donc plutôt ici sacrifier à une certaine représentation archaïque du monde, comme s’il cherchait à persuader son lecteur qu’il s’inscrit pleinement dans la lignée homérique. Un dernier moment dans le récit du départ des Argonautes vient apporter une forme de conclusion à ce traitement de la parole des femmes dans le début de l’épopée : il s’agit de la rencontre avec la vieille Iphias, lorsque Jason, semblable à Apollon14, gagne le navire en traversant la foule qui l’encourage (I, 311-316) : Τῷ δὲ ξύμβλητο γεραιὴ Ἰφιὰς Ἀρτέμιδος πολιηόχου ἀρήτειρα, καί μιν δεξιτερῆς χειρὸς κύσεν· οὐδέ τι φάσθαι ἔμπης ἱεμένη δύνατο, προθέοντος ὁμίλου, ἀλλ’ ἡ μὲν λίπετ’ αὖθι παρακλιδόν, οἷα γεραιὴ ὁπλοτέρων, ὁ δὲ πολλὸν ἀποπλαγχθεὶς ἐλιάσθη. ‘À sa rencontre vint la vieille Iphias, prêtresse d’Artémis protectrice de la ville et elle lui baisa la main droite ; en dépit de son désir, elle ne put pourtant lui parler en raison de l’avancée de la foule, mais elle fut laissée sur place au bord de la route, comme une vieille par de plus jeunes ; et lui, emmené au loin, fut séparé d’elle.’

Cette figure d’Iphias est intrigante à plus d’un titre : d’abord, il semble qu’elle soit une invention d’Apollonios15 — ce qui est significatif notamment dans l’élaboration du récit tel qu’il s’est mis en place depuis le début de l’épopée ; ensuite son silence est assez étrange et a reçu diverses explications concurrentes qui ne sont pas toujours satisfaisantes16. Tout 14. I, 307-311. Cette comparaison avec Apollon est riche de sens, en dépit de son caractère très énumératif. Sur l’intertextualité dans cette comparaison, voir Cusset (1999: 248-249). Jason, en ressemblant à Apollon dans les différents sanctuaires où celui-ci peut se trouver (Délos, Claros, Delphes ou la Lycie), se rapproche potentiellement de la voix du narrateur qui adresse à Apollon son propre chant. L’univers masculin de la fiction vient pénétrer celui de l’énonciation poétique pour une plus forte cohésion de l’ensemble, tandis que la voix féminine semble s’étioler ou s’évanouir dans la mise en œuvre de l’entreprise héroïque. 15. C’est ce qu’ont souligné notamment Händel (1954: 46), Fusillo (1985: 270) et Nelis (1991: 96). 16. On peut sans doute avec Nelis (1991: 96) écarter les explications avancées par Wilamowitz (1924: 219) qui justifie ce silence par l’émotion qui saisirait Iphias, ou par Fusillo (1985: 270) pour qui c’est la beauté de Jason qui provoquerait l’aphasie de la vieille femme. Si la beauté de Jason a un tel effet sur Médée au chant III (et le texte est alors explicite sur la cause), on voit mal pourquoi il en irait de même chez cette vieille femme d’Iolcos qui connaît sans doute déjà Jason.

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ce que l’on sait d’Iphias, outre son nom (sur lequel il faudra revenir), c’est qu’elle est âgée et qu’elle sert le culte d’Artémis. On peut légitimement penser que ces caractéristiques suffisent aux yeux du poète à justifier son insertion dans le récit : sa vieillesse fait sans doute d’elle une femme avisée et sage dont les propos, libérés de l’émotion et du pathétique auxquels la mère de Jason était soumise, auraient pu apporter un contre-point aux lamentations féminines qui ont occupé cet épisode. Par ailleurs la mention d’Artémis est importante comme l’a bien montré D. Nelis : elle intervient juste après la mention d’Apollon et la présence d’Artémis, qui est souvent associée aux rites d’initiation, est tout à fait bien venue au moment où Jason quitte la cité d’Iolcos encore adolescent, pour une épreuve qui va le faire entrer dans l’âge adulte. Mais cette figure d’Iphias a aussi une valeur programmatique par rapport aux aventures qui attendent Jason en Colchide. En effet, Iphias par certains aspects pourraient apparaître comme une annonce en creux de la figure de Médée avec laquelle elle entretient des liens inattendus. Les deux personnages sont en effet désignés par le même terme rare ἀρήτειρα17, et les deux déesses qu’elles servent, respectivement Artémis et Hécate, sont fréquemment associées ou confondues. La figure d’Iphias pourrait donc être dans cette ouverture de l’épopée une lointaine annonce de la figure de Médée et de son destin ultérieur. Comme le note par ailleurs F. Vian18, le nom d’Iphias est un abrégé d’Iphianassa-Iphigénie, prêtresse ou hypostase d’Artémis Tauropole : là aussi, cette association peut fonctionner comme une annonce de la figure de Médée. Mais, en deçà de la complexité de ce personnage que renforce son caractère fugitif, ce qui nous intéresse ici plus particulièrement est le silence d’Iphias, l’impossibilité dans laquelle elle se trouve de pouvoir parler à Jason. Contrairement à ce que certaines analyses ont supposé19, il ne s’agit pas d’une aphasie qui s’explique par des causes psychologiques : le texte dit explicitement que c’est le mouvement de la foule qui empêche tout dialogue entre Jason et Iphias. C’est donc la circonstance qui la réduit au silence : il y a deux vitesses et deux sens incompatibles de déplacement, celui des jeunes et son pas de vieille femme qui va à contre courant de la foule. Laissée en arrière, Iphias se retrouve finalement dans la même situation qu’Alcimédé, contrainte par Jason de rester à la maison. Le silence d’Iphias pourrait donc bien être plus largement caractéristique de la situation de la femme dans l’univers épique tel qu’il 17. Cf. Argonautiques3, 251-252. Ce terme n’est pas employé ailleurs par Apollonios. Ce lien est signalé par Nelis (1991: 101). 18. Vian (1974: 64-65). 19. Voir Wilamowitz (1924: 219) et Fusillo (1985: 270) cités ci-dessus.

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semble se mettre en place au début de ce récit : réduite au silence, réduite à une sorte d’absence forcée, comme c’était déjà le cas dans l’épopée homérique20. Le silence d’Iphias prend ainsi une valeur métapoétique : par son âge avancé, Iphias représente aussi l’univers archaïque et ses valeurs ; son silence symbolise en effet l’absence des femmes dans l’univers de l’Iliade, mais sa mise à distance par rapport aux plus jeunes et à Jason en particulier est aussi l’annonce d’un changement du récit épique : ce n’est pas seulement l’univers d’Iolcos qui est laissé en arrière par Jason, mais c’est aussi une manière poétique qui est abandonnée, comme l’épisode de Lemnos le montrera rapidement dans la suite du chant I.

2. Cassandre et Diké : deux modalités de l’éloignement 2.1 Cassandre/Alexandra Cette installation initiale du discours féminin dans l’épopée d’Apollonios montrent, même si cela n’est pas définitif et si la suite du récit propose d’autres modalités de performance de la voix féminine lors de l’épisode de Lemnos, avec l’importance accordée au personnage de Médée ou encore avec le rôle décisif d’Arété, qu’il y a d’abord une forme d’obstacle au développement de la voix féminine. Cette impossibilité du dire semble être intimement liée à la nature même de la voix féminine qui est vouée à la paralysie de la lamentation et qui est une voix essentiellement sédentaire et ne s’accomplit que dans l’immobilité alors que le héros est conduit à aller à l’aventure, à se mettre en mouvement pour être pleinement lui-même. Cette incapacité première de la voix féminine à se développer est parfois traitée de telle manière par les poètes qu’il semble que cette difficulté propre à la voix féminine justement ne lui est pas propre, mais lui est clairement imposée malgré elle. L’exemple le plus évident est le personnage de Cassandre tel qu’il apparaît dans l’Alexandra de Lycophron21. Le poème de Lycophron se déroule au matin du jour (16) où Pâris s’embarque pour aller en Grèce et 20. Dans tout ce début de l’épopée d’Apollonios, on ne semble pas très loin de la spécificité féminine qu’H. Monsacré (1984: 123) a dégagée pour l’épopée homérique et qui résiderait “dans une sorte d’absence. Dans l’Iliade, le féminin apparaît fantasmé d’une manière qui empêche même de l’évoquer vraiment”. 21. Nous reprenons ici certains développements de notre contribution “La polyphonie virginale de Cassandre dans l’Alexandra de Lycophron” dans le volume à paraître Cassandre.Figuredutémoignageetdelatransmissionmémorielle, dirigé par Véronique Léonard-Roques et Philippe Mesnard. Différents détails sont ajoutés ou supprimés en fonction de notre présent développement sur la performance vocale.

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y enlever Hélène (20-27). Cassandre a été alors enfermée par son propre père Priam dans sa chambre, de sorte que ses prophéties sur l’avenir de Troie ne soient entendues par personne (1461-1462): Τόσσ´ ἠγόρευε καὶ παλίσσυτος ποσὶν ἔβαινεν εἱρκτῆς ἐντός… ‘Voilà ce qu’elle déclarait et, reculant d’un pied brusque, Elle marchait jusqu’au fond de sa cellule.’

La situation initiale d’énonciation repose donc sur un enfermement qui vise à empêcher la performance vocale féminine. La précision apportée par παλίσσυτος ποσὶν semble devoir renforcer l’idée d’un obstacle à la parole : non seulement la locutrice est enfermée, mais elle parle en marchant à reculons, comme si elle s’éloignait elle-même de la profération de sa propre parole. Il s’agit d’une parole « rétrograde », qui est prononcée comme à contre cœur, comme une parole inversée, une anti-parole. Le roi a cependant installé un serviteur devant la chambre de la jeune vierge, pour recueillir pour lui-même ses prophéties (1-7 et 1469-1471) et les remettre dans le bon ordre : à l’ouverture du poème, le serviteur prend la parole pour ne plus la lâcher en s’adressant à un interlocuteur absent (3) que l’on identifiera plus loin comme étant le roi Priam (9), ce que ‘confirme’ le rapport généalogique alambiqué du vers 19. Le poème de Lycophron est donc constitué par le monologue masculin, assez extraordinaire par sa longueur, que prononce ce serviteur-messager à un unique destinataire apparent, également masculin. Pourtant, ce monologue du serviteur est composé par deux niveaux de discours totalement déséquilibrés d’un point de vue quantitatif : le serviteur rappelle les circonstances de sa mission et parle en son propre nom à l’ouverture et à la conclusion du poème (1-30 et 1461-1474) ; entre ces deux passages liminaires, le serviteur délègue la parole à Cassandre-Alexandra dont il rapporte fidèlement les abondantes prophéties (31-1460). L’abondance même de ces prophéties de Cassandre a pour conséquence de faire presque disparaître à la lecture la voix masculine initiale22 qui semble n’être plus qu’une simple utilité dans le dispositif discursif, mettant en évidence l’impossibilité du dialogue entre Priam et sa fille Cassandre, mais aussi l’inanité du discours prophétique et la distance de toute parole poétique avec son public. Il n’en reste pas moins que la parole féminine de Cassandre reste totalement incluse dans une parole masculine développée dans une situation d’énonciation exclusivement masculine également. On assiste donc à un double effacement : du point de vue de 22. Son sexe masculin se déduit de l’accord des participes des vers 13, 15 et 1467.

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l’énonciation, il y a un total effacement de l’instance féminine, alors que du point de vue de l’énoncé c’est l’instance masculine du locuteur principal qui tend à être effacée. Cet effacement de la voix du locuteur principal est renforcé de deux manières : premièrement, ce personnage reste anonyme, comme tout serviteur, et n’a pas d’autre fonction que de délivrer son message ; il n’existe que par la parole qu’il prononce, et surtout que par le discours qu’il transmet ; il n’est que le porte-parole d’un récit qui ne lui appartient pas, qu’un relai entre un ordre donné et une prophétie délivrée, comme il l’énonce dès l’ouverture du poème (1-2) : Λέξω τὰ πάντα νητρεκῶς, ἅ μ’ ἱστορεῖς, ἀρχῆς ἀπ’ ἄκρας· ‘Je dirai tout, Dès le tout début23.’

sans détour, de ce que tu me demandes,

L’emploi du futur à l’ouverture absolue du poème non seulement montre l’imminence de son message, mais projette aussi le locuteur dans le discours d’autrui, comme si sa présente parole ne valait pas pour elle-même. Deuxièmement, comme le suggère la paronomase de cette forme verbale λέξω avec le nom Ἀλεξάνδρα à la fin du premier mouvement du texte (30), il y a des liens puissants qui unissent le serviteur et CassandreAlexandra : le serviteur a tellement assimilé la parole de la jeune fille qu’il parle comme elle, recourant aux mêmes détours de langage, à la même invention verbale, aux mêmes images, à la même obscurité au risque de perdre son identité stylistique24, alors que la nature de son discours est à l’opposé de celui de Cassandre car si la prophétesse parle de manière oblique, le propre du messager est en principe d’être fidèle au discours qu’il transmet. S’étant installé sur ordre du roi dans le discours d’Alexandra-Cassandre pour s’en faire l’unique réceptacle, le messager a pris la couleur de cette prophétie qu’il se doit d’avoir assimilée avant de la restituer. Ce serviteur est bien à une position charnière entre Priam et Cassandre : alors que l’enfermement de Cassandre par Priam dit l’impossible dialogue entre eux, le messager qui reçoit le discours de la prophétesse endosse la voix même de Cassandre, lui donne chair avant qu’elle ne soit perdue et s’en fait l’interprète contraint25. En acceptant de passer de son propre logos clair et raisonné au discours prophétique obscur et oblique qu’il fait sien, le messager donne forme à ce discours 23. Les traductions proviennent de C. Chauvin-C. Cusset, Lycophron. Alexandra, Paris, 2008. 24. Cusset (2006). 25. Cf. Kossaifi (2009: 151-152) ; sur la nécessité de l’interprète en une telle situation langagière, voir Puech (1988: 27-29).

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étranger qu’il a en lui et le fait advenir sous forme d’une parole prononcée et divulguée dans toute sa puissance et son mystère. L’identité unique vers laquelle tendent Cassandre et le serviteur s’exprime dans leur commune position de pro-phète : le serviteur prête sa voix à Cassandre qui, à son tour, prête la sienne au dieu Apollon. La figure du gardien-messager semble bien plus largement n’être qu’une sorte de filtre énonciatif entre le lecteur (qui se laisse découvrir derrière la figure de l’interlocuteur absent qu’est le roi dans le poème) et la prophétie de Cassandre ; en cela, il n’est pas dans une position passive puisqu’il est le seul canal par lequel passe toute voix dans le poème. Toutefois, le ‘je’ qu’il tente d’imposer à l’ouverture du poème se perd et se dissout dans le ‘je’ envahissant de Cassandre : alors même qu’il est l’unique voix physiquement présente dans le texte, il cède tous ses attributs à la voix multiple de la prophétesse. Par sa présence-absence, il égalise toute forme de parole dans une fausse immédiateté de son énonciation, en lui donnant l’illusion de son exécution. Dans ce dispositif, la voix de Cassandre apparaît comme une donnée ambiguë, située entre contrainte et libération, dans un espace-temps incertain fait de passé, présent et futur, d’ici et d’ailleurs. Tout commence par un cri : αἰαῖ (31, renouvelé au vers 307). Ce cri plaintif est d’abord l’expression d’une émotion particulière qui saisit Cassandre lorsqu’elle parle de réalités ou de personnes dont elle est proche : ainsi du destin funeste de la ville de Troie incendiée aux vers 31-34 ou du sort funeste de sa fratrie (Troïlos, Laodicè, Polyxène) et de sa famille aux vers 307339. Mais ce condensé (féminisé par ses sonorités) de toute douleur, sert aussi de clé de lecture pour l’ensemble de la prophétie qui ne sera qu’une longue lamentation renouvelée, passant en revue tous les destins funestes des Troyens et des Grecs impliqués dans la guerre de Troie. Ce cri tragique de Cassandre qui éclate à l’ouverture de ses prédictions est aussi significatif de la situation dans laquelle se trouve la fille de Priam : Cassandre est doublement contrainte et par le dieu Apollon qui lui insuffle sa force prophétique intarissable, et, comme on l’a vu, par son père qui l’enferme dans sa chambre. Cassandre profère ainsi une parole inspirée dont elle ne maîtrise pas l’origine et qui la dépasse en ce qu’elle se veut totalisante en envisageant potentiellement tout le futur inscrit dans l’initiative de Pâris ; en outre, cette parole risque doublement d’être perdue, car elle est prononcée sans destinataire reconnu par la locutrice et ne parvient jamais à convaincre26. Ce destin de la parole de la prophétesse ne peut mieux être suggéré que par le recours au discours rapporté : 26. L’absence de persuasion est bien exposée par Cassandre dans les derniers vers de sa prophétie (1454-1457).

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en instaurant un décalage entre le destinateur premier du message et son destinataire, cette modalité du discours rend sensible la difficulté potentielle que le destinateur premier peut rencontrer pour que son discours soit efficace, entendu, compris ou apprécié ; il se trouve dessaisi de toute possibilité d’influer sur la transmission de son propre discours dont il n’est plus le maître. Il est dès lors tentant de prendre l’exclamation douloureuse initiale de Cassandre comme la ponctuation de cette déchirure entre elle-même et son propre discours, dès l’ouverture, comme le premier cri d’un nouveau-né. Cassandre accouche de sa prophétie dans un cri de douleur : toute sa prophétie n’est que le prolongement de ce cri de l’incipit. On comprend dès lors que la prophétie puisse apparaître comme confuse et obscure. Cette obscurité est associée à l’évocation d’une certaine animalité du chant de la prophétesse, en ce qu’elle est ‘l’hirondelle saisie de Phoïbos’ (1460 : τὴν φοιβόληπτον … χελιδόνα). Mais elle est aussi liée aux figures de la Bacchante, de la Sibylle ou de la Sphinge (28, 1464). Mais ce que soulignent ces rapprochements, c’est l’étrangeté de la voix de Cassandre, sa nature centrifuge hors de l’humanité commune, sa position hors du temps et de l’espace ordinaire, sa gratuité inutile (1453 : κενὸν … κρότον) et inquiétante, sa dimension hybride qui l’ancre dans le divin. Enfin, par la réitération de la même diphtongue αἰ qui mime la lamentation féminine autant que le borborygme barbare, tout en installant une forme indistincte d’expression dans une tonalité suraiguë de sons incohérents, l’anacrouse plaintive de l’incipit semble être aussi le résidu d’un en-deçà de la parole prophétique articulée, telle que le messager la comprend et la retranscrit, et ouvre sur un espace vocal de la non signification dans lequel s’établit (ou s’est établi antérieurement au début du poème) librement la communication verticale de la prophétesse avec le divin, avec Apollon qui inspire sa vision prophétique. Toutes ces caractéristiques du discours féminin de Cassandre se rejoignent dans l’obscurité essentielle de ses prophéties. Cette obscurité, qui s’origine dans Apollon Loxias, trouve à s’exprimer à la fois dans les méandres de la logorrhée prophétique qui ne semble jamais devoir finir et donc n’avoir aucun sens (à la fois ‘orientation’ et ‘signification’), et dans le dispositif discursif qui mime le détour par la voix de l’autre. La voix féminine se trouve toujours repoussée hors du cadre, toujours médiatisée et contrainte.

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2.2 Diké/LaVierge Dans les Phénomènes d’Aratos, dont la tradition manuscrite est liée à celle de l’Alexandra, un seul personnage, en dehors du narrateur, prend la parole dans l’ensemble du poème : il s’agit de Dikè dont l’évocation est associée à la réécriture du mythe hésiodique des races. La situation d’énonciation du poème est fortement orientée du côté masculin : le poète-narrateur, qui se pose comme une entité masculine (17-18 : Ἐμοί γε μὲν ἀστέρας εἰπεῖν / ᾗ θέμις εὐχομένῳ τεκμήρατε πᾶσαν ἀοιδήν.), s’adresse à l’ouverture du poème à Zeus, d’abord parce que les hommes sont la descendance de Zeus, et parce que c’est Zeus qui a fixé au ciel les étoiles et les constellations dont le poème va faire la description minutieuse. Le poète a aussi soigneusement que possible écarté les Muses du dispositif poétique : celle-ci n’interviennent que comme destinataires du salut qu’adresse le poète aussi à Zeus et il ne leur demande absolument rien (15-17) : Χαῖρε, πάτερ, μέγα θαῦμα, μέγ´ ἀνθρώποισιν ὄνειαρ, αὐτὸς καὶ προτέρη γενεή. Χαίροιτε δὲ Μοῦσαι μειλίχιαι μάλα πᾶσαι. ‘Salut, père, infini prodige, infini recours des hommes, à toi et à la génération d’avant ! Salut à vous aussi, Muses aimables, à vous toutes27!’

Il y a une forme d’ironie de la part d’Aratos à préciser que toutes les Muses sont concernées par son salut, alors qu’il ne leur demande rien et alors que toutes les Muses ne sont pas concernées par l’objet du poème, mais uniquement la Muse Uranie qui préside à l’astronomie. Le poète prend donc plaisir à instaurer un cadre d’énonciation exclusivement masculin, dans lequel le rapport entre le destinateur et le destinataire relève à la fois de l’admiration, de la filiation, et du secours. Il est donc assez surprenant de constater que la seule prise de parole soit le fait dans le poème d’un personnage féminin. La féminité de Dikè ne peut que se détacher très fortement dans ce contexte (96-136) : Ἀμφοτέροισι δὲ ποσσὶν ὕπο σκέπτοιο Βοώτεω Παρθένον, ἥ ῥ´ ἐν χειρὶ φέρει στάχυν αἰγλήεντα. Εἴτ´ οὖν Ἀστραίου κείνη γένος, ὅν ῥά τέ φασιν ἄστρων ἀρχαῖον πατέρ´ ἔμμεναι, εἴτε τευ ἄλλου, εὔκηλος φορέοιτο. Λόγος γε μὲν ἐντρέχει ἄλλος ἀνθρώποις, ὡς δῆθεν ἐπιχθονίη πάρος ἦεν, ἤρχετο δ´ ἀνθρώπων κατεναντίη, οὐδέ ποτ´ ἀνδρῶν οὐδέ ποτ´ ἀρχαίων ἠνήνατο φῦλα γυναικῶν, ἀλλ´ ἀναμὶξ ἐκάθητο καὶ ἀθανάτη περ ἐοῦσα. 27. Texte et traduction de J. Martin (1998).

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Καί ἑ Δίκην καλέεσκον· ἀγειρομένη δὲ γέροντας ἠέ που εἰν ἀγορῇ ἢ εὐρυχόρῳ ἐν ἀγυιῇ, δημοτέρας ἤειδεν ἐπισπέρχουσα θέμιστας. Οὔπω λευγαλέου τότε νείκεος ἠπίσταντο, οὐδὲ διακρίσιος περιμεμφέος, οὐδὲ κυδοιμοῦ· αὕτως δ´ ἔζωον· χαλεπὴ δ´ ἀπέκειτο θάλασσα, καὶ βίον οὔπω νῆες ἀπόπροθεν ἠγίνεσκον, ἀλλὰ βόες καὶ ἄροτρα καὶ αὐτὴ πότνια λαῶν μυρία πάντα παρεῖχε Δίκη, δώτειρα δικαίων. Τόφρ´ ἦν ὄφρ´ ἔτι γαῖα γένος χρύσειον ἔφερβεν. Ἀργυρέῳ δ´ ὀλίγη τε καὶ οὐκέτι πάμπαν ἑτοίμη ὡμίλει, ποθέουσα παλαιῶν ἤθεα λαῶν. Ἀλλ´ ἔμπης ἔτι κεῖνο κατ´ ἀργύρεον γένος ἦεν· ἤρχετο δ´ ἐξ ὀρέων ὑποδείελος ἠχηέντων μουνάξ, οὐδέ τεῳ ἐπεμίσγετο μειλιχίοισιν· ἀλλ´ ὁπότ´ ἀνθρώπων μεγάλας πλήσαιτο κολώνας, ἠπείλει δὴ ἔπειτα καθαπτομένη κακότητος, οὐδ´ ἔτ´ ἔφη εἰσωπὸς ἐλεύσεσθαι καλέουσιν. “Οἵην χρύσειοι πατέρες γενεὴν ἐλίποντο χειροτέρην· ὑμεῖς δὲ κακώτερα τέκνα τεκεῖσθε. Καὶ δή που πόλεμοι, καὶ δὴ καὶ ἀνάρσιον αἷμα ἔσσεται ἀνθρώποισι, κακῷ δ´ ἐπικείσεται ἄλγος.” Ὣς εἰποῦς´ ὀρέων ἐπεμαίετο, τοὺς δ´ ἄρα λαοὺς εἰς αὐτὴν ἔτι πάντας ἐλίμπανε παπταίνοντας. Ἀλλ´ ὅτε δὴ κἀκεῖνοι ἐτέθνασαν, οἳ δ´ ἐγένοντο, χαλκείη γενεὴ προτέρων ὀλοώτεροι ἄνδρες, οἳ πρῶτοι κακοεργὸν ἐχαλκεύσαντο μάχαιραν εἰνοδίην, πρῶτοι δὲ βοῶν ἐπάσαντ´ ἀροτήρων. Καὶ τότε μισήσασα Δίκη κείνων γένος ἀνδρῶν ἔπταθ´ ὑπουρανίη, ταύτην δ´ ἄρα νάσσατο χώρην, ἧχί περ ἐννυχίη ἔτι φαίνεται ἀνθρώποισι Παρθένος ἐγγὺς ἐοῦσα πολυσκέπτοιο Βοώτεω.

Et sous les deux pieds du Bouvier tu peux contempler la Vierge qui tient à la main un Epi étincelant. Est-elle la fille d’Astrée dont on dit qu’il fut le père antique des constellation, ou bien de quelqu’un d’autre ? Puisse-t-elle de toute façon suivre paisiblement son chemin. Mais une autre tradition court parmi les humains. Elle aurait jadis séjourné sur la terre. Elle venait à la rencontre des humains. Elle ne dédaignait pas la foule des hommes et des femmes d’autrefois. Bien au contraire, elle s’asseyait au milieu d’eux, tout immortelle qu’elle fût. Et on l’appelait Justice. Elle rassemblait les anciens soit sur la place du marché, soit dans une large rue, et là elle énonçait, d’un ton pressant, des sentences bonnes pour son peuple. En ce temps-là ils ignoraient encore la chicane funeste, les rivalités préjudiciables et les désordres de la guerre. Et ils vivaient sans avoir besoin d’autre chose ; la mer et ses épreuves restaient loin de leur pensée, les navires n’apportaient pas encore de vivres des pays lointains ; les bœufs, les charrues et elle-même, Justice, maîtresse des

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peuples, dispensatrice des biens légitimes, leur procuraient tout en abondance. Elle fut là tant que la terre continua à nourrir la race d’or, mais celle d’argent, elle ne la fréquentait que peu et mal volontiers, car elle regrettait les mœurs des anciens peuples. Cependant, même sous la race d’argent, elle était encore là. Elle descendait le soir des montagnes bruissantes, et elle restait à l’écart, sans s’approcher de personne pour lui parler aimablement. Mais quand elle avait rempli d’êtres humains de vastes collines, alors elle les menaçait et leur reprochait leur perversité. Elle ne viendrait plus, disaitelle, se montrer à leurs yeux quand ils l’appelleraient : “Quelle descendance vos pères d’or ont-ils laissée derrière eux, combien dégénérée ! Et vous mettrez au monde des enfants pires encore ! Alors il y aura des guerres, il y aura des meurtres abominables chez les humains, et une peine cruelle s’appesantira sur eux”. Ayant dit, elle regagnait les montagnes et laissait là les gens qui la cherchaient encore tous des yeux. Mais quand ceux-là moururent à leur tour, et qu’apparurent les hommes de la race d’airain, plus affreux que les précédents, qui les premiers forgèrent le couteau criminel des grands chemins, et les premiers aussi dévorèrent la chair des bœufs laboureurs, alors Justice prit cette race en haine, s’envola vers le ciel, et s’établit dans la région où elle apparaît encore la nuit aux humains sous la forme de la Vierge, auprès de l’éclatant Bouvier.

Sans pouvoir entrer dans le détail de ce long récit28, il convient de souligner les données majeures de la mise en scène de la parole de Dikè. Tout d’abord on constate que ce passage est parfaitement délimité par l’écho que l’on peut établir entre les vers initiaux (96-97) et les vers terminaux (135-136) : le nom Παρθένος figure en position liminaire et est mis en relation avec le génitif Βοώτεω en fin de vers ; la constellation de la Vierge est repérable par rapport à celle du Bouvier ; chaque fois une précision souligne la luminosité qui permet de distinguer la constellation, avec un déplacement de l’épi que tient la Vierge en 96 (φέρει Στάχυν αἰγλήεντα) au Bouvier lui-même (πολυσκέπτοιο Βοώτεω). La lumière n’affecte donc la Vierge qu’indirectement, mais c’est pour qu’elle soit mieux évoquée en détail dans le poème. Ce cadre qui délimite et détache la constellation de la Vierge entre en tension avec le récit luimême où le personnage se trouve désigné par un autre nom comme le souligne le vers 105 (Καί ἑ Δίκην καλέεσκον). Ce changement de nom, bien dans le goût alexandrin pour les variations sur les noms propres, est le signe d’un changement de nature de cette figure féminine qui de déesse installée parmi les hommes se catastérise elle-même pour gagner la voûte céleste. Mais ce changement de nom est aussi l’expression concrète d’un filtre entre la description astronomique et le récit mythologique, de sorte

28. Pour une analyse approfondie, voir J. Martin (1998, II: 198-214). Sur le jeu intertextuel dans ce passage, voir C. Cusset (1999: 298-306).

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que le personnage féminin qui intervient dans le récit n’est pas tout à fait le même que celui qui se trouve exposé parmi les constellations. Un second filtre qui met à nouveau le personnage à distance est constitué au début du récit par le statut légendaire du récit qui n’est pas véritablement assumé par le narrateur, même s’il se charge de le rapporter. Le narrateur en effet fait un choix entre plusieurs possibilités sur l’origine de la Vierge. La première hypothèse qui l’installerait d’emblée parmi les constellations du fait du nom et de la fonction de son père supposé est rejetée par le narrateur ; ce récit généalogique, qui ferait remonter à une époque archaïque (ἀρχαῖον πατέρα), c’est-à-dire mythique29, et repose sur une tradition orale (φασιν) n’est pas retenue par le narrateur30, pas plus qu’une autre possibilité généalogique31. Le personnage de la Vierge semble devoir être coupé de toute ascendance masculine dans le projet du narrateur qui distingue ainsi soigneusement le statut de ce personnage. Le narrateur préfère un autre récit (λόγος … ἄλλος) qui semble avoir une forme d’autonomie, en ce qu’il n’est pas attribué explicitement à une instance locutrice même indéfinie. Le récit n’est pas assumé par le narrateur comme l’indique la conjonction ὡς et le renvoi à une antiquité indéfinie (δῆθεν). Toute l’histoire de Dikè est celle d’un éloignement progressif au fil des générations primordiales. Dans une situation initiale, Dikè prend plaisir à être au milieu des hommes et des femmes ; elle met en œuvre une mise en scène particulière pour s’adresser aux vieillards dans des espaces ouverts de circulation et de communication (ἠέ που εἰν ἀγορῇ ἢ εὐρυχόρῳ ἐν ἀγυιῇ, 106) ; elle énonce alors une parole chantée (ἤειδεν), qui est bienfaitrice (δημοτέρας) et sans doute douce à entendre. Cette parole n’est l’objet que d’un résumé narrativisé et n’est pas rapportée directement, peut-être parce que c’est une parole divine à la fois trop proche des hommes et trop éloignée dans le temps. Le tableau évoque les caractéristiques de cet âge d’or avec lequel Dikè entretient des relations étroites. Lors de la race d’argent, Dikè est moins empressée et se fait plus distante. En proie au regret des anciens peuples (ποθέουσα παλαιῶν ἤθεα λαῶν), Dikè ne semble pas pouvoir s’investir dans cette nouvelle ère. Pourtant, comme le note la reprise de la forme, surprenante en poésie, ἤρχετο (102 et 118), Dikè continue à venir parmi les hommes. Mais au 29. Martin (1998, II: 201 adloc.) 30. Cette filiation ne correspond en fait à aucune tradition effective connue. Elle semble relever de la pure fantaisie onomastique de la part d’Aratos. 31. Cette autre possibilité généalogique est très vraisemblablement celle d’Hésiode (Travaux, 256) qu’Aratos ne reprend pas à dessein. Chez Hésiode, Dikè est fille de Zeus.

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lieu d’être dans une position égale avec les races humaines, Dikè marque ses distances, ses différences : au lieu d’être continuellement au milieu des populations, elle vient de la montagne (ἐξ ὀρέων) qui parce qu’elles sont qualifiées de ‘bruissantes’ (ἠχηέντων) se font sans doute désormais l’écho des chants ou déclarations de Dikè ; cette provenance marque non seulement un éloignement, mais aussi une hiérarchie. Dikè se présente le soir (ὑποδείελος) et reste à l’écart (μουνάξ) : elle entend à la fois ne pas être trop remarquée et maintenir une distance entre elle et ses auditeurs. La nature de ses paroles a changé : elle est passé du chant à l’invective. Cette fois ses propos sont rapportés, en deux temps, d’abord de manière indirecte (121), puis de manière directe (123-126). Le discours indirect permet d’introduire au discours direct, tout en maintenant là encore un écran, une barrière entre le lecteur et les paroles prononcées. Le discours direct insiste aussi sur l’expression d’une volonté de ne plus se montrer, de ne plus répondre à l’appel des hommes. On voit comment se construit l’éloignement progressif de la locutrice et comment est mise en scène sa parole : la parole n’est pas rapportée lorsqu’elle est prononcée dans une situation d’égalité, mais elle n’intervient dans le texte que lorsqu’elle est déjà contrainte, sans être encore impossible. Il est intéressant de noter que Dikè prend un ton presque prophétique : elle annonce ce qui va se passer au futur, et c’est un avenir de dégradation et de mort qu’elle laisse entrevoir ; sa tonalité n’est donc pas très éloignée de celle de Cassandre chez Lycophron, mais la concision de l’une s’oppose radicalement à la logorrhée de l’autre. Avec l’avènement de la race d’airain, Dikè qui prend l’humanité en haine, cesse toute relation et va se réfugier dans un espace encore plus lointain : elle ne se manifeste plus aux hommes que dans l’espace nocturne céleste. L’éloignement empêche toute forme de parole et les mots ont laissé la place aux signes lumineux. Cette parole féminine de Dikè se trouve donc éminemment contrainte dans un espace-temps extrêmement bref, coincé entre un âge d’or perdu et toujours déjà redessiné avec regret et un âge d’airain devenu impropre à toute forme de discours dès lors que l’humanité se trouve livrée à des activités qui sanctionnent la différence entre l’homme et l’environnement qu’il cherche à dominer.

3. Conclusion Au terme de cette étude qui mériterait d’être poursuivie à travers de nombreux autres exemples, il est possible de poser comme un trait typique du traitement de la parole féminine, que celle-ci apparaît comme

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un discours génériquement contraint à bien des sens. Dès lors qu’un narrateur se pose comme une voix masculine, la parole féminine secondaire qu’il peut éventuellement solliciter est d’abord marquée par des contraintes formelles : la parole féminine semble souvent ne pas pouvoir sortir d’une forme de paralysie déclamative dès lors qu’elle se trouve enfermée dans le mode de la lamentation. L’inscription d’une voix féminine dans un discours narratif ou descriptif (on songe ici aux exemples traités d’Apollonios de Rhodes et d’Aratos) est initialement limitée à un mode d’expression. La présence même de l’instance féminine dans le texte se trouve souvent mise en question et l’on voit que la figure féminine est volontiers exclue apriori du récit ou du discours : la femme est laissée en arrière ou engage un mouvement centrifuge ou se trouve mise à l’écart de toute réception comme dans le cas de la Cassandre de Lycophron. Du fait même de ces contraintes formelles et génériques, la prise de parole des instances féminines se fait régulièrement sous forme d’une mise en scène particulière, comme si le personnage féminin ne pouvait intervenir « naturellement » dans un récit porté par une voix masculine : l’enfermement de Cassandre, la reconstruction du personnage de Dikè, l’installation de femmes en pleurs sur le départ des Argonautes ou encore, dans la suite du récit d’Apollonios de Rhodes, la constitution du groupe des Lemniennes comme chœur du littoral lemnien ou comme assemblée délibérative, toutes ces situations manifestent que la contrainte que fait peser (inconsciemment) l’instance masculine sur le discours a pour conséquence de contraindre la prise de parole féminine et de la canaliser dans une modalité d’énonciation où elle doit correspondre à une posture définie, héritée de la tradition littéraire, comme si elle ne pouvait échapper à cette représentation. RÉFÉRENCES Ardizzoni, A., 1967, ApollonioRodio.LeArgonautiche.LibroI. Rome. Bielman, A., 2002, Femmesenpublicdanslemondehellénistique, Paris. Bulloch, A.W., Gruen E.S., Long A.A. & Stewart A., 1993, ImagesandIdeologies: Self-DefinitionintheHellenisticWorld, Berkeley. Clauss, J.J., 1983. Allusion and the Narrative Style of Apollonius Rhodius. AdetailedstudyofBook1oftheArgonautica, Berkeley (diss.). Clauss, J.J., 1993, TheBestoftheArgonauts. Berkeley. Clayman, Dee L., 2014, Berenice II and the golden age of Ptolemaic Egypt. Women in antiquity. Oxford; New York. Cusset, C., 1999, La Muse dans la Bibliothèque. Réécriture et intertextualité danslapoésiealexandrine, Paris.

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Cusset, C., 2006. “Dit et non-dit dans l’Alexandra de Lycophron”. In: M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit et G.C. Wakker (dir.), Beyond the Canon, Louvain-ParisDudley, MA, 43-60. Fantuzzi, M. & Hunter R., 2004, TraditionandInnovationinHellenisticPoetry, Cambridge. Fraser, P.M., 1972, PtolemaicAlexandria, Oxford. Fusillo, M., 1985, IlTempodelleArgonautiche, Rome. Fusillo, M., 2001. “Apollonius Rhodius as ‘inventor’ of the interior monologue”. In: Th. D. Papanghelis & A. Rengakos (dir.), ACompaniontoApollonius Rhodius, Leyde: 127-146. Goldhill, S., 1991, ThePoet’sVoice, Cambridge. Greene, E. (ed.), 2005, WomenPoetsinAncientGreeceandRome, Norman. Gutzwiller, K. J., 1998, Poetic Garlands. Hellenistic Epigrams in Context, Berkeley. Gutzwiller, K. J., 1997, “Genre Development and Gendered Voices in Erinna and Nossis”. In: Y. Prins et M. Schreiber (dir.),DewellinginPossibility : WomenPoetsandCriticsonPoetry, Ithaca: 202-222. Händel, P., 1954, BeobachtungenzurepischenTechnikdesApolloniosRhodios, Munich. Holst-Warhaft, G., 1992, Dangerous Voices : Women’s Laments and Greek Literature, Londres. Klinck, A. L., 2008, Woman’sSongsinAncientGreece, Montreal & Kingston. Kossaifi, C., 2009, “Poétique messager. Quelques remarques sur l’incipit et l’épilogue de l’Alexandra de Lycophron”. In: C. Cusset & E. Prioux (dir.), Lycophron:éclatsd’obscurité,Saint-Etienne: 141-159. Martin, J., 1998, Aratos.LesPhénomènes, 2 vol., Paris. Monsacré, H., 1984, Leslarmesd’Achille.Lehéros,lafemmeetlasouffrance danslapoésied’Homère, Paris. Natzel, S. A., 1992, Κλέαγυναικῶν.Fraueninden“Argonautica”desApolloniosRhodios, Trèves. Nelis, D.P., 1991, “Iphias : Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica 1, 311-16”. CQ 41, 96-105. Pomeroy, S. B., 1984, WomeninHellenisticEgypt, New York. Puech, C., 1988, “Parler en langues, parler des langues”. Langages 91, 27-38. Reitz, C., 1996, Zur Gleichnistechnik des Apollonios von Rhodos, Francfort/ Main. Vian, F., 1974, ApolloniosdeRhodes.LesArgonautiques. Tome 1, Paris. Wilamowitz-Mœllendorff, U. von, 1924, HellenistischeDichtunginderZeitdes Kallimachos, Berlin.

THE POETICS OF LAMENTATION: PERFORMANCES AND RITUAL IN BION’S EPITAPHONADONIS Andreas FOUNTOULAKIS

1. Introduction Impressive imagery, emotional overtones and a strong sense of theatricality form main features of the EpitaphonAdonis (Ἀδώνιδος Ἐπιτάφιος), a poem which has been attributed to Bion of Smyrna and constitutes a late Hellenistic rendering of a lament over the death of Adonis.1 The inclusion of Bion in the canon of the three bucolic poets along with Theocritus and Moschus, and the use of a poetic Doric dialect, dactylic hexameter and themes pertaining to the depiction and involvement of nature in human affairs or to everyday human concerns, mythological songs and vivid emotions – most notably love – bring the poem close to the bucolic tradition of Theocritus.2 At the same time, the poem’s engagement with Adonis, a mythical figure with significant cultic dimensions manifested in the festival of the Adonia, as well as its generic affinities with Greek ritual laments,3 are suggestive of the Epitaph’s associations not only with laments occurring in Greek literature, but also with elements pertaining more widely to Greek ritual, which become even more apparent through the construction of the poem’s narrative in layers of performance levels.

1. Although the poem is transmitted without any indication of author in manuscripts such as ParisinusGraecus 2832 or VaticanusGraecus 1825, it was attributed to Bion of Smyrna in 1530 by Joachim Kammermeister (Camerarius) on the basis of the echoes of the EpitaphonAdonis attested in the EpitaphonBion, which is falsely ascribed to Moschus, and, more specifically, on the basis of the allusion of E.B. 68-69 to the kiss of Adonis and Aphrodite in E.A. 13-14. Stylistic similarities between the Epitaph onAdonis and the surviving fragments of Bion’s poetry support this attribution. See Fantuzzi (1985: 139-141); Reed (1997: 15, 77-78, 194). For Bion’s floruit after Theocritus and Moschus at some point after the middle of the second century and before the middle of the first century B.C., see Σ Moschus, A.P. 9.440; Suda, s.v. Θεόκριτος; Catullus 5.5-6, 14; Wilamowitz (1906: 110-112, 124-127); Fantuzzi (1985: 141-144); Reed (1997: 1-3). 2. See Σ Moschus, A.P. 9.440; Suda, s.v. Θεόκριτος; Halperin (1983a: 33-55); Reed (1997: 3-15); Fantuzzi & Hunter (2004: 167-190). 3. Cf. Fantuzzi (1985: 152-165); Reed (1995; 1997: 15-26); Alexiou (2002: 55-57).

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Performance may be related to the presentation, generic identity and reception of many forms of Greek poetry from epic and lyric poetry to drama from the archaic until the Hellenistic period and beyond,4 but it is also an inherent feature of ritual. Greek terms such as τελετή and τελεῖν or δρώμενον and δρᾶν, which are semantically related to performance as well as to ritual practice, imply the performative aspects of Greek religious and secular ritual.5 This dimension of ritual is related to the elements of representation and enactment, the mimetic and performative aspects of human nature, the distinction between actors and viewers as well as their exchange of roles through participation, the production and conveyance of socially and culturally informed meanings, and the importance of such meanings with respect to social and cultural formation and cohesion.6 The great number and variety of ritual practices in the Greek world suggest their significant contribution to a complex system of symbolic expression and communication as well as to the formation of cultural constructs that formed fundamental structural constituents of Greek culture. Poetry, being a manifestation of the same social and cultural ‘deep structures’,7 inevitably shared many of the codes of expression and communication developed in the field of ritual. The same structures influenced also the ways in which the ancients perceived and understood religious and secular poetry in the light of their social and cultural experience within a common social and cultural ambience.8 Considering that performance was one of ritual’s chief features, it comes as no surprise that in Greek culture performance emerges also as one of poetry’s main features,9 which was pertinent to its production and reception in a cultural environment dominated by the same shared systems of expression and communication. These systems subsequently affected the generic identities of Greek poetry either in an obvious way, as happened, for instance, 4. Cf. Nagy (1996: 107-152, 212-225); Fantuzzi & Hunter (2004: 1-41); Calame (2005: 19-87). 5. See e.g. Hrdt. 2.171, 4.79; Aristoph. Wasps 121, Cl. 258, Fr. 357, 1032; Pl. Phaedr. 244, 249c, Prot. 346d, Euthyd. 277d; Andoc. 15.5; Plut. Mor. (De Is. et Os.) 352c, (Cons. Ad Ux.) 612a; Euseb. Prep.Ev. 3.1; Schreckenberg (1960: 1-73, 122-127); Yatromanolakis & Roilos (2004: 5-8), who provide an illuminating overview of these terms with respect to ritual practice; Versnel (2012). 6. See Turner (1969); Burkert (1979: 45-52); Tambiah (1981); Turner (1982); Turner (1987); Rappaport (1999: 134-137). 7. Cf. Geertz (1972). 8. Cf. Sourvinou-Inwood (1991: 3-23). 9. It should be borne in mind that many forms of Greek poetry (e.g. hymns or dramatic poetry) had a religious character or originated in religious poetry. This explains their presentation in the context of religious festivals and rituals. For the associations between Greek poetry and ritual, see Nagy (1989: 2-18); Calame (2005: 19-54, 70-87).

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in drama, or in more subtle ways, which become discernible in elements of theatricality often occurring in non-mimetic poetry. The performativity which is attested in many Greek poetic genres may be thus associated with this type of ‘ritual poetics’, especially as this has been explored and specified by Dimitrios Yatromanolakis and Panagiotis Roilos.10 Bion’s Epitaph on Adonis may subsequently be considered in terms of a deep system of cultural formation affected by ritual as well as of a system of generic interaction in the field of Greek poetry which was particularly felt in the Hellenistic period. The aim of this paper is to explore the Epitaph’s performativity and performance levels so as to shed light on the poem’s engagement with ritual not as a way of reflecting mythical narratives and ritual practices, but as a means of creating poetry and articulating poetic genre.

2. Performance Levels and Narrative The EpitaphonAdonis may include elements leading to a direct form of lamentation over the dead Adonis, such as the ritual cry αἰαῖ, the antiphonal element or motifs such as the comparison of life and death or past and present,11 but is being articulated, in fact, in the form of a more complex narrative combining a variety of narrative modes. These include third-person descriptive sections referring from a distance to characters or events, and sections betraying a certain degree of theatricality either on the part of the narrator, who gets involved in the action, or on the part of characters who act as if in short theatrical episodes. This theatricality entails a kind of performance based on enactment, either actual or imagined, before an audience, the construction of a fictitious world claiming through illusion to be a real one, and role-playing.12 The poem’s narrative is, according to Estevez, developed in three major tableaux: i) Aphrodite is being informed about the death of Adonis and runs to the mountains in order to find his body (1-39), ii) Aphrodite finds the body of her beloved and speaks over it until the moment his blood and her tears are shed on the ground and flowers grow (40-67), and iii) Adonis’ prothesis and funeral are being prepared, and he is being ritually lamented (68-98).13 This tripartite structure enables the development of narrative voices 10. For the concept of ‘ritual poetics’ and its various applications, see Yatromanolakis & Roilos (2003; 2004). 11. See Bion, E.A. 1-2, 5-6, 15, 28, 30-32, 37-38, 50-53, 62-63, 72-73, 86, 89-95, 93. 12. Cf. Albert (1988: 24); Balme (2008: 89-91). 13. For these tableaux, albeit slightly modified, see Estevez (1981: 37).

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which may vary from the impersonal narrator to the narrator who may be more clearly defined and involved in the action, as often happens with the narrative voices in Callimachus’ so-called ‘mimetic’ hymns.14 Moreover, the same structure enables the insertion of narrative sections in a poem exhibiting a clear preference for the dramatic representation, rather than the description, of action. As Annette Harder has shown with respect to Callimachus’ Hymns 2 (ToApollo), 5 (OntheBathofPallas) and 6 (To Demeter), even in these so-called ‘mimetic’ poems, which betray a strong sense of theatricality, one may detect diegetic elements or sections to such an extent that one may note a combination of diegetic and mimetic narration.15 This combination makes possible the articulation of various voices embedded in such narrations and the subsequent development of various degrees of performativity. The lament for Adonis is formulated within a more complex narrative with long diegetic parts which have a descriptive character and appear to be conveyed by a first-person narrator with limited or no direct involvement in the described action at least so far as these parts are concerned. Seen from this perspective, the narrator resembles a poet or a professional singer who performs a song relating to Adonis’ death. This first performance level appears to be developed in a way similar to that of a rhapsode and involves a speaker not very different from the Homeric primary narrator,16 who narrates a story with embedded speeches or invocations in direct speech. The poem’s metrical form as well as its affinities with similar narrative devices of Callimachus’ hymns and their apparent handling of the Homeric hymns17 would render that level of performance especially recognizable to audiences acquainted with the performance of hexameter poetry. The embodiment of laments in the Homeric narratives – most notably in the Iliad18 – would be an established precedent relating to the ways this first performance level embodies in its narrative the lament for Adonis and enables the poem’s secondary narrative voices and the other performance levels to be developed.19 Thus in this performance level the poem’s narrative ‘I’ narrates, as a speaker, a story or provides descriptions for a reader or an audience. The phrase αἰάζω τὸν Ἄδωνιν, 14. For such a use of narrative voices in Callim. H. 2 see Bing(1993: 182-194). For the mimetic character of these hymns, see Albert (1988: 15, 69-70). 15. Harder (1992: passim and esp. 385-386 for the differences between mimetic and diegetic modes). 16. See Richardson (1990); Goldhill (1991: 1-68); Calame (2005: 1-16) for the ‘I’ of the lyric poets; Morrison (2007: 45-49); Beck (2012: 25-53); Graziosi (2013: 9-38). 17. Cf. Bing (1993: 181-184). 18. Cf. Tsagalis (2004: 2-7, 17-20). 19. Cf. Goldhill (1986); de Jong (1987); Goldhill (1991: 225-283); de Jong (2001).

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which is repeated in 1, 6, 15 and 67 points with its first-person singular to the ‘I’ from which the narration stems and conveys briefly in a selfreferential manner the poem’s topic and focal point (Ἄδωνιν) as well as its tone and generic affinities with a lament (αἰάζω).20 The ensuing part of the narrative contains descriptions of images relating to Adonis as he lies on the mountains stricken by a boar (7-19), to Aphrodite running to the place where her beloved lies wounded (19-27) or kissing him for the last time and mourning over his body (40-66), and to Adonis’ funeral preparations as he lies on Aphrodite’s bed (79-96). This narrative is thus divided into sections which are related to the poem’s broad parts noted by Estevez, while it contains the laments of Aphrodite (42-61), the Erotes (80-86), Hymenaeus (89-90), the Graces (91-93) and the Fates (94-95). The speaker’s closing exhortation in 97-98 that Aphrodite should stop wailing as well as that she should cry again another year (λῆγε γόων, Κυθέρεια, τὸ σάμερον, ἴσχεο κομμῶν· / δεῖ σε πάλιν κλαῦσαι, πάλιν εἰς ἔτος ἄλλο δακρῦσαι) points metapoetically towards the mournful content of the poem as well as towards the annual character of the relevant lamentation,21 and hence towards a second performance level this time associated with the annual performance of a ritual lament during the festival of the Adonia. The speaker may thus be further specified as a woman participating in the evoked festivities, similar to the professional female singer who sings the hymn for Adonis during the festival of the Adonia described in Theocritus, Id. 15.22 In Theocritus’ text (Id. 15.100-144), which is nevertheless quite different from the Epitaph in the sense that it describes the rituals of the Adonia without confining itself to the conventions of a lament, that woman is described as an eminent singer who got a distinction in the same festival of the previous year.23 The closing remarks of Theocritus, Id. 15.143-144 (ἵλαος, ὦ φίλ᾽ Ἄδωνι, καὶ ἐς νέωτ˙ εὐθυμεύσαις / καὶ νῦν ἦνθες, Ἄδωνι, καί, ὅκκ’ ἀφίκῃ, φίλος ἡξεῖς) is an evocation of the annual character of the festival similar to E.A. 97-98. This may be suggestive of the affinities between the Epitaph and the song of Theocritus, Id. 15.100-144 in terms of an occasion for presentation, and the existence of a similar performance context for 20. The text of Bion used in this paper is that of Reed (1997). 21. The Adonia was most likely an annual festival. For the possibility that in Athens it was celebrated twice a year (in the spring as well as in the summer), see Atallah (1966: 255-258 and 229-258 for the probable dates of the Adonia in general). 22. The lamenter may well be a professional wailer who could have the status of an artist. See Holst-Warhaft (1992: 6-8). 23. Theocr. Id.15.96-98.

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Bion’s poem. Considering that, according to Theocritus’ embedded song, the ritual lamentation took place during the second day of the festival, it is reasonable to assume that a poem lamenting for Adonis like the Epitaph would be more appropriately presented on the second day of the Adonia.24 The same speaker, however, appears also to be involved as a fictional speaking character in the lamentation that is being referred to. Thus the speaker’s mournful utterances in direct speech in 1 (ἀπώλετο καλὸς Ἄδωνις) are complemented in 2 by similar utterances of the Erotes (ὤλετο καλὸς Ἄδωνις), who participate as characters in the lamentation and contribute in this way to the antiphonal form of the lament. This is stressed in 6 and 15: αἰάζω τὸν Ἄδωνιν· ἐπαιάζουσιν Ἔρωτες. Soon even more characters appear to interact with the speaker and take part in the act of lamentation. The personified mountains, the trees, the rivers, the springs, the flowers, Aphrodite, Echo, Hymenaeus, the Graces and the Fates are introduced in 28, 31-37, 80-86 and 89-95, and contribute to the performance of the lament either in the form of direct speech (e.g. the ἀπώλετο καλὸς Ἄδωνις uttered by Echo at 38) and mournful exclamations (e.g. the αἰαῖ αἰαῖ and τὸν Ἄδωνιν of Hymenaeus at 89-90) or through descriptions of acts of lamentation (e.g. the rivers weep, the springs shed tears and the flowers turn red from sorrow at 33-35). Aphrodite herself participates as another mourning character through her speech and acts in the performance of the lamentation in 19-27, 35-37 and 42-65. As the lamentation progresses, the speaker’s mournful utterances as well as the self-conscious reference to the act of lamentation of 1 (αἰάζω τὸν Ἄδωνιν, “ἀπώλετο καλὸς Ἄδωνις”) is being repeated in 67. This repetition reminds the Epitaph’s addressees of the speaker’s theatrical presence and enhances the poem’s emotional impact as often happens with laments in literary and non-literary contexts. The speaker’s emergence in the form of a character in a performance context is also made clear through the direct addresses to – and interaction with – other characters in the fictional setting of the lamentation, which reconstructs a theatrical world dominated by dramatic illusion. Thus the speaker addresses Aphrodite in 3-5 calling her δειλαία and κυανόστολε, and urging her with second-person imperatives (e.g. ἔγρεο, πλατάγησον) to wake up, beat her breast and mourn for Adonis. Towards the end of the poem the speaker addresses again the goddess asking her, using once more mostly second-person imperatives (e.g. κάτθεο, πρόθες, βάλλε), 24. Cf. Wilamowitz (1900: 10-12); Fantuzzi (1985: 159-160); Hopkinson (1988: 218); Alexiou (2002: 56); Reed (1997: 15-26).

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to lay Adonis’ body on her golden bed (70-74), strew him with garlands and flowers (75), sprinkle him with Syrian unguents and perfumes (77),25 and eventually stop mourning for him as there will be time for mourning again the following year (97-98). These imperatives affect the development of the action and therefore function within the boundaries of what Austin defines as ‘performative utterances’.26 In this way the speaker appears to direct the performance of acts which may be later described, but are thus embedded in this performance level. Aphrodite appears also as a focal point of the Erotes’ lament in 28, 63 and 86. Those addresses, along with the overall presentation of the speaker as a character mingling with the fictional characters of the poem and participating in the action it conveys, set its mimetic tone27 and subsequently create a third performance level. In this way the speaker may be identified as a relative, a close friend, a priest or a professional wailer. Considering that in social contexts ritual lamentation was performed by women and that the laments they uttered often contained exclamations and second-person addresses denoting their emotional involvement, as happens in the Epitaph, it would not be unreasonable to think that speaker as a mourning woman who has witnessed Adonis’ death and participates in the subsequent lamentation.28 As Neil Hopkinson points out with respect to this aspect of the poem’s speaker, “detached reflection is replaced by mimetic realism”.29 Although the speaker of the Epitaph appears to have multiple roles enabling her to act as a detached observer, a professional singer who presents the poem before an audience and a character involved in the poem’s action, there are more autonomous narrative parts of the poem which, compared to the mimetic tone adopted by the speaker, appear to have a diegetic character. Yet if these parts are considered separately, they turn out to be developed as short scenes embedded in a wider narrative.30 The speaker is still involved as a character in the described action mainly through her addresses to the characters that are being 25. The speaker addresses in 78 Aphrodite also in second-person singular saying that Adonis, described metaphorically as her own perfume, has perished: τὸ σὸν μύρον ὤλετ’ Ἄδωνις. 26. Austin (1962). 27. Cf. Harder (1992: 386). 28. See Hopkinson (1988: 218); Holst-Warhaft (1992: 1-3, 20-27, 29-35); Manakidou (1996: 32-33); Reed (1997: 15-17 with n. 32); Alexiou (2002: 10-14, 102-103); Stears (2008: 139-155); Cusset (this volume). 29. Hopkinson (1988: 218). 30. Cf. Fantuzzi (1985: 157-160), who considers the poem’s structure in terms of the structure of tragedy, as this was developed in Hellenistic times, as well as in terms of tragic patterns of thought and action.

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referred to, but her presence is very limited as the focus is transferred to other characters who construct these scenes as short theatrical sketches on a fourth performance level. The theatricality, which according to Wilamowitz must have accompanied the potential presentation of the Epitaph by a narrator before an audience on another performance level,31 is being expanded and becomes part of the theatricality of the scenes narrated by the speaker, who gets integrated in the described scenes through her addresses to the poem’s characters carrying with her the poem’s addressees.32 It is important to note that those scenes are rendered through her eyes and voice, and this explains a female perspective in terms of vision and narrative, which runs through the Epitaph and is related to its highly emotional overtones and its focus on male beauty, desire, sorrow, female grief and mourning. Bearing in mind that, according to Butler, the notion of gender is constituted by the notion of genderrelated role materialized through performance, this type of presentation may be seen as a series of gendered and repeated performative acts.33 The lens of the speaker’s vision and narrative creates a vivid imagery with an emphasis on visual detail which is certainly not alien to the great number of representations of Adonis’ myth in works of the visual arts.34 It is nevertheless an imagery which, far from being detached and static, creates an illusory atmosphere before an audience and includes elements such as plot, action, characters, role-playing, enactment, speech, silence, dramatic deixis, postures, movements, gestures, general appearance, scenery, costumes, time and space. These elements create a unique sense of theatricality and hence this new performance level emerging from the short scenes they create.35 The first of these scenes in 7-39 is in terms of plot and action focused on the fatally wounded Adonis and Aphrodite’s subsequent reaction as she runs to the mountains to find him. The presentation of these two main characters is marked by a series of antithetical pairings of stillness and movement, silence and speech, death and life, mortality and immor31. Wilamowitz (1900: 10-12). 32. For this intrinsically Hellenistic technique of integrating the reader or the viewer in the image created by a work of art, see Zanker (2004: 103-122). 33. Butler (1990: 140). For the relation between female performance and gender identity with respect to Greek poetry, see Stehle (1997: 71-167). 34. Cf. LIMC I.222-229, II.160-170; Wilamowitz (1900: 11-16); Hopkinson (1988: 218); Manakidou (1994: 105-110); Fountoulakis (2004: 110). 35. Cf. Fountoulakis (2004: 110). For the differences between narrative and dramatic speech, see Pfister (1988: 2-6). For the contribution of all those elements to the construction of theatrical codes and systems of communication, see Elam (1980: 49-87, 98-134, 137-184); Pfister (1988: 103-294). For the notions of ‘theatricality’ and ‘performance’, see the useful survey of Balme (2008: 89-95).

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tality, destruction and beauty, sorrow and erotic pleasure or physical and emotional pain. These are conveyed through those characters’ speech and silence as well as through their postures, movements, gestures and costumes. As would have happened in the on-stage action of tragedy, the scene of Adonis’ violent wounding is not presented. Only his wounded body appears in a scene which recalls the closing scene of Euripides’ Hippolytus. Adonis’ silence signifies the death surrounding his body as he breathes his last (λεπτὸν ἀποψύχων in 9). Aphrodite’s distress and intense sorrow is reflected in the fact that she wails shrilly (ὀξὺ δὲ κωκύοισα in 23), cries the Assyrian cry (Ἀσσύριον βοόωσα in 24)36 and calls loudly Adonis as a husband and boy (πόσιν καὶ παῖδα καλεῦσα in 24). Her cries soon develop into a lament. Taking up the mournful refrains that have been already uttered by the speaker, the Erotes and the personified natural surroundings, she sings (ἀείδει in 36) for herself in a self-apostrophe37 as well as for Adonis (“αἰαῖ τὰν Κυθέρειαν· ἀπώλετο καλὸς Ἄδωνις” in 37).38 Adonis’ imminent death is also signified by his lack of motion (κεῖται in 7). By contrast, Aphrodite runs through the woods (ἀνὰ δρυμὼς ἀλάληται in 20) cutting herself as she passes without sandals through the thorns (ἀσάνδαλος, αἱ δὲ βάτοι νιν / ἐρχομέναν κείροντι καὶ ἱερὸν αἷμα δρέπονται in 21-22), and beats her chest with her hands (στήθεα δ’ ἐκ χειρῶν φοινίσσετο, τοὶ δ’ ὑπὸ μαζοί / χιόνεοι τὸ πάροιθεν Ἀδώνιδι πορφύροντο in 26-27). Her movements and gestures suggest her distress and intense sorrow as well as the fact that she is alive. In addition to the redness of her beaten chest, which might have been bleeding due to that beating, her appearance is also marked by her hair which is let down (λυσαμένα πλοκαμῖδας in 20) as well as by her dark robe which floats at her navel (ἀμφὶ δέ νιν μέλαν εἷμα παρ’ ὀμφαλὸν ᾀωρεῖτο in 25). Both her hair and robe indicate her mourning and provide her presence with dramatic manifesta36. This is related to Oriental elements pertaining to the rituals of the Adonia, such as the wailing of the participating women, as well as to the fact that the barbarians were often thought to show little self-restraint and proceed to intense manifestations of their emotions. See Reed (1997: 208). 37. Interjections of this kind and references to the suffering of those who have lost a beloved person are found in Homer (e.g. Il. 18.54) and, most commonly, in tragedy (e.g. A. Pers. 928, E. Hipp. 813, Andr. 1205-1207, 1216, Pho. 1345-1346). See Kornarou (2001: 87-93, 95-97). 38. The speaker of this line is specified in 35 as ἁ δὲ Κυθήρα. Despite commentators such as Wilamowitz and Hopkinson (ad loc.), who think that the Κυθήρα may refer to the island of Cythera, which may be thus the place where Adonis’ death is supposed to take place in Bion’s poem, or a local Cytherean nymph, it is likely that the Κυθήρα forms a variant of Aphrodite’s cultic epithet Κυθέρεια or Κυθήρεια. So Huxley (1967: 89-90); Fantuzzi (1985: 69-70); Reed (1997: 217).

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tions of her emotional state. Her renowned beauty is supposed to have gone away together with the dying Adonis (Κύπριδι μὲν καλὸν εἶδος ὅτε ζώεσκεν Ἄδωνις, / κάτθανε δ’ ἁ μορφὰ σὺν Ἀδώνιδι in 30-31). The appearance of Adonis, on the other hand, conveys in a similarly theatrical manner the sense of violent death that has taken away his life and youthful beauty. In addition to his silence and stillness that have been noted so far, his flesh is described as white (μηρὸν … λευκόν in 7-8 and χιονέας … σαρκός in 10) and this is an indication of his beauty and youth as well as of a bloodless dead body. Handsome young men are very often praised for being white in pederastic contexts and this betrays a homoerotic perception of Adonis, who appears as a tender and vulnerable young erômenos not of an adult male, but of a goddess: an even more powerful lover than a male erastês.39 The focus on his beauty may be seen as an indication of the speaker’s female gaze and her gendered reaction to his beauty as well as to his death. At the same time, a bleeding or a dead body loses its redness and becomes white, and this is supposed to be suggestive of imminent death. The references to his eyes that close under his brows or to the rose that leaves his lip in 10-11 have similar connotations.40 The whiteness of Adonis’ flesh is also contrasted with the darkness of the blood that covers it (τὸ δέ οἱ μέλαν εἴβεται αἷμα in 9), which along with the reference to his savage wound on his thigh (ἄγριον ἄγριον ἕλκος in 16)41 becomes a visual indication of the violence that has taken away his life.42 Adonis’ hunting dogs that hurl around his body enhance the dramatic tension of the scene. Although the dramatic time is not explicitly noted, the emphasis which in the text is placed on the depiction of colour, and the fact that in the relevant myth Adonis was killed while hunting imply that it is daytime. The dramatic space is specified as the mountains where Adonis lies stricken by a boar in 7, 34 (ἐν ὤρεσι) and 32 (ὤρεα). The scene may subsequently be in terms of time and space divided in two parts. The first one is centred on Adonis as he lies wounded on the ground (7-19), while the second one on Aphrodite as she rushes to her dying lover (19-39). The space of the first one is the exact place where Adonis lies and that of the second one includes also Aphrodite’s itinerary up to that place. As regards the scene’s time-scale, the second one comes after the first. The scenery is supposed to include, in addition to the wider space of the 39. See Dover (1978: 79-80, 172); Reed (1995: 343); Fountoulakis (2004: 111). 40. See Fountoulakis (2004: 111-112). 41. The actual wound of Adonis in 16 is metaphorically mirrored in the emotional wound in Aphrodite’s heart in 17. 42. See Fountoulakis (2004: 113).

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mountains, small valleys (ἄγκεα in 23), woods (ἀνὰ δρυμώς in 20, δρύες in 32), bushes with thorns (βάτοι in 21), rivers (ποταμοί in 33), springs (παγαί in 34) and flowers (ἄνθεα in 35). These elements are not only parts of the scenery. They are also personified in a scene of ‘pathetic fallacy’, in which nature participates in the lament. Thus the central characters of Aphrodite and Adonis appear to be surrounded by secondary characters such as the speaker (15), the Erotes (15, 28), the mountain nymphs (19), Echo (38) and the personified mountains (32), trees (32), rivers (32), springs (34) and flowers (35). These minor characters sing parts of the mournful song such as the refrain αἰαῖ τὰν Κυθέρειαν or ἀπώλετο καλὸς Ἄδωνις, assuming thus a role similar to that of a Chorus of a tragic performance. The second scene appears in 40-66 and is centred on Aphrodite weeping and mourning over Adonis’ body in a way resembling the medieval StabatMater. What nevertheless stands out in the scene is a mixture of suffering and desire. The intra-diegetic gaze of Aphrodite directs the reader’s or the listener’s imaginary gaze to the wound and blood of Adonis, which are visually perceived by Aphrodite.43 The emphasis on the distinction between viewer and viewed, as well as on the act of viewing point in a metatheatrical manner to the theatricality of the scene. The main characters as well as the time and space of the previous scene remain the same. With the exception of the Erotes in 62-63, there is no reference to the previous scene’s secondary characters. The contrast between silence and speech in the previous scene is also present in this one. The dying Adonis remains silent, whereas Aphrodite in a long monologue laments for her young lover addressing him in a way that shows both her desire and grief. The distress that pervades her words in 42-61 is also expressed by her gesticulation (πάχεας ἀμπετάσασα in 42). Aphrodite’s monologue is quoted in direct speech. Like a dramatic character, she refers to herself in first-person singular (e.g. ἐμμὶ δ’ ἐγὼ πανάποτμος, ἔχω δ’ ἀκόρεστον ἀνίαν in 56) as well as in third-person singular (e.g. χήρα δ’ ἁ Κυθέρεια in 59), while she addresses Adonis using second-person singular (e.g. φεύγεις μακρόν, Ἄδωνι, καὶ ἔρχεαι εἰς Ἀχέροντα in 51), imperatives (e.g. μεῖνον in 42 and 43, ἔγρεο in 45 or φίλασον in 46), and vocatives (e.g. δύσποτμε in 43 and δύσμορε in 50). It is only when she addresses Persephone, who is nevertheless not present, in second-person singular that she refers to Adonis in third-person singular (λάμβανε, Περσεφόνα, τὸν ἐμὸν πόσιν in 54). 43. Note the ὡς ἴδεν, ὡς ἐνόησεν in 40 and the ὡς ἴδε in 41 with respect to Aphrodite’s perception of Adonis’ wound and blood respectively.

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These features of Aphrodite’s speech create a kind of dramatic illusion constructed by the uninterrupted direct contact between the dramatic characters, while they constitute addresses to the dead and the mourning living, which are often found in ritual lamentation. As normally happens in Greek drama, the dramatic speech often reflects non-verbal action.44 Thus Aphrodite describes in 44-50 the last kiss she gives to her dying lover. The mimetic action of the scene is being succeeded by the diegetic narration of its closing part, in which Adonis’ blood gives birth to the rose as it is shed on the ground, while Aphrodite’s tears to the anemone (65-66). The third scene, occurring in 79-96, is marked by a change of scenery and focuses on the preparations for Adonis’ prothesis and funeral. The scene is temporally placed immediately after the previous scenes which are situated on the mountains. The young man’s body has now been placed on Aphrodite’s bed, which had earlier been described as all-golden (παγχρύσῳ κλιντῆρι in 74), and lies on soft purple sheets (μαλακοῖς … φάρεσι in 72 and εἵμασι πορφυρέοισιν in 79) sprinkled with Syrian unguents and perfumes, and covered with garlands and flowers, as may be inferred from the speaker’s earlier exhortations (βάλλε δέ νιν στεφάνοισι καὶ ἄνθεσι in 75 and ῥαῖνε δέ νιν Συρίοισιν ἀλείφασι, ῥαῖνε μύροισιν in 77). The observation made earlier (70-75), that it was on the same bed with the same luxurious sheets that Adonis used to make love with Aphrodite, brings to the foreground significant elements of the lamentation such as the contrasts made between life, beauty, pleasure and desire, on the one hand, and death, on the other. The descriptions of Adonis as καλός (71) and at the same time as νεκρός (70), νέκυς (71 [twice]) and στυγνός (74) underline these contrasts. His deadly stillness and silence is being contrasted with the action and speech of the other characters of the scene. The Erotes weep, groan and cut their hair, throw arrows, bows, and quivers, undo Adonis’ sandals, bring water in a golden bowl, wash his thighs and fan him with their wings (80-85) crying once again αἰαῖ τὰν Κυθέρειαν (86). Hymenaeus has put out every torch and thrown away the nuptial garland. He also participates together with the Graces, the Fates and Aphrodite herself45 in the act of lamentation, which 44. See Taplin (1977: 28-39). 45. Aphrodite is addressed in 93 in second-person singular as Dione by the speaker, who must also participate in the lamentation. It is hard to think that it is not Aphrodite, but Aphrodite’s mother who takes part in the lamentation, especially when in 97 the speaker urges explicitly Aphrodite (Κυθέρεια) to stop wailing. The use of the name of Dione instead of Aphrodite occurs also in Theocr. Id. 7.116; Verg. Ecl. 9.47; Ovid, A.A. 2.593, 3.3. For further references, see Gow (1952: II, 160); Fantuzzi (1985: 130-131); Reed (1997: 248).

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takes place around Adonis’ corpse with phrases such as αἰαῖ αἰαῖ and τὸν Ἄδωνιν in 89-90 or ὤλετο καλὸς Ἄδωνις in 92, and incantations. Despite the diegetic mode in which most of these details are conveyed, their theatricality contributes to the development of a performance level similar to that of the two previous scenes.

3. Performing Ritual As the Proboulos in Aristophanes, Lys. 387-398 wonders about the meaning of the women’s occupation of the Acropolis, he says that this occupation reminds him of the rituals of the Adonia. During those rituals the Athenian women used to climb on the roofs of their houses making noise and crying for Adonis. They sang invoking the dead and beat themselves for the sake of Adonis (393 and 396). At the same time, their action involved also dancing (392), drunkenness (395) and a certain licentiousness peculiar to their sex (398). About a century later, in Menander, Sam. 39-50 a young man named Moschion confesses that one night, as he was coming home, he found his father’s Samian concubine celebrating the Adonia with other women. At some point, they climbed on the roof of the house carrying with them little pots with vegetation (45). As is mentioned also in the Lysistrata, the women of the Samia made noise (44), danced (46) and enjoyed themselves in a licentious manner (46) to such an extent that a young girl named Plangon eventually got pregnant during that night by Moschion (47-49).46 The Adonia organized by Queen Arsinoe II in Theocritus, Id. 15 forms an equally festive occasion even though the celebrations are not private, but part of a royal public festival. Gorgo and Praxinoa refer to a beautiful tapestry representing Adonis, but it is in fact in the song of ‘the Argive woman’s daughter’ (97) that the festival is being described (100-144): the festivities are supposed to last two days, an effigy of Adonis is placed among pots of vegetation, and rich ornaments and offerings appear in a representation of Aphrodite’s bed chamber, where the two lovers are expected to consummate their loving relationship. The following day the women participating in the festival start lamenting for Adonis and lead his effigy to the sea. Eroticism and lamentation appear now as the chief features of the festival. In Dioscorides, A.P. 5.193 the speaker appears captivated by Cleo as she beats her breasts one night during the Adonia. This suggests that eroti46. For the Adonia as a festival during which a man could get in touch with women, see Ovid, A.A. 1.75.

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cism was present at the festival even in moments of extreme mourning.47 Although it is possible that the song of Id. 15 is not a fictional reconstruction, but reflects actual practice, it is worth noting that it was a practice developed within the royal court of Alexandria. One may detect in it elements pertinent to the Egyptian cult of Osiris or Oriental cultic elements associated with the cult of the Mesopotamian god Tammuz, upon which Adonis’ myth and cult were in any case patterned. Theocritus’ account may as a result reflect a syncretism closely related to the concerns of the festival’s Ptolemaic context.48 Although it becomes clear that the wives and daughters of Athenian citizens participated in the festival as it is described by Aristophanes and Menander, the Adonia must have encouraged a kind of sexual license which attracted also many hetaerae.49 In Alciphron 4.14.8 Granholm a hetaera is invited to the house of another hetaera’s lover so as to celebrate the Adonia. She is asked to bring with her a pot with vegetation, an effigy and her lover, who is significantly enough called Adonis. The woman whose lover will host the event will provide a representation of Adonis most probably in the context of a ritual, mimic or pantomimic performance,50 while they are all eventually going to enjoy themselves together with their lovers. Considering the affinities between Alciphron and earlier comedy as well as the popularity of Adonis’ myth among the Greek comic poets,51 it would not be unreasonable to assume that the sexual colouring of the Adonia may well be a comic exaggeration relating to the mythological love of Adonis and Aphrodite, the importance of that love with respect to Aphrodite’s intense sorrow and its subsequent exploitation in the field of ritual with respect to enactments pertaining to laments for the youth’s death.

47. Cf. Burton (1995: 88-89). 48. Cf. Hunter (1996: 123-138); Reed (2000). 49. It would be erroneous, however, to go as far as Detienne who argues that the festival was celebrated mainly by hetaerae. See Detienne (1977: 64-67). For criticisms see Winkler (1990: 199-202). 50. Considering the fact that the invitation has to do with a private banquet during which they will have fun with their lovers as much as they will celebrate the Adonia, it would not be surprising if the representation relating to Adonis was similar to the explicitly sexual pantomimic representations of the love of Dionysus and Aphrodite in Xenophon, Symp. 9.3-7 or of the adultery committed by Aphrodite and Ares in Lucian, Salt. 63. See Fountoulakis (2000: 142-143). For the movements as a vehicle of meaning in ancient pantomime performances, see Lada-Richards (2007: 38-55). 51. In addition to Aristophanes and Menander, references to Adonis or the Adonia must have been made from the fifth century onwards in comedies by Pherecrates, Cratinus, Plato, Nicophon, Philetairus, Antiphanes, Eubulus, Diphilus, Araros, Philiscus and Philippides. See Atallah (1966: 98-104).

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Even though the Adonia included mostly private festivities and were not celebrated in exactly the same way in every part of the Greek world from the classical period until later times, central element of Adonis’ cult must have been the ritual lament for the premature death of the youth and the abrupt ending that was put to his love affair with Aphrodite before an effigy of Adonis and small terracotta or silver vessels planted with vegetation. According to Hesychius, engagement with the rituals of the Adonia meant primarily to mourn for Adonis: ἀδωνιασμός· ὁ ἐπὶ τῷ Ἀδώνιδι θρῆνος.52 Similarly, the Suda specifies what is implied by Adonis’ name as a kind of sacred grief (πένθος … ἱερόν).53 In another entry Hesychius mentions that those who took part in the Adonia brought with them effigies or images (εἴδωλα) most probably of Adonis or of Adonis and Aphrodite as well as terracotta vessels, while they placed in those vessels little gardens with various types of vegetation, such as fennel and lettuce, in imitation of Aphrodite who was said to have placed the corpse of Adonis in lettuce: ἐν τοῖς Ἀδωνίοις εἴδωλα ἐξάγουσιν καὶ κήπους ἐπ’ ὀστράκων καὶ παντοδαπὴν ὀπώραν, οἷον ἐκ μαράθρων καὶ θριδάκων παρασκευάζουσιν αὐτῷ τοὺς κήπους· καὶ γὰρ ἐν θριδακίναις αὐτὸν κατακλινθῆναι ὑπὸ Ἀφροδίτης φασίν.54 Zenobius 1.49 notes that at the end of the Adonia the gardens were thrown into springs. Plutarch, Alcib. 18.2-3 confirms the mournful character of the festival and notes that during the Adonia the women exposed effigies of Adonis which were later carried to burial as if those effigies were actual dead people. The women imitated burial rites, beat their breasts and sang dirges: Ἀδωνίων γὰρ εἰς τὰς ἡμέρας ἐκείνας καθηκόντων, εἴδωλά τε πολλαχοῦ νεκροῖς ἐκκομιζομένοις ὅμοια προὔκειντο ταῖς γυναιξί, καὶ ταφὰς ἐμιμοῦντο κοπτόμεναι καὶ θρήνους ᾖδον. It appears that the performance of ritual involved a quasi-theatrical mimêsis of action pertaining to actual burial practice. Considering the information provided by Aristophanes, Menander and Theocritus as well as by these later sources, one might subsequently visualize the rituals of the Adonia as a celebration of Adonis’ arrival and the consummation of his love with Aphrodite, which was succeeded by the enactment of a mock funeral and the performance of ritual lamentation by women before the effigy or the image of Adonis and his gardens. Such a representation of the dead Adonis among the vegetation of his gardens would resemble the representation of the dead Jesus among the 52. Hesychius, s.v. ἀδωνιασμός. 53. Suda, s.v. Ἄδωνις. 54. Hesychius, s.v. Ἀδώνιδος κῆποι.

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funeral constructions decorated with flowers known as epitaphioi, which in later times are included in the Good Friday rituals of the Greek Orthodox Church, while the laments of those participating in the Adonia might be paralleled to the encomia sung for the dead Jesus. The references to the Adonia in various literary and non-literary texts contribute to such a picture of the festivities. Women crying in a ritual manner for Adonis are attested in Sappho, fr. 168 L.-P (ὦ τὸν Ἄδωνιν) and Aristophanes, Lys. 393 (αἰαῖ Ἄδωνιν), while in Sappho, fr. 140A L.-P. mourning women or nymphs address Aphrodite saying that Adonis is dying and the goddess in reply asks them – or they ask themselves – to beat their breasts and tear their garments apart (κατθνασκει, Κυθέρη’, ἄβρος Ἄδωνις· τί κε θεῖμεν; / καττύπτεσθε, κόραι, καὶ κατερείκεσθε κίθωνας). A similar ritual beating is witnessed in Aristophanes, Lys. 396 (κόπτεσθ’ Ἄδωνιν). In Menander, Sam. 45 it is said that the women took the little gardens to the roof of the house (ἐπὶ] τὸ τέγος κήπους γὰρ ἀνέφερόν τινας). In Theocritus’ account of the Adonia in Id. 15, Praxinoa refers to the depiction of Adonis lying dead on a silver couch in a realistically designed representation on a tapestry.55 The eroticized description of his youthful beauty, which is rendered as that of an erômenos in a pederastic affair, derives from her gendered gaze, as happens with the relevant descriptions of Adonis and the speaker’s female gaze in the Epitaph.56 Later on, the professional singer who sings for Adonis refers to his gardens (ἁπαλοὶ κᾶποι πεφυλαγμένοι ἐν ταλαρίσκοις / ἀργυρέοις in 113-114) as well as to ornaments and offerings provided by Arsinoe to the effigy of Adonis. This is supposed to be placed on a bed next to the effigy of Aphrodite until the following day, when the women will take Adonis’ effigy to the sea57 and start their lament having their hair let down, their breasts naked and their garments waving (109-135). The transition attested in these authors from the eroticism and the joy of the festivity to the intense grief for the dying youth reflected his mythical untimely death and rebirth, whose symbolic function pointed to the annual death and rebirth of nature.58 If the glimpses of the Adonia provided by Aristophanes, Theocritus and Plutarch indeed echo actual ritual practice, it is reasonable to suppose 55. Theocr. Id. 15.80-86. 56. Cf. Burton (1995: 85-89). 57. Bearing in mind that in other references to the festival Adonis’ effigy is not carried to the sea (with the exception of Zenobius 1.49, who notes that it was thrown into springs), it appears that this element is due to the syncretism of the Alexandrian festival and its associations with the cult of Osiris. See Reed (1997: 19-20; 2000: 324-328). 58. Cf. Atallah (1966: 320-324); Burkert (1979: 105-111); Fantuzzi (1985: 159-160); Alexiou (2002: 56-57).

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that the women’s lamentation on the second day of the festival was related to death rituals occurring in social contexts. Although from the sixth century B.C. onwards in places such as Athens, Sparta or Ioulis on Keos excessive lamentation, aggression, self-wounding, expenditure and extensive participation of women in funerals were eliminated or even prohibited by legislations attributed to Solon or Lycourgos and attested in a variety of evidence,59 death rituals known from the Homeric poems found their way into practices of later eras and provided contexts for lamentation. After a person’s death the relatives washed, anointed with perfume and dressed the corpse, which was subsequently placed on the bedclothes of a funeral bed with garlands of flowers, celery or bay leaves. This display of the dead person, which is known as prothesis, was not public, but took place inside the house of the deceased after restrictions imposed by law. The prothesis lasted about a day until the ekphora, the ritual procession, during which the dead person was carried to the grave.60 At the stage of the prothesis the female relatives and perhaps some professional wailers stood around the funeral bed and started the ritual lamentation. They could touch the head or the chest of the dead, while they started wailing and lamenting, beating their heads and breasts, and tearing their hair, faces and clothes. Quite often there was a chief mourner starting the lament, while the other women lamented in reply articulating thus a song marked by collectivity and antiphony. Their song often included refrains, exclamations, interjections and repetitions, while one could detect in it the use of asyndeton, polyptoton, anaphora and chiasmus. It also included addresses to the dead, self-addresses, invocations, imperatives, wishes and questions. A series of antitheses such as that between life and death, living and dead, light and darkness, or past and present often permeated the lament. The dead person was praised and, if he or she was young, particular reference was made to his or her youth. A conflation of marriage and funeral ritual occurred when the dead person was unmarried. In such a case he or she appeared as the groom or the bride of Persephone or Hades respectively. Nature was often thought to participate in mourning. The women’s gesticulation of intense grief and distress was often developed into more conventional ritual movements associated with lamentation such as the raising of the hands. This public display of sorrow was, in fact, materialized through a performance 59. For Solon and Athens, see Plut. Sol. 21; [Dem.] 43.62; Cic. DeLeg. 2.59-66. For Lycourgos and Sparta, see Plut. Lyc.27, Mor. 238d. For Ioulis, see Sokolowski (1969: 188-191, no. 97). Cf. Holst-Warhaft (1992: 114-119); Seaford (1994: 74-86); Alexiou (2002: 14-23); Sourvinou-Inwood (2004: 164-167). 60. See [Dem.] 43.62.

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including performers, viewers, scenery, gestures, movements, cries, monologue, dialogue and song. Although lamentation was most probably prohibited during the ekphora, it was allowed again during the burial of the dead together with sacrifices, offerings of locks of hair, wine or food.61 The women’s lamentation during the Adonia would accordingly be placed not around a dead person, but around visual representations of Adonis in imitation of the conventions developed in death ritual. The rituals of the Adonia were thus developed on multiple performance levels. According to the evidence mentioned so far, the first performance level included the women who took part in the festival exhibiting their joy for the advent of Adonis from Hades and the flourishing of his love affair with Aphrodite. The same women acted subsequently on the same level as if they were relatives or friends of the dying youth and mourned for him. The second performance level included the performance of a song in the form of a hymn or an encomium for the dead or even a dirge sung either by one, some or even all of the participants or by a professional singer. The song might have been a lament, a description of the rituals of the Adonia or a rendering of various aspects of his myth. The third performance level entailed representations relating to the myth of Adonis such as his love affair with Aphrodite, his last moments, his death and his funeral. The effigy or the picture of Adonis along with his gardens were the points around which such representations could evolve. Patterns of thought and action pertinent to Adonis’ myth could be materialized in the form of specific narratives and rituals through successive performances on these performance levels. And it is important to note the striking analogies between the performance levels of the Adonia and those attested in Bion’s poem, where one may detect a detached performance by an impersonal narrator or a professional singer, the performance of a fictional character involved in the poem’s action, and the development of separate performances relating to episodes from Adonis’ myth. One should expect that the lamentation for Adonis at his festival would be inspired by his myth and be focused on his love affair with Aphrodite as well as on his untimely violent death. The beauty of the youth which withered away before its maturity, the brevity of his life, and the abrupt end that was put to his brief, albeit intense, love affair with Aphrodite must have been central points of the lamentation deriving also from the ritual significance of his gardens. Plato notes that the vegetation of those gardens

61. See Reiner (1938: 61-67); Holst-Warhaft (1992: 103-119); Seaford (1994: 86-92); Sourvinou-Inwood (1995: 369-376); Alexiou (2002: 4-13, 102-103, 131-203 and passim); Petropoulos (2003: 64-66); Sourvinou-Inwood (2004: 164-181).

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grew only for eight days,62 while later authors mention proverbial references to the gardens of Adonis as suggestive of things that are superficial and without roots, and die prematurely without being capable of producing anything worthwhile.63 Youth, beauty, joy and eroticism, on the one hand, and grief, violence, destruction and death, on the other, formed polar opposites emerging from Adonis’ myth and cult, and encapsulated in the fast growing vegetation of his gardens and its premature destruction.64

4. Performances and Genre Bearing in mind the affinities between Bion’s Epitaph on Adonis and the festival of the Adonia, it is tempting to consider the poem as a literary equivalent of the song of Theocritus, Id. 15.100-144, which was performed during that festival. As has already been noted, Bion’s poem might well have been presented on a similar occasion even though it might also have been only a literary imitation of a cult song intended for reading or recitation far beyond Adonis’ festivals. Yet closer inspection reveals that the two texts are very different from each-other in terms of their contents and construction. Despite the singer’s addresses to Aphrodite and Adonis in Id. 15.100-101, 106, 136-137 and 143-144, and her reference to their erotic relationship in Id. 15.127-131, which set the tone of a cult song, her reference to Arsinoe in Id. 15.111 and the way the latter had organized the Adonia renders the song a description of the royal festival.65 This description is very different from the fictitious reconstruction of aspects of Adonis’ myth in the form of a lament, which occurs in Bion’s poem.66 62. Pl. Phaedr. 276b. 63. See Suda, s.v. Ἀδώνιδος κῆποι and Ἀδώνιδος κῆπος; Zenobius 1.46; Diogenianus 1.14; Julian Apost. Symp. 329c-d. 64. Cf. Atallah (1966: 211-228); Detienne (1977: 101-122); Burkert (1979: 107); Winkler (1990: 189-193); Reed (1995: 319, 323-328). 65. Reed (2000: 320) rightly observes that Theocr. Id. 15 is “a royal encomium”. See also Hunter (1996: 128). As if the song of Id. 15.100-144 was intended for the praise of Arsinoe, the singer refers to the deification of Berenike, Arsinoe’s mother, by Aphrodite (Id. 15.106-108), and the lavish decoration of Adonis’ representation by Arsinoe (Id. 15.109-111) with the ample use of the gardens of Adonis in silver vessels as well as with vegetation, fruits, sweets, representations of the Erotes and Ganymede, bottles of perfume, various ornaments made of ebony, gold and ivory or soft carpets (Id. 15.112-127). The singer also says that the following morning the women participating in the festival will lead Adonis’ effigy to the sea and will start mourning for him (Id. 15.132-135). Bion’s poem would stand closer to the λιγυρᾶς … ἀοιδᾶς (Id. 15.135) of the women’s lamentation on the following day. 66. Gow (1938: 202) notes that the Argive woman’s song “is a mediocre piece … its insistence on the riches and splendour of the display is not devoid of vulgarity and the

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Considering the thematic and stylistic orientation of the Epitaph on Adonis towards the traditional themes and style of Greek laments, the poem might be seen as a literary dirge.67 The poem’s speaker may accordingly be regarded as a chief mourner joined in the performance of lamentation by other mourners such as the Erotes, Hymenaeus, the Graces and the Fates. As happened in social contexts, lamentation starts with the announcement of death and culminates with the preparation for the dead person’s funeral and his prothesis towards the end of the poem. Its refrain ἀπώλετο καλὸς Ἄδωνις and ὤλετο καλὸς Ἄδωνις repeated in 1, 2, 5, 37, 38, 63, 67 and 92 as well as the exclamatory phrases αἰαῖ τὰν Κυθέρειαν, τὰν Κύπριν αἰαῖ or αἲ τὸν Ἄδωνιν in 28, 31, 37, 63, 86, 89-90 and 93, which appear as secondary refrains, function like the refrains occurring in real laments and containing invocations of the dead and their living close relatives, and interjections. The fact that they are uttered not only by the speaker, but also by other characters participating in the lament is suggestive of a sense of collectivity as well as of its antiphonal structure. The embedding of Aphrodite’s own lament in 42-61 may be seen as an elaboration of the lamentations of all those participating in the lament by a character who is more profoundly affected by Adonis’ death. It may also be seen as a mirroring of the entire poem pointing to its generic identity. Aphrodite’s presentation beating her breast, wailing and having let her hair down, carelessly dressed and without sandals points to the physical movements and appearance of women in actual lamentation. The use of second-person addresses found in real laments is attested in the speaker’s addresses to Aphrodite in 3-5, 68-79 and 97-98 as well as in Aphrodite’s addresses to Adonis in 42-61. The typically expected praise of the dead of real laments is found in the focusing on Adonis’ beauty and youth as emerging from the repeated description of Adonis as καλόςin 1, 2, 7, 29-30, 37-38, 55, 61, 71 and 92 as well as in the reference to his white flesh in 7-8, which may be taken as an indication of youthful beauty. Hymenaeus’ replacement of a nuptial song by a lament in 88-90 complies with the conventional in cases of lamentations for young people’s deaths reference to the replacement of catalogue of heroes who do not share Adonis’ privileges is clumsy and perfunctory”. See also Fantuzzi (1985: 156, 160); Porro (1988: 211-221); Hunter (1996: 123-138); Lambert (2001: 93-101). 67. Wilamowitz (1900: 10-12) regards the poem as a mournful song appropriate for the women’s lamentation during the second day of the Adonia. Fantuzzi (1980: 433-450 and 1985: 152-165) considers the poem in terms of a Hellenistic mixing of the traditional dirge and Callimachus’ mimetic hymns as well as through the potential adoption of tragic patterns of thought and action. Cf. also Hopkinson (1988: 218-219). Alexiou (2002: 56) notes that “it has the quality of a love song as well as that of a lament”.

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marriage by death. And indeed in E.A. 54-55 and 96 it is stressed that Adonis is taken away from Aphrodite and their nuptial bed by Persephone. The conventional contrast in real laments between a happy past and an unhappy present, and subsequently between living and dead, occurs also in the Epitaph. In 72-75 reference is made to Aphrodite’s golden bed and soft sheets, where Adonis used to make love with Aphrodite and now lies dead. One may, finally, find in Bion’s poem the conventional element of impersonation through the participation of nature in lamentation as happens with the mountains, the trees, the rivers, the springs and the flowers in 31-35.68 It should nevertheless be pointed out that most of those conventional features of actual laments occur also in renderings of laments attested in Greek literature from the Homeric poems onwards. The lamentations of Andromache, Hecuba and Helen at the prothesis of Hector in Iliad 24.719-775 or the more personal lament of Thetis for Achilles in Iliad 18.52-64 appear to follow such conventions.69 In addition to such gooi, which echo the personal laments of female relatives of the dead, the thrênoi were more elaborate laments sung by professional wailers which soon developed in literary form and were composed by poets.70 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, De Imitat. 2.2.6 notes that Pindar composed literary thrênoi which were surpassed only by those of Simonides who was perhaps the founder of the genre.71 If the context of Sappho, frr. 140A and 168 L.-P. survived and more could be said on the genre of the poem these fragments come from, it might perhaps have been possible to assess with more confidence Epitaph’s debt to early Greek poetry, its appropriation of ritual laments and more specifically its appropriation of laments associated with Adonis’ cult. If Sappho, frr. 140A and 168 L.-P. indeed came from a cult song intended for performance during the Adonia, as Lardinois has argued,72 then one could be more confident about the consideration of Bion’s poem as a cult song intended for a similar occasion, especially when its formal features would make such a use 68. Cf. Manakidou (1996: 30-34); Alexiou (2002: 102-103 and 131-203). 69. Cf. Tsagalis (2004: 27-51, 133-139, 158-160, 161-165). For the debt of bucolic poetry to the Homeric poems and relevant Eastern epic traditions, see Griffin (1992: 189211). In Hellenistic epic poems, such as the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, lamentation is again related to female characters, perspectives and narrative voices. See Cusset (this volume) with respect to A.R. Arg. 1.247-293. 70. For the distinction between types of lament such as goos, thrênos and kommos, the counterpart of the two former types of lament occurring most often in tragedy, see Alexiou (2002: 102-104). 71. Cf. Aristid. Eteon.Epic. 2; Catull. 38.8; Reiner (1938: 98-99). 72. Lardinois (2001: 77).

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possible and Adonis’ festivals would form appropriate contexts for the presentation of similar songs. While elegy retained the serious tone of such songs, it was tragedy which exploited their potential emotional impact that was developed within the boundaries of the genre’s conventions, concerns and demands. The tragic kommoi were subsequently developed having as a starting point the antiphonal laments sung by different groups of mourners in actual lamentations and exploited their theatricality in the sense of the use not only of verbal exchanges, but also of mournful movements and gesticulation. Aristotle, Poet. 1452b 22-25 defines the tragic kommos as θρῆνος κοινὸς χοροῦ καὶ ἀπὸ σκηνῆς and this is amply attested in extant tragedy. In Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes, for instance, there is a conventional prothesis scene with the dead bodies of Eteocles and Polynices exposed on-stage on their bier, while the Chorus as well as Antigone and Ismene proceed in 875-1004 to their antiphonal lamentation. In Aeschylus, Pers. 931-1065 the kommos extends in seven strophic pairs.73 Bion’s poem might well have borrowed the polyphony related to its performance levels from that developed in tragedy, while retaining the form of earlier literary thrênoi, even though fragments such as Sappho, frr. 140A and 168 L.-P. suggest the existence of polyphony in those songs.74 It appears, however, that in the Epitaph on Adonis no particular attention is paid to such generic concerns. When in 97 the speaker asks Aphrodite to stop her lament by saying λῆγε γόων, Κυθέρεια, τὸ σάμερον, ἴσχεο κομμῶν, it becomes clear that the alternate use of the terms goos and kommos having the sense of ‘lament’ betrays a lack of interest in earlier generic distinctions and hence an indifference towards the adoption of a similar specific generic model.75 Moreover, the mixing of mimetic and diegetic elements as well as the interest in the depiction of many aspects of emotional response suggest a Hellenistic aesthetic move beyond the intention of creating a literary lament in the manner of early Greek poetry or even tragedy. The mimetic elements of the speaker’s lament serve as a frame which allows the development of the larger narrative parts of 7-39, 40-66 and 79-96. These may be related to her lamentation, but extend also to topics such as Aphrodite’s desire for Adonis. As has already been pointed out, the female perspective of the 73. Cf. Kornarou (2001: 36, 41, 59); Alexiou (2002: 103-104). 74. Cf. Fantuzzi (1985: 154-155, 157-158). For the implications of the variations of speaker and addressee with respect to a poem’s generic identity, see Cairns (1972: 177-245). 75. It should nevertheless be stressed that in post-classical times these distinctions were abandoned not only by Bion, but also by most poets and scholars. See Suda, s.v. κομμός; Alexiou (2002: 103-104).

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speaker enables the construction of a gendered voluptuous gaze which turns the reader’s or the listener’s attention to elements such as the eroticized depiction of Adonis’ body in 7-11 and 71, the desire emerging from the references to his kiss in 11-14 and 42-50, or the sensual pleasure hinted at by the multi-faceted reference to his funeral bed in 72-73, which is also presented as the bed on which he used to make love with Aphrodite. Bion’s poem betrays thus a deviation from the conventions of a lament and the adoption of the ways in which Callimachus’ mimetic hymns enable the embedding of diegetic parts76 so that it may be able to acquire a generic identity more complex than a hymn or a literary dirge. A narrative perspective developed from the viewpoint of the feminine or the socially marginal, and emerging through a mimetic or even quasitheatrical presentation of plot and character occurs in the realms of the literary and the non-literary mime, as happens with the female perspective of Herondas 1, 4, 5, 6 and 7. The mixing of such elements with motifs pertinent to unhappy love and lamentation occurs again in these realms, as is the case with the paraklausithyron of the Fragmentum Grenfellianum (P.Lond.Lit. 50=P.Grenf. I 1=P.Dryton 50).77 Yet the generic identity of Bion’s poetry is specified in Bion, fr. 10 Reed, where this identity is being attributed to the poet’s encounter with Aphrodite and Eros during a dream he had. The poet appears there as a herdsman in the countryside (βοῦτα in 4) trying in vain to teach Eros about the invention of musical instruments by gods such as Pan or Athena. Instead, little Eros taught him the desires of mortals and immortals as well as the deeds of Aphrodite (μ’ ἐδίδασκεν / θνατῶν ἀθανάτων τε πόθως καὶ ματέρος ἔργα in 10-11). Through this Hesiodic as well as Callimachean device78 Bion exposes his literary program and defines his work as a kind of erotic poetry set in a bucolic tradition, which exploits, of course, various formal and thematic aspects of the mime such as its inherent theatricality and its special interest in the depiction of human character and emotion. This generic identity is related to a literary construction of eroticism, the concern with poetic composition, or the interaction with nature, and pervades also most of Bion’s extant fragments.79 76. See Harder (1992: 390-394). 77. See Esposito (2005: 59-70). 78. For the poet’s instruction through a close contact with the Muses either in a dream or in a dreamlike encounter, see Hes. Theog. 22-34 and Callim. Aetia frr. 2-2j Harder. For instances of a similar type of poetic instruction in other poets see, Theocr. Id. 7.92; Prop. 2.34.31-32; Enn. Ann. frr. 2-10 Skutsch. See Kambylis (1965: 104-106); Fountoulakis (2002: 301-302); Harder (2012: II, 93-96). 79. Cf. Bion, frr. 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14 Reed.

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In this light, the Epitaph on Adonis stands closer to the lament for Daphnis of Theocritus, Id. 1.64-145 than to literary dirges found in early Greek poetry or tragedy. In Theocritus’ embedded lament the natural environment in which Daphnis is placed is also that surrounding Adonis, the young love-stricken shepherd who emerges in Id. 1.109-110 as a mythical paradigm for the young Daphnis.80 The functional role of that environment culminates in the participation of nature in the lament for Daphnis in Id. 1.71-72 and 132-136, which is also present in the Epitaph. The consideration of desire and death as polar opposites, and the presentation of desire from the perspective of death forms a pervasive feature of the Epitaph, which also runs through Theocritus’ lament and is encapsulated in verses such as the ἦ γὰρ ἐγὼν ὑπ’ Ἔρωτος ἐς Ἅιδαν ἕλκομαι ἤδη in Id. 1.130. Divine characters with a dominant role in the construction of action in Bion have their counterparts in Theocritus. Thus Hermes, Priapus and Aphrodite appear in Id. 1.77-78, 81-83 and 95-98 respectively as speaking dramatis personae who create a sense of theatricality and performance levels resembling those of the Epitaph.81 In Id. 1.138-140 Aphrodite attempts in vain to bring Daphnis to life. The same happens with the Fates and Adonis in E.A. 94-95. Both texts contain a repeated refrain which forms an essential element of a lament and signals various performance levels associated with the speaker and the potential antiphony through which the speaker’s voice emerges since it refers to the following or the preceding verses.82 Thus, for instance, the ἄρχετε βουκολικᾶς, Μοῖσαι, φίλαι ἄρχετ’ ἀοιδᾶς in Id. 1.64 or its variant ἄρχετε βουκολικᾶς, Μοῖσαι, πάλιν ἄρχετ’ ἀοιδᾶς in Id. 1.94 is being counterbalanced by the antiphonal λήγετε βουκολικᾶς, Μοῖσαι, ἴτε λήγετ’ ἀοιδᾶς in Id. 1.127 and frames the spoken narrative in between in a way not much different from the αἰάζω τὸν Ἄδωνιν˙ ἐπαιάζουσιν Ἔρωτες of E.A. 6 and 15 with its several variants throughout the poem. Verbal echoes and parallelisms underline all these affinities between the two texts.83 It should nevertheless be pointed out that the lament for Daphnis is far less developed than the Epitaph in terms of plot construction and character drawing. Bion’s poem betrays, by contrast, a multilayered 80. Adonis emerges again as a mythical paradigm in Theocritus when in Id. 3.46-48 Aphrodite appears lamenting and holding in her arms the dead Adonis in an image which is remarkably similar to that of Bion, E.A. 40-61. 81. It is also likely that in Theocritus’ poem Daphnis’ erotic suffering is due to his passionate feelings for Aphrodite. See Anagnostou-Laoutides & Konstan (2008: 516-524). 82. Cf. Gow (1952: II, 16-17); Calame (2005: 179-184). 83. Cf. Porro (1988: 211-221); Reed (1997: 22-23).

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theatricality which is articulated through the various types of performances developed in the poem’s performance levels. Bion may construct the generic identity of his poem taking into account various traditions relating to literary and real-life laments, Callimachus’ mimetic hymns, the mime, and Theocritus’ bucolic concerns, but reshapes them in the light of formal models with a deeper cultural significance.84 His engagement with Adonis, a figure with a rich background in the realms of myth and ritual opens for Bion a way which enables him to explore the potential function of such models. After all, it is likely that Theocritus’ Daphnis, one of the potential models for Bion’s Adonis, may be inspired by the Greek myth and cult of Adonis and his Near Eastern predecessor Tammuz.85 Bearing that in mind, it would not be surprising if the associations between the two poems were due not only to the adoption by Bion of a model set by Theocritus, but also to the affinities of both texts with Adonis’ myth and cult. Considering the existence in the rituals of the Adonia of performance levels similar to those of the Epitaph, it emerges that Bion’s poem adopts the multiple performativity of Adonis’ rituals and turns it into a poetic technique capable of affecting its generic countenance.

5. Conclusion Structural elements and thematic cores of Adonis’ myth such as his love affair with Aphrodite, his violent and premature death, or his annual return to life from the dark world of Persephone contribute to the creation of wider patterns of thought and action reflected in mythological narratives and ritual practices. Major concerns relating to the death and rebirth of nature may thus be articulated through these narratives and practices. The theatricality of Adonis’ rituals and the multiple performance levels through which these rituals were structured and enabled the relevant narratives to be enacted, formed the medium that made possible the transition from the ‘deep structure’ of myth to the ‘surface structure’ of specific narratives and rituals.86 84. For the potential affinities between the Epitaph and rituals pertaining to the ἐνιαυτός-δαίμων, see Fantuzzi (1985: 159-160). 85. See Halperin (1983b: 183-200); Anagnostou-Laoutides & Konstan (2008: 499503). In ancient Sumeria the dying youth was known as Dumuzi. See Burkert (1979: 106). 86. Borrowed from the field of the transformational-generative grammar, these terms are used here in the light of the concept of ‘deep play’ developed by Geertz (1972). Cf. Yatromanolakis & Roilos (2004: 16, 24).

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In Bion’s poem one might detect a multi-faceted engagement with the mythical figure of Adonis. Although literary precedents concerning the ways in which this figure is being appropriated in the Epitaph may be echoed throughout the poem exhibiting a Hellenistic tendency of mixing traditions and genres, Bion’s poem still defies explicit generic classification. The emergence of fundamental structural elements of Adonis’ myth in the Epitaph through lamentation points towards a multi-dimensional interrelationship with the cultural context which generated narratives and rituals pertaining to Adonis. The analogies between the performance levels detected in Adonis’ rituals and the performance levels detected in the Epitaph suggest the poem’s attempt to articulate the fundamental structural elements of Adonis’ myth and the more abstract concerns that lie behind them through the medium of performance in its various potential forms. Ritual performances become thus tools employed in the Epitaph in a way that leads to the articulation of those mythical elements and cultural concerns as poetry far beyond the question of the poem’s potential actual performability. Performance subsequently emerges as an element of a ‘ritual poetics’ which determines the poem’s form, generic identity and associations with its cultural context. REFERENCES Albert, W., 1988, DasmimetischeGedichtinderAntike.GeschichteundTypologievondenAnfängenbisindieaugusteischeZeit. Frankfurt am Main. Alexiou, M., 2002, The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition, 2nd edn. revised by D. Yatromanolakis & P. Roilos. Lanham & Oxford. Anagnostou-Laoutides, E. & D. Konstan, 2008, “Daphnis and Aphrodite: A Love Affair in Theocritus Idyll 1”. AJPh 129, 497-527. Atallah, W., 1966, Adonisdanslalittératureetl’artgrecs. Paris. Austin, J.L., 1962, HowtoDoThingswithWords. Oxford. Balme, C.B., 2008, TheCambridgeIntroductiontoTheatreStudies. Cambridge. Beck, D., 2012, “The Presentation of Song in Homer’s Odyssey”. In: E. Minchin (ed.), Orality,LiteracyandPerformanceintheAncientWorld.Oralityand LiteracyintheAncientWorld, vol. 9; Leiden & Boston, 25-53. Bing, P., 1993, “Impersonation of Voice in Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo”. TAPhA 123, 181-198. Burkert, W., 1979, StructureandHistoryinGreekMythologyandRitual. BerkeleyLos Angeles-London. Burton, J.B., 1995, Theocritus’sUrbanMimes:Mobility,Gender,andPatronage. Berkeley-Los Angeles-London. Butler, J., 1990, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. London. Cairns, F., 1972, GenericCompositioninGreekandRomanPoetry. Edinburgh.

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Calame, C., 2005, MasksofAuthority:FictionandPragmaticsinAncientGreek Poetics, trans. by P.M. Burk, of Masques d’authorité. Fiction et pragmatiquedanslapoétiquegrecque. Ithaca & London. Cusset, C., this volume, “Y a-t-il des modalités particulières de la performance vocale féminine dans la poésie hellénistisque? Une parole contrainte”. Jong, I.J.F. de, 1987, NarratorsandFocalizers:ThePresentationoftheStoryin theIliad. Amsterdam. ―, 2001, ANarratologicalCommentaryontheOdyssey. Cambridge. Detienne, M., 1977, TheGardensofAdonis:SpicesinGreekMythology, tr. by J. Lloyd of LesJardinsd’Adonis, intr. by J.-P. Vernant. Hassocks. Dover, K.J., 1978, GreekHomosexuality. London. Elam, K., 1980, TheSemioticsofTheatreandDrama. London & New York. Esposito, E., (ed.), 2005, IlFragmentum Grenfellianum(P. Dryton 50). Bologna. Estevez, V.A., 1981, “Ἀπώλετο καλὸς Ἄδωνις: A Description of Bion’s Refrain”. Maia 33, 35-42. Fantuzzi, M., 1980, “La contaminazione dei generi letterari nella letteratura greca ellenistica: rifiuto del sistema o evoluzione di un sistema?”. Lingua eStile 15, 433-450. ―, (ed.), 1985, Bionis Smyrnaei Adonidis Epitaphium: Testo Critico e Commento. Liverpool. Fantuzzi, M. & R. Hunter, 2004, TraditionandInnovationinHellenisticPoetry, transl. and revised edn. of Muse e modelli: La poesia ellenistica da AlessandroMagnoadAugusto. Cambridge. Fountoulakis, A., 2000, “The Artists of Aphrodite”. AC 69, 133-147. ―, 2002, “Herondas 8.66-79: Generic Self-Consciousness and Artistic Claims in Herondas’ Mimiambs”. Mnemosyne 55, 301-319. ―, 2004, “The Colours of Desire and Death: Colour Terms in Bion’s Epitaph on Adonis”. In: L. Cleland et al. (eds), Colour in the Ancient MediterraneanWorld.Oxford, 110-116. Geertz, C., 1972, “Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight”. Daedalus 101, 1-37. Goldhill, S., 1986, “Framing and Polyphony: Readings in Hellenistic Poetry”. PCPS 32, 25-52. ―, 1991, ThePoet’sVoice:EssaysonPoeticsandGreekLiterature. Cambridge. Gow, A.S.F., 1938, “The Adoniazusae of Theocritus”. JHS 58, 180-204. ―, 1952, Theocritus, 2nd edn., vols. I-II. Cambridge. Graziosi, B., 2013, “The Poet in the Iliad”. In: A. Marmodoro & J. Hill (eds), TheAuthor’sVoiceinClassicalandLateAntiquity. Oxford, 9-38. Griffin, J., 1992, “Theocritus, the Iliad, and the East”. AJPh 113, 189-211. Halperin, D., 1983a, BeforePastoral:TheocritusandtheAncientTraditionof BucolicPoetry. New Haven. ―, 1983b, “The Forebears of Daphnis”. TAPhA 113, 183-200. Harder, M.A., 1992, “Insubstantial Voices: Some Observations on the Hymns of Callimachus”. CQ n.s. 42, 384-394. ―, (ed.), 2012, Callimachus:Aetia, vols. I-II. Oxford. Holst-Warhaft, G., 1992, Dangerous Voices: Women’s Laments and Greek Literature. London and New York. Hopkinson, N., (ed.), 1988, AHellenisticAnthology. Cambridge. Hunter, R., 1996, TheocritusandtheArchaeologyofGreekPoetry. Cambridge.

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Huxley, G., 1967, “A Poem of the Ainianes”. GRBS 8, 88-92. Kambylis, A., 1965, Die Dichterweihe und ihre Symbolik. Untersuchungen zu Hesiodos,Kallimachos,ProperzundEnnius. Heidelberg. Kornarou, E., 2001, Kommoi in Greek Tragedy. Ph.D. Thesis, King’s College London. Lada-Richards, I., 2007, Silent Eloquence: Lucian and Pantomime Dancing. London. Lambert, M., 2001, “Gender and Religion in Theocritus, Idyll 15: Prattling Tourists at the Adonia”. ActaClassica 44, 87-103. Lardinois, A., 2001, “Keening Sappho: Female Speech Genres in Sappho’s Poetry”. In: A. Lardinois & L. McClure (eds), Making Silence Speak: Women’sVoicesinGreekLiteratureandSociety. Princeton, N.J., 75-92. LexiconIconographicumMythologiaeClassicae, 1981-1999, vols. I-IX, Zurich, Munich & Düsseldorf (= LIMC). Manakidou, F., 1994, “Bemerkungen über die Beziehung zwischen Bildung und bildender Kunst: Bions Klage um Adonis und Theokrits 15. Idyll”. Prometheus 20, 104-118. ―, 1996, “ΕΠΙΤΑΦΙΟΣ ΑΔΩΝΙΔΟΣ and ΕΠΙΤΑΦΙΟΣ ΒΙΩΝΟΣ: Remarks on their Generic Form and Content”. MD 37, 27-58. Morrison, A.D., 2007, The Narrator in Archaic Greek and Hellenistic Poetry. Cambridge. Nagy, G., 1989, “Early Greek Views of Poets and Poetry”. In: G.A. Kennedy (ed.), The Cambridge History of Literary Criticism. Volume 1: Classical Criticism. Cambridge, 1-77. ―, 1996, PoetryasPerformance:HomerandBeyond. Cambridge. Petropoulos, J.C.B., 2003, Eroticism in Ancient and Medieval Greek Poetry. London. Pfister, M., 1988, TheTheoryandAnalysisofDrama, tr. by J. Halliday of Das Drama. Cambridge. Porro, A., 1988, “L’AdonidisEpitaphium di Bione e il modello teocriteo”. Aev. Ant. 1, 211-221. Rappaport, R.A., 1999, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. Cambridge. Reed, J.D., 1995, “The Sexuality of Adonis”. ClAnt 14, 317-347. ―, (ed.), 1997, BionofSmyrna:TheFragmentsandtheAdonis. Cambridge. ―, 2000, “Arsinoe’s Adonis and the Poetics of Ptolemaic Imperialism”. TAPhA 130, 319-351. Reiner, E., 1938, DierituelleTotenklagederGriechen. Stuttgart & Berlin. Richardson, S., 1990, TheHomericNarrator. Nashville. Schreckenberg, H., 1960, ΔΡΑΜΑ: Vom Werden der griechischen Tragödie ausdemTanz. Würzburg. Seaford, R., 1994, ReciprocityandRitual:HomerandTragedyintheDevelopingCity-State. Oxford. Sokolowski, F., 1969, Loissacréesdescitésgrecques. Paris. Sourvinou-Inwood, C., 1991, ‘Reading’ Greek Culture: Texts and Images, RitualsandMyths. Oxford. ―, 1995, ‘Reading’GreekDeathtotheEndoftheClassicalPeriod. Oxford.

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―, 2004, “Gendering the Athenian Funeral: Ritual Reality and Tragic Manipulations”. In: D. Yatromanolakis & P. Roilos (eds.), Greek Ritual Poetics. Washington, DC, 161-188. Stears, K., 2008, “Death Becomes Her: Gender and Athenian Death Ritual”. In: A. Suter (ed.), Lament: Studies in the Ancient Mediterranean and Beyond. New York & Oxford, 139-155. Stehle, E., 1997, Performance and Gender in Ancient Greece: Nondramatic PoetryinItsSetting. Princeton, N.J. Tambiah, S.J., 1981, “A Performative Approach to Ritual”. Proceedingsofthe BritishAcademy 65, 113-169. Taplin, O., 1977, TheStagecraftofAeschylus:TheDramaticUseofExitsand EntrancesinGreekTragedy. Oxford. Tsagalis, C.C., 2004, EpicGrief:PersonalLamentsinHomer’sIliad. Berlin & New York. Turner, V., 1969, TheRitualProcess:StructureandAnti-Structure. Chicago. ―, 1982, FromRitualtoTheatre:TheHumanSeriousnessofPlay. New York. ―, 1987, TheAnthropologyofPerformance. New York. Versnel, H.S., 2012, “Teletê”. In: S. Hornblower etal. (eds), TheOxfordClassicalDictionary. 4th edn. Oxford, 1437. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U. von, (ed.), 1900, BionvonSmyrna:Adonis. Berlin. ―, 1906, DieTextgeschichtedergriechischenBukoliker. Berlin. Winkler, J.J., 1990, The Constraints of Desire: The Anthropology of Sex and GenderinAncientGreece. New York & London. Yatromanolakis, D. & P. Roilos, 2003, TowardsaRitualPoetics. Athens. ―, 2004, “Provisionally Structured Ideas on a Heuristically Defined Concept: Toward a Ritual Poetics”. In: D. Yatromanolakis & P. Roilos (eds), Greek RitualPoetics. Washington, DC, 3-34. Zanker, G., 2004, ModesofViewinginHellenisticPoetryandArt. Madison.

RETHINKING ‘MIMETIC POETRY’ AND CALLIMACHUS’ HYMNTOAPOLLO Adrian GRAMPS

1. Introduction Placing Callimachus’ HymntoApollo in a performance context requires tackling some difficult problems of form. Any attempt to seek explanations for the performance occasion evoked by the hymn in contemporary performance practices1 needs to account for the profound ambiguities of voice which have traditionally been imputed to the poem’s ‘mimetic’ quality.2 In this paper, I will offer a reconsideration of these formal issues that recognises the potential for various contexts of reception, whether in reading or performance. Firstly I will make a case for rejecting the label of ‘mimetic poetry’ for this poem (and, by extension, for other poems that are grouped under this heading) by demonstrating the term’s theoretical flimsiness and lack of explanatory power. Next I will challenge narratological approaches which attempt to solve the poem’s enunciative ambiguities by attributing sections of text to various fictional speakers; I argue that the question we need to be asking is not ‘who is speaking?’ but rather ‘what kind of experience are we presented with?’. My thesis is that what shifts in the poem is not the identity of the speaker, but the modality of the hymnic discourse. I argue, following Fludernik’s proposals on the experiential structures underlying narrative discourse,3 that we need to see in the poem an oscillation between two experiential frames, which I will call ‘experience-report’ and ‘performed speech’. This conclusion is founded on the premiss that what is referred to in the poem as the ‘song of Apollo’ (Ἀπόλλωνος ἀοιδῇ, 17) can be conceived as a multimodal, multisensory experience which functions as a mise-enabyme of Callimachus’ own HymntoApollo. The ultimate goal of this revisionist approach is to change what kinds of questions we ask of the HymntoApollo: not how to identify the performance occasion and the 1. e.g. Acosta-Hughes and Stephens (2012); Petrovic (2011); (2007); Manakidou (2009); Cameron (1995). 2. Vestrheim (2012); Calame (2005); Bulloch (2010); Bing (1993); Depew (1992); on mimetic poetry see esp. Albert (1988). 3. Fludernik (1996: passim).

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voices that speak therein (a question which leads to aporia and circular reasoning), but how a reader or audience might contextualise them within a communicative frame. 1.1 TheHymn to Apolloand‘mimeticpoetry’ Since Reitzenstein coined it in 1906,4 the term ‘mimetic poem’ or ‘mimetic poetry’ has been adopted by many scholars as a means of explicating some of the interpretive problems raised by certain of the Hymns of Callimachus. While this term has been criticised on various accounts, and has not won wide acceptance in itself as a subcategory of Greek or other poetry, it nevertheless remains common practice to refer to Hymns 2, 5, and 6 (and occasionally 4) as the ‘mimetic hymns’ (as opposed to the other ‘rhapsodic hymns’) and to place this ‘mimetic’ quality at the centre of critical treatments of the poems.5 Albert provides the standard definition of the term: “A mimetic poem consists of a poetically constructed, cohesive discourse which is enunciated in a setting by a person appearing as the speaker and in which this person refers to processes or events which occur in the setting in the course of the speaking and which bring about a change of setting.”6

In Callimachus’ HymntoApollo, this ‘setting’ is specified at the outset of the poem as a temple (μέλαθρον, 2) in which a number of portents (Albert’s ‘processes’) herald the imminent arrival of the god himself, and the speaker alternates between describing these portents in simultaneous narration (1-5), commanding a group of onlookers to maintain ritual silence and for sinners to depart (2) and urging a chorus of boys to begin singing and dancing in the god’s honour (8-16), after which, according to Albert, a ‘change of setting’ takes place – viz. the choral song and dance actually begins (17);7 we will return to this later.

4. Reitzenstein (1906: 157-160). The closest thing he offers to a definition of “mimetisches Gedicht” is in the negative, as he is concerned to argue that there is no such thing in Tibullus: “es gibt keine bestimmte Situation, in der das Lied gewissermaßen mimisch vorgetragen sein könnte, wie manche bukolische Lieder (157).” 5. See e.g. Payne (2007: 53-60); Both Reitzenstein (1906: 160) and Albert (1988: 15) use Callimachus’ Hymns 2, 5, and 6 to illustrate the category of the mimetic poem. 6. Albert (1988: 24), my translation. Cf. p. 15, where he sets forth this definition with specific reference to Callimachus’ Hymns 2, 5, and 6. 7. Albert (1988: 69-70).

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Interpretive comment on the poem has tended to cluster around the opening lines which introduce this setting, which it is worth quoting in full: οἷον ὁ τὠπόλλωνος ἐσείσατο δάφνινος ὅρπηξ, οἷα δ᾽ ὅλον τὸ μέλαθρον· ἑκάς, ἑκὰς ὅστις ἀλιτρός. καὶ δή που τὰ θύρετρα καλῷ ποδὶ Φοῖβος ἀράσσει· οὐχ ὁράᾳς; ἐπένευσεν ὁ Δήλιος ἡδύ τι φοῖνιξ ἐξαπίνης, ὁ δὲ κύκνος ἐν ἠέρι καλὸν ἀείδει. αὐτοὶ νῦν κατοχῆες ἀνακλίνεσθε πυλάων, αὐταὶ δὲ κληῖδες· ὁ γὰρ θεὸς οὐκέτι μακρήν. (1-7) How the laurel shoot of Apollo trembled, and the whole shrine as well! Begone, begone, whosoever is unworthy! Surely that is Phoebus knocking on the doors with his beautiful foot – don’t you see? The Delian palm nodded sweetly of its own accord, and the swan is singing a beautiful song in the air. Open yourselves now, gate-bars, open yourselves, bolts, for the god is not far off now!

Commentators concerned to highlight the ‘mimetic’ quality of the poem usually point to these lines, and often all that the epithet indicates is that an imaginary situation is being evoked,8 one which is divorced from any conceivable performance setting and is thus best seen as wholly fictional.9 The sudden apostrophe to an unspecified observer in v. 4 – οὐχ ὁράᾳς; – has received particular attention in this respect: Reitzenstein observes that the phrase turns the reader into a witness to the imagined scene,10 and Bing sees the phrase as pulling the reader into the drama, inviting to imagine himself as one of the worshippers.11 These poems will then be the hymnic equivalent to the ecphrastic epigram, the artistry of which consists in its enargeia in evoking an entirely unreal situation:12 in Friedländer’s words, “The act of perception is accentuated precisely because, broadly speaking, no such act takes place”.13 The tendency to interpret the hymn as a ‘literary drama’ has led to a focus on the ambiguity of voice in the poem, which Calame most fully outlines as oscillating between the implied author, a choregos or ‘master of ceremonies’ who directs the singing of a hymn, and the chorus of boys

8. E.g. Stephens (2015: 11, 72); Vamvouri Ruffy (2004: 60-61 177-178). 9. So, most recently, Bulloch (2010: 173). 10. Reitzenstein (1906: 160). 11. Bing (1993: 184); cf. Hunter (1992: 13): “‘do you (sing.) not see?’ asks the poetic voice (v. 2,4), and we are compelled to answer ‘well, no’.” 12. See e.g. Gutzwiller (2002: 91 and 110). 13. Friedländer (1931: 36) (my translation), quoted in Bulloch (1985: 5).

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who follow him.14 Following on this line of argument, Depew sees in the poem a deliberate “scrambling” of the “ambiguities of deictic reference” which highlights the “essential textuality” of Callimachus’ work;15 likewise Falivene states that the purpose of the mimetic hymns is “to imitate an oral performance in writing”, and draws an analogy with the Platonic dialogues, which present themselves as written transcripts of conversations.16 Bing goes even further, seeing in the Hymn the primal encounter of the Alexandrian scholar with the written poetic text, suggesting to him a new kind of “play” which could not have been conceived by his predecessors.17 Calame, considering the element of polyphony and enunciative ambiguity in the poem, affirms this thesis of ‘essential textuality’ when he concludes: “the constant interplay among persons occupying in succession enunciative stances that are usually kept distinct gives the strong impression that this ‘mimetic’ effect is operating on the level of literary fiction […] [T]he ‘mimesis’ is in fact hermetic: its construction is such that it is probably self-referential and intradiscursive and does not refer to any action outside the poem itself (unlike what we find in archaic melic poetry, where singers refer to the external ritual actions in which they are involved). From this point of view, it is particularly significant that the poet has so much more to say on the (fabricated) performance context of his poem than the Homeric Hymns or the archaic melic poets do.”18

Calame’s formulation makes clear that the label of “literary fiction” as applied to the HymntoApollo does not only pertain to its truth-value but also to the mode it which it communicates. Where archaic poets index performance occasions to reinforce the connexion between text and context, Calame suggests, the performance occasion in the Hymn to Apollo is folded inside it as the object of its mimesis.19 According to this schema, ‘fictionality’ amounts to a pragmatic frame whereby the hymn is transformed from a first-degree speech act (the hymnic performance) 14. Calame (2005: 80-82). Cf. Morrison (2007: 128-132), Vamvouri Ruffy (2004: 219), and Fantuzzi (2011: 437), who speaks of a “strategic fragment of the authorial voice.” Hopkinson (1984: 3-4) argues that the narrating voice of the HymntoDemeter is similarly ambiguous (“this nebulous and uncharacterised voice is above and outside the ceremony”, 3). 15. Depew (1992: 59). See also Bing (1993: 190), who comes to a similar conclusion. 16. Falivene (1990: 108) (my translation). See also Fantuzzi-Hunter (2004: 31 and n. 121) for a summary statement of this view. 17. Bing (1993: 194). The interpretations of Morrison (2007: 128-133) and FantuzziHunter (2004: 364) are along the same lines. 18. Calame (2005: 82). 19. Cf. Depew (2000), who sees the “mimetic” hymns as the final stage in a historical process whereby Greek hymns increasingly “self-contextualise”.

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into a represented action, and reader engagement with this represented action is conceived as an activity of reconstructing the fictional situation built up by the text. This conception of the hymn as representing a fictional occasion to the reader is closely bound up with the question of the status and identity of the poem’s ‘speaker’, who is often said to be a fictional character.20 Morrison even considers ‘mimetic’ to be a property of the ‘narrator’ (his blanket term for the primary speaker in any genre of poetry), and states that the term “is used […] to describe a narrator who does not stand in the conventional relationship of narrator to audience in a hymn, but appears as a fictional character who addresses himself or other fictional characters, rather than the audience of the hymn”.21 According to the standard account, then, the distinguishing elements of Callimachus’ HymntoApollo, and of ‘mimetic poetry’ in general, are fictionality and enunciative ambiguity as functions (or symptoms) of an ‘essential textuality’.22 In order to provide a critique of this account, we must return to Albert’s much more precise definition of the term.

2 Deixis, perception, and the ‘song of Apollo’ 2.1 Discourseandevents Albert draws attention in his definition to something which is crucial, but not adequately accounted for in any of the treatments mentioned above. According to him, the ‘mimetic’ effect is produced by the seemingly paradoxical running together of two elements, namely the time of the speaker’s discourse and the time of the events that are occurring; the events and the ‘change of setting’ that they effect go on seemingly under the narrator’s nose, rather than subject to his exposition.23 His definition does not, however, offer an explanation for this running together of discourse and events. In failing to elucidate the correlation between the two, Albert’s definition fails to significantly set apart ‘mimetic poems’ from such commonplace literary devices as simultaneous narration and 20. Harder (1992: 385); Payne (2007: 53). 21. Morrison (2007: 109). 22. See Vestrheim (2012: 62): “What distinguishes Callimachus’ mimetic hymns from previous poetry is the way they describe a series of actions via a voice that appears to be taking part in them, but which on closer inspection, turns out not to be identifiable with any imaginable participant.” 23. “Der vorherrschende Eindruck […] ist der, daß es in ihnen Handlung gibt, die gleichzeitig mit den Worten der redenden Person vor sich geht (Albert 1988: 1).”

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dramatic exposition. The real crux of the problem rather seems to me to lie in the relation between the speaker’s discourse and the ‘events’ to which he refers. The key to discovering this relation lies in considering the ‘setting’ in which, in Albert’s formulation, both discourse and events occur. We can note at the outset that, in the case of this poem, the setting is not simply any setting, but rather the occasion of the hymn. ‘Occasion’ denotes not simply a setting in place and time, but rather the set of states of affairs which originates the discourse; the hymn itself is presented as arising of necessity out of the ceremony to which it answers. The poem itself makes this clear: the speaker urges the boys to begin the dance because Apollo is almost here, and he must be greeted with song and dance: οἱ δὲ νέοι μολπήν τε καὶ ἐς χορὸν ἐντύνεσθε. ὡπόλλων οὐ παντὶ φαείνεται, ἀλλ᾽ ὅ τις ἐσθλός· ὅς μιν ἴδῃ, μέγας οὗτος, ὃς οὐκ ἴδε, λιτὸς ἐκεῖνος. ὀψόμεθ᾽, ὦ Ἑκάεργε, καὶ ἐσσόμεθ᾽ οὔποτε λιτοί. μήτε σιωπηλὴν κίθαριν μήτ᾽ ἄψοφον ἴχνος τοῦ Φοίβου τοὺς παῖδας ἔχειν ἐπιδημήσαντος, εἰ τελέειν μέλλουσι γάμον πολιήν τε κερεῖσθαι, ἑστήξειν δὲ τὸ τεῖχος ἐπ᾽ ἀρχαίοισι θεμέθλοις (8-15). Boys, prepare yourselves for merriment and for the dance. Apollo does not appear to everyone, but to him who is worthy: whoever should see him, this is a great man; who does not see him, that is a base man. We shall see you, O Far-Worker, and we shall be not at all base. Let not the boys keep the cithara silent or their steps noiseless while Phoebus is present, if they are to accomplish marriage and to cut their hair when it is gray, and if the wall is to stand on its ancestral foundations.

This already sets up a causal relation between the song to be performed and the setting in which this performance takes place. At this point we see the first clear instance of Albertian ‘change of setting’, when the speaker reacts (in the singular!) to the apparent fulfilment of his command to begin the song: ἠγασάμην τοὺς παῖδας, ἐπεὶ χέλυς οὐκέτ᾽ ἀεργός. (16) I marvel at the boys, for the tortoise-shell is no longer idle.

Here the speaker remarks that the song has apparently begun, independently of his own discourse. The action of beginning the song is treated as a spontaneous occurrence, much like the θαύματα of the trembling temple, the waving palm-branch and the singing swan, to which the speaker can only react. The speaker’s reaction is thus a distancing gesture, by which the hymn to be sung is notionally detached from his own discourse and thus from

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the hymn with which the audience is presented, namely Callimachus’ HymntoApollo. This effect continues in the next line, when the speaker refers to the ‘song of Apollo’ as an event which is currently in progress: εὐφημεῖτ᾽ ἀίοντες ἐπ᾽ Ἀπόλλωνος ἀοιδῇ. εὐφημεῖ καὶ πόντος, ὅτε κλείουσιν ἀοιδοὶ ἢ κίθαριν ἢ τόξα, Λυκωρέος ἔντεα Φοίβου. οὐδὲ Θέτις Ἀχιλῆα κινύρεται αἴλινα μήτηρ, ὁππόθ᾽ ἱὴ παιῆον ἱὴ παιῆον ἀκούσῃ (17-21). Keep reverent silence as you listen to the song of Apollo. Even the sea is silent when singers celebrate the gear of Phoebus Lycoreus, whether his cithara or his bow and arrows, and Thetis no longer mournfully laments her son Achilles whenever she hears hiePaiêon,hiePaiêon.

The command in v. 17 reinforces the divide between the singers and their silent audience without making it at all clear on what side of the divide the speaker himself stands; will he be silent or take part in the song? Is the present sentence part of the song or more ‘prologue’? The choregos’ commands to the chorus of boys to sing (8-10) are punctured by a response in the first person plural which would seem to refer collectively to all in attendance:24 ὀψόμεθ’, ὦ Ἑκάεργε, καὶ ἐσσόμεθ’ οὔποτε λιτοί.(11) We shall see you, Far-worker, and we shall be not at all base.

And what about the following vv. 18-24, where the speaker offers mythological exempla for the reverent silence that Apollo inspires? The question is, what role is the primary speaker playing; is he simply reporting the discourse or taking part in it? Such questions have led commentators to divide the poem into two broad sections, namely the ‘hymn proper’, notionally sung by the chorus of boys, and the ‘mimetic frame’ in which the choregos takes over, narrating the events occurring around him. There is some consensus for delineating the former at vv. 32-96, with the surrounding vv. 1-31 and 97-113 relegated to the ‘mimetic frame’.25 For example, Callimachus closely imitates the hymnic transitions of the Homeric Hymns in vv. 28-31, which may be taken to suggest that a new hymn starts after this point: τὸν χόρον ὡπόλλων, ὅ τι οἱ κατὰ θῦμον ἀείδει, τιμήσει· δύναται γὰρ, ἐπεὶ Διὶ δεξιὸς ἧσται. 24. Fantuzzi (2011: 434-435). 25. Harder (2012: 86); Erbse (1955: 422); Wilamowitz (1924: 78, 83, 85); Williams (1978: 3 and ad 32-96). Albert argues that “der eigentliche Lobgesang auf Apollon mit V. 32 anhebt”, and that vv. 17-31 are “eine Art Vorgesang”, also sung by the chorus and choregos (Albert 1988: 68-70).

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οὐδ’ ὁ χόρος τὸν Φοῖβον ἐφ’ ἓν μόνον ἦμαρ ἀείσει, ἔστι γὰρ εὔυμνος· τίς ἂν οὐ ῥέα Φοῖβον ἀείδοι; (28-31) Apollo will honour the chorus because it sings after his heart: he has the power, for he sits at the right hand of Zeus. Nor will the chorus hymn Phoebus for one day only, so suitable for song is he; who would not readily hymn Phoebus?

The similarity of this passage to prooemial utterances in the Homeric Hymnssuch as πῶς τ᾽ ἄρ σ᾽ ὑμνήσω πάντως εὔυμνον ἐόντα; (H.H.3.19, 207) 26 might encourage us to read the following vv. 32-96 as spoken by the chorus, or alternatively as the song of the chorus as ‘quoted’ by the choregos. However, there are problems with such a neat division, and some critics have rejected it. Bing emphasises the difficulty in setting clear boundaries between the frame and the framed, concluding that “we cannot find the seam; perhaps we were never meant to”;27 similarly Vestrheim argues that the ambiguity of voice in the poem renders any such division impossible.28 It seems clear from these discussions that the text offers us no unambiguous signals partitioning poet, chorus-leader, and chorus. The first person singular and plural alternate in such a way that at any point any of these may conceivably be said to be included; the second person singular and plural, moreover, can conceivably be identified with the chorus and an audience outside the chorus (to whom, for example, the chorus-leader addresses remarks about the chorus). 2.2 Thespaceofinclusion Among all these oscillating persons there is a sliver of continuity, however. Falivene identifies in the poem a “persona of the collectivity” and a “persona of exclusion”, in line with Bassi’s observations on the theme of exclusion in the poem.29 It is rather counter-intuitive, however, to apply the title persona to an entity which can apparently be referred to in the first, second, or third person and in the singular or plural. I suggest therefore that we take into account the spatially orienting function of person deixis30 and identify rather two spaces opened up in the poem: a space of inclusion and a space of exclusion. In this I am expanding on Harder’s suggestion that the banishment of Envy in v. 113 and of 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

On this and other techniques of ‘prooimial apology’, see Bundy (1972). Bing (1988: 186-188). Vestrheim (2012: 33). Falivene (1990: 115 [my translations]); Bassi (1989). See Bühler (1982).

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‘sinners’ in v. 2 together make up an “outer space” which is defined in opposition to Apollo and his devotees.31 But there is one more aspect of these spaces to which I want to draw attention. Let us take another look at these lines: ὡπόλλων οὐ παντὶ φαείνεται, ἀλλ᾽ ὅ τις ἐσθλός· ὅς μιν ἴδῃ, μέγας οὗτος, ὃς οὐκ ἴδε, λιτὸς ἐκεῖνος. ὀψόμεθ᾽, ὦ Ἑκάεργε, καὶ ἐσσόμεθ᾽ οὔποτε λιτοί (8-10). Apollo does not appear to everyone, but to him who is worthy: whoever should see him, this is a great man; whoever does not see him, that is a base man. We shall see you, O Far-Worker, and we shall be not at all base.

Here, inclusion in the group of ἐσθλοί (8) is represented as contingent upon an act of visual perception, seeing Apollo. In v. 9, deictic pronouns further demarcate the spaces of inclusion and exclusion: the ‘great man’ who sees Apollo is indicated by the proximal deictic οὗτος, while the ‘base man’ who fails to see him is indicated by the distal deictic ἐκεῖνος. The group of those who will see Apollo is then indicated in the following verse with the first person plural. The group is therefore defined by a shared field of vision as well as a shared interpretation of what they see. The focus then shifts to auditory perception, as the chorus are urged to answer sight with sound: μήτε σιωπηλὴν κίθαριν μήτ᾽ ἄψοφον ἴχνος τοῦ Φοίβου τοὺς παῖδας ἔχειν ἐπιδημήσαντος (12-13) Let not the boys keep the cithara silent or their steps noiseless while Phoebus is present.

Thereafter, the song which the boys had just been urged to begin becomes itself an object of perception as Apollo himself is transferred from the recipient of song to its source and originator: εὐφημεῖτ᾽ ἀίοντες ἐπ᾽ Ἀπόλλωνος ἀοιδῇ (17) Keep sacred silence, you who hear, for the song of Apollo.

The imperative εὐφημεῖτε is a command to form a group, to unite in ritual silence, and the participle ἀίοντες stipulates a shared auditory experience as a further criterion of the group’s cohesion. The space of inclusion, then, is the space in which Apollo, his epiphany, and his song are all aurally and visually manifest to the occupants.32 31. Harder (2012: 87). 32. Cf. Call. fr. 227.1 Pf., where Apollo’s presence and the audibility of lyre music are represented as practically coextensive: ἔνεστ᾽ Ἀπόλλων τῷ χορῷ· τῆς λύρης ἀκούω (‘Apollo is in the chorus; I hear the lyre’).

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The audiovisual manifestness of the ‘song of Apollo’ is thematised throughout the hymn, particularly in the echoes of the paean-refrain scattered throughout. εὐφημεῖτ᾽ ἀίοντες ἐπ᾽ Ἀπόλλωνος ἀοιδῇ. εὐφημεῖ καὶ πόντος, ὅτε κλείουσιν ἀοιδοὶ ἢ κίθαριν ἢ τόξα, Λυκωρέος ἔντεα Φοίβου. οὐδὲ Θέτις Ἀχιλῆα κινύρεται αἴλινα μήτηρ, ὁππόθ᾽ ἱὴ παιῆον ἱὴ παιῆον ἀκούσῃ. (17-21) Keep reverent silence, you who hear, for the song of Apollo. Even the sea is silent when singers celebrate the gear of Phoebus Lycoreus, whether his cithara or his bow and arrows, and Thetis no longer mournfully laments her son Achilles whenever she hears hiePaiêon,hiePaiêon. ἱὴ ἱὴ φθέγγεσθε· κακὸν μακάρεσσιν ἐρίζειν. (25) Cry hie!hie!: it is wrong to strive with the immortals. ἱὴ ἱὴ Καρνεῖε πολύλλιτε (80) Hiehie, much-beseeched Carneius! ἐπηύτησε δὲ λαός, ‘ἱὴ ἱὴ παιῆον, ἵει βέλος.’ (102-103) And the people cried out, ‘hiehiePaiêon, shoot an arrow!’

Whereas the mention of the ‘song of Apollo’ which urges its hearers into sacred silence (εὐφημεῖτ᾽ ἀίοντες ἐπ᾽ Ἀπόλλωνος ἀοιδῇ, 17) seems to refer only to the present song, the following lines (18-21) generalise the effect of hearing the song to any praise-song of Apollo, so that the immediate present shades into the iterative. At 20-21, the paean-refrain is mentioned as the equivalent to the ‘song of Apollo’; whenever Thetis hears it, she ceases her mourning for Achilles. From this point onward the refrain-fragment ἱὴ ἱὴ is echoed with striking variations of modality. Whereas for Thetis the refrain is something to be heard, at v. 25 it becomes something to be cried out (ἱὴ ἱὴ φθέγγεσθε); then, at v. 80, the speaker utters it directly as a self-conscious affirmation of his native allegiance to Apollo Carneius (ἱὴ ἱὴ Καρνεῖε πολύλλιτε). The climax of this series comes at vv. 97-105, where the speaker offers an αἴτιον for the refrain (ἐφύμνιον) itself: ἱὴ ἱὴ παιῆον ἀκούομεν, οὕνεκα τοῦτο Δελφός τοι πρώτιστον ἐφύμνιον εὕρετο λαός, ἦμος ἑκηβολίην χρυσέων ἐπεδείκνυσο τόξων. Πυθώ τοι κατιόντι συνήντετο δαιμόνιος θήρ, αἰνὸς ὄφις. τὸν μὲν σὺ κατήναρες ἄλλον ἐπ᾽ ἄλλῳ βάλλων ὠκὺν ὀιστόν, ἐπηύτησε δὲ λαός,

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‘ἱὴ ἱὴ παιῆον, ἵει βέλος.’ εὐθύ σε μήτηρ γείνατ᾽ ἀοσσητῆρα, τὸ δ᾽ ἐξέτι κεῖθεν ἀείδῃ. (97-105) hiehiePaiêon – we hear this because the people of Delphi first invented it as a refrain for you, when you showed them your far-shooting bow of golden arrows. When you came there, the terrible beast Pytho, a dire serpent, confronted you. You slew him, firing one swift dart after another, and the people cried out, ‘hie hie Paiêon, shoot an arrow!’ Your mother bore you to be a helper from the first, and ever since then you are sung of in this way.33

The present aural experience (ἀκούομεν, 97) is aetiologically traced to a primeval act of ‘showing’ (ἐπεδείκνυσο, 99) – an archetype of the presently anticipated epiphany – which was reciprocated34 by the inaugural utterance of the refrain (πρώτιστον, 98),35 reported in yet another modality, that of quoted speech: ἐπηύτησε δὲ λαός, | ‘ἱὴ ἱὴ παιῆον, ἵει βέλος (103-104).’ The spontaneity of the invention of the refrain – reputedly proceeding from a ‘natural’ utterance, ‘ἵει, παῖ, ἰόν’ – recalls the spontaneous, epiphanic quality of the ‘song of Apollo’ and, by extension, Callimachus’ HymntoApollo itself. Calame interprets this interplay of narrated and narrating voices as proceeding from a fundamental ‘ambiguity’ in the ‘enunciative structure’ of the hymn.36 However, taking into account my suggestion that the hymn is represented as a shared audiovisual experience which is manifest to those admitted into the space of inclusion, I would argue that ‘enunciative ambiguity’ does not adequately capture how Callimachus employs these multimodal echoes of his own hymnic utterance. By offering his αἴτιον in 97-105 not only as a detached, objective explanation for the refrain, but as an origin-story of what we now hear (ἀκούομεν, 97), Callimachus draws a line of continuity between this and other past iterations of the refrain (cf. esp. vv. 17-21), subsuming these past analogues and their narrative presentation into the space of inclusion containing the present performance. The effect, then, is less a paradoxical synthesis of voices than a pulling together of multiple instantiations of the hymnic utterance 33. Cf. 47 and following: Φοῖβον καὶ Νόμιον κικλήσκομεν ἐξέτι κείνου κτλ. 34. The μὲν…δὲ construction of vv. 95-96 emphasises the reciprocity of the god’s deed and the people’s praise. 35. The superlative πρώτιστον (98) is interesting here. Race notes that Callimachus’ use of τὰ πρώτιστα at v. 30 of the HymntoDelos “finally marks the very beginning of the narrative (in contrast to the previous uses of πρῶτος in 4, 6, 16, and 22)”, following Hesiod’s marked use of the superlative at Theogony vv. 24, 116 (Race 1992: 36). In the present Hymn, the superlative is consistent with Callimachus’ representation of this paeanrefrain as the mythical archetype of the paean being sung at present. 36. Calame (2005: 79-82).

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in varying modalities into a composite experience centred on the mutual manifestness of worshipper and god, of laudator and laudandus.37 The experience of the ‘song of Apollo’, however, is not a unilateral one, since Apollo will reciprocate with his blessings: τὸν χορὸν ὡπόλλων, ὅ τι οἱ κατὰ θυμὸν ἀείδει, τιμήσει· δύναται γάρ, ἐπεὶ Διὶ δεξιὸς ἧσται. οὐδ᾽ ὁ χορὸς τὸν Φοῖβον ἐφ᾽ ἓν μόνον ἦμαρ ἀείσει, ἔστι γὰρ εὔυμνος· τίς ἂν οὐ ῥέα Φοῖβον ἀείδοι; (28-31) Apollo will honour the chorus because it sings after his heart: he has the power, for he sits at the right hand of Zeus. Nor will the chorus hymn Phoebus for one day only, so suitable for song is he; who would not readily hymn Phoebus?

The space of inclusion is therefore also the space in which Apollo hears and approves of the hymn being offered to him. To take this further, we may say that, in a sense, the creation of the space of inclusion by means of this audiovisual reciprocity between chorus and god is the epiphany of Apollo. It is appropriate in this regard that when Envy intervenes at the close of the poem to criticise the hymn, he is explicitly described as invading the god’s field of aural perception by ‘whispering in his ears’ (105), thus interrupting the desired audiovisual reciprocation between chorus and god and trying to create a smaller space of inclusion occupied only by himself and Apollo. This leads us to another observation. If the space of inclusion is the very space in which the ‘song of Apollo’ is heard, and the ‘song of Apollo’ can at least notionally be identified with the present poem, viz. the Hymn to Apollo of Callimachus, then there is a convergence of the medium of representation and the represented object, and we can hardly avoid the conclusion that the hymn is engaged in presenting the experience of itself.38 Thus the exposition of the ‘song of Apollo’, and the whole performance of which it is a part, is an instance of what Dällenbach calls the “mise-en-abyme of the enunciation”, that is, a narrative reproduction within the Hymn to Apollo of the process of its own enunciation, or

37. Cf. Morgan’s observations about Pindar’s similarly multimodal employment of the κῶμος as analogue and mise-en-abyme for his epinician odes, which has the effect of transforming his poetry into “a self-sufficient and totalizing poetic discourse that throws the excellence of his song into relief by subsuming all aspects of the present revel, the poetry of the past, and the performative context of the future” (Morgan 1993: 15). 38. Cf. Calame (2005: 77), on the narrative of the foundation of Cyrene: “there is a kind of coincidence (in the strong sense of the term) created between the present poem’s enunciative form, a hymn, and the content of what is uttered – the description of a ritual musical performance.”

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performance.39 This brings us back to the problem with which we started: the relation, flagged by Albert, between the poem’s discourse (the enunciation of the Hymn to Apollo) and the events it portrays (the ‘song of Apollo’). We are now prepared to approach the concept of mimetic poetry more directly.

3 Mimesis and diegesis: from modes of presentation to experiential frames 3.1 Harder’smimeticanddiegeticmodes Harder understands the Hymns of Callimachus in general as oscillating between mimetic and diegetic modes of narrative presentation, modelling her mimesis-diegesis distinction after Pfister’s comments on modes of presentation in drama.40 She labels as “diegetic” passages in which “a story or description is being transmitted to a ‘reader’”, reserving the label ‘mimetic’ for passages in which “the speaker is either addressing himself as a fictional character or addressing other fictional characters”.41 Interestingly, she includes under the ‘mimetic’ category passages which even miminally dramatise the situation of the primary speaker of the hymn, such as the ‘response’ of Zeus to Callimachus’ question about his birthplace that appears suddenly in h.Zeus v. 8: ‘Κρῆτες ἀεὶ ψεῦσται’.42 She calls this a “mimetic interruption in the text”, noting that the sudden interjection of an unannounced speaker creates the illusion that the speaker and his discourse are “fixed in space and time”, like a dramatic character.43 39. Dällenbach defines the “mise-en-abyme of the enunciation” as “(i) the ‘making present’ in the diegesis of the producer or receiver of the narrative; (ii) the revelation of the production or reception perse; or (iii) the explicitation of the context that determines (or has determined) this production/reception (Dällenbach 1989: 75).” All three are relevant to the present poem. Vamvouri Ruffy (2004: 149-155) offers a useful discussion of a similar type of miseen-abyme in the HomericHymns, based on passages in Hymns 19 (to Pan), 21 (to Apollo), and 4 (to Hermes) in which “le chant du locuteur-aède trouve sa configuration dans le chant divin (149).” Her observations on the uses and effects of this configuration are limited, however, to the realm of metapoetic posturing: e.g., “Le locuteur-aède fournit ici aussi une représentation narrative des qualités de sa composition (153)”; “La relation d’Hermès avec Apollon peut être utilisée comme grille de lecture pour saisir celle du locuteur-aède avec son public (155).” I attribute a rather higher degree of significance to the mise-en-abyme in the HymntoApollo. 40. Pfister (1988: 22-23). 41. Harder (1992: 386). 42. Harder (1992: 388). 43. Harder (1992: 388).

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The problem with Harder’s schema of mimetic and diegetic modes is that it only takes into account the narrative presentation of fictional objects and events, although it is not at all clear that this representational function should be considered the primary function of the discourse of the Hymnsor of their ‘narrators’. The opening exposition of the Hymnto Apollocan, it is true, be said to ‘present’ objects and events in sequence; οὐχ ὁράᾳς; in v. 4 and εὐφημεῖτ᾽ ἀίοντες ἐπ᾽ Ἀπόλλωνος ἀοιδῇ (17) direct an audience to an audiovisual spectacle, which is then (at least notionally) set forth in the following lines, and in this sense the utterer of these words may indeed be thought of as acting as a kind of ‘narrator’. Likewise, as per the usual understanding of the ‘master of ceremonies’ convention, the commands to begin the song and dance are really a kind of narration of the same, a presentation of the described events before an audience who cannot see them otherwise. To this extent it is understandable that some might consider the speaker as, in some sense, narrating the action of the Hymn. This conception of the speaker’s role becomes problematic, however, when we consider some other utterances, such as the following: (1) ἱὴ ἱὴ φθέγγεσθε· κακὸν μακάρεσσιν ἐρίζειν. ὃς μάχεται μακάρεσσιν, ἐμῶι βασιλῆι μάχοιτο· ὅστις ἐμῶι βασιλῆι, καὶ Ἀπόλλωνι μάχοιτο (25-27). Cry hie!hie!: it is wrong to strive with the immortals. Whoever fights with the immortals, may he fight with my king; whoever fights with my king, may he fight with Apollo too. (2) ὤπολλον, πολλοί σε Βοηδρόμιον καλέουσι, πολλοὶ δὲ Κλάριον, πάντη δέ τοι οὔνομα πουλύ· αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ Καρνεῖον· ἐμοὶ πατρώιον οὕτω (69-71). O Apollo, many call you Cattle-herder, others the Clarian, and everywhere your name is manifold, but I call you Carneius; it is my birthright to do so. (3) ἱὴ ἱὴ Καρνεῖε πολύλλιτε (80). hie!hie! Much-beseeched Carneius! (4) χαῖρε ἄναξ· ὁ δὲ Μῶμος, ἵν᾽ ὁ Φθόνος, ἔνθα νέοιτο (113). Hail, lord – and let Blame go the same way as Envy.

These utterances do not in any obvious way “transmit” a “story or description”;44 they primarily make assertions about the speaker’s stance towards the act of praise he is performing, or else perform other speech 44. Harder (1992: 386).

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acts closely aligned with hymnic discourse, such as invocation and praise. However we define their purpose or function, it seems clear that they are not ‘diegetic’ in the sense of performing a narration. By the same token, there is no good reason to attribute these utterances to a fictional character – thus labelling them ‘mimetic’ rather than ‘diegetic’ in Harder’s terminology – unless we simply assume that all utterances in the Hymn must be categorised as either ‘mimetic’ or ‘diegetic’. Such an attribution would not shed any light on these utterances, and would require special pleading.45 In fact, there is nothing at all to deter a reader so inclined from attributing them to Callimachus himself, either speaking in an individual capacity or else as the spokesperson of the chorus. 3.2 Hymnicdiscourseas‘experience-report’and‘performedspeech’ Despite this difficulty, I would suggest that something of Harder’s discussion of ‘mimetic’ elements in the Hymns can nevertheless be carried over into our explication of the relation between the discourse and the events in the Hymn to Apollo, provided we drop the criterion of fictionality. Harder’s discussion of “mimetic interruptions in the text” shows that even when there has not been an overt Szenerieveränderung, the discourse can exhibit a minimal impression of sequentiality, i.e. the passing of narrative time alongside the unfolding of the hymnic discourse itself. We have of course already noticed this phenomenon in connexion with ἠγασάμην τοὺς παῖδας κτλ. (16), i.e. the implication that the song is a distinct event with its own temporality, not determined by the discourse of the speaker and its own sequentiality. To this extent the poem does indeed ‘diegetically’ present a hymn-performance and the ritual surrounding it. At the same time, however, that hymn-performance cannot be attributed exclusively to its own quotational frame within the diegetic universe of the poem, because, of course, the hymn to be sung is, by way of mise-en-abyme,identical with the present poem, the Hymn to Apollo of Callimachus.46 This raises the question: in what sense do the ‘mimetic’ sections of the poem present a fictional narrative? Now, it is widely acknowledged that Callimachus makes use in this poem of a well-established convention of choral poetry wherein the speaker announces the act of singing that is in fact already underway. According to this convention, originally outlined by Bundy, both the 45. For more on this question of fictionality, see section 4 below and cf. Walsh (1997: passim); (2007: 69-85). 46. Cf. Calame (2005: 82), Bing (1993: 186).

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command to sing (ἐντύνεσθε, 8) and the future indicatives that respond to it (ὀψόμεθ’, ἐσσόμεθ’, 11) can be understood as ‘self-fulfilling’, conforming to a type of utterance that has been labelled ‘performative’.47 The ‘performative future’ is also a central feature of the HomericHymns, the primary models for Callimachus’ own Hymns.48 Often in the Homeric Hymns, the speaker announces the discourse as it unfolds with such a ‘performative’ utterance, typically either first-person futures or commands to the Muse.49 This is in accordance with the function of the hymn as an ἄγαλμα offered to a god, aiming at the reciprocation of χάρις.50 The opening is matched by a ‘hymnic envoi’, marked by a formula typically using a form of the word χαῖρε or ἵλαθι, which announces that the offering has been received successfully by the god, after which the poet typically goes on to promise another song. The χαῖρε-formula thus signals the fulfilment of the programme laid out at the beginning, representing the hymn as a whole as a completed and efficacious speech-act: by saying ‘I will sing’, the poet sings; by saying ‘rejoice in my hymn!’ the poet demonstrates that the god rejoices in his hymn. Such utterances thus have the effect of objectifying the hymn as performed utterance, so that, as Calame says, “the poem itself is transformed not only into an exchange commodity, but also into a musical performed object.”51 We can apply this understanding of ‘performative utterances’ to the Hymn to Apollo with one qualification. Pfeijffer, in an analysis of the ‘performative future’ in Pindar, refutes the view that such uses of the future tense serve only to announce a present intention to sing and thus effectively lose their future-tensedness, arguing that all such ‘performative futures’ can be interpreted as referring to some future event, whether this event takes place during the performance of the ode or afterward.52 However he does concede that there is a certain use of the future in Pindar and other poets which he calls “‘fictional’ futures, announcing

47. Bundy (1986: 21–22); see also Slater (1969: 86-94); Carey (1989: 550-2); Calame (1995: 144-146); Pfeijffer (1999: 34); D’Alessio (2004: 272-277). I see utterances of this type in Callimachus’ hymn at vv. 7 (ἐντύνεσθε), 11 (ὀψόμεθ᾽, ἐσσόμεθ᾽), 12-13 (μήτε…ἔχειν), 17 (εὐφημεῖτ᾽), 25 (ἱὴ ἱὴ φθέγγεσθε), 29 (τιμήσει), 30 (ἀείσει), and 113 (χαῖρε ἄναξ). 48. For performative futures in the HomericHymns, see Bakker (2005: 144-145). For Callimachus’ imitations of the HomericHymns, see Faulkner (2011). 49. See e.g. the opening to H.H3, which resembles Callimachus h.Ap. 2.11 in structure: ‘μνήσομαι οὐδὲ λάθωμαι Ἀπόλλωνος ἑκάτοιο’. 50. Calame (2011: 354); Nagy (2011: 328); García (2002: 29-34); Furley-Bremer (2001: 61-3); Pulleyn (1997: 4); Depew (2000: 60). 51. Calame (2011b: 132). 52. See his conclusion, Pfeijffer (1999: 67).

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the ode as a whole.”53 I concur in arguing that the ‘performative utterances’ in the Hymn can be read as having two simultaneous functions corresponding to two spaces of reference opened up in the text: a firstperson future verb announcing singing does indeed refer ‘constatively’ to an event which happens in the future, as μνήσομαι in H.H.3 refers to an act of singing which is about to begin; however, such a verb also discharges what can be called a display function, the function of foregrounding and drawing attention to the speech act of commemorative praise for which it stands.54 The hymn is therefore both a ‘musical performed object’ which is involved in an honorific transaction between singer and god, and an event within the narrative of the poem, an event which has a beginning and an end, a temporal structure which is tied to the temporal structure of the discourse. It follows, then, that the speaker of such a poem can refer to the hymn either as an event which he is relaying in his capacity as ‘narrator’ – ‘now the song is beginning, now it is ending’ – or as the offering that is his discourse – ‘Rejoice, lord!’ I argue, then, that the objectification of the song-performance in progress implied in v. 16 has the same ‘objectifying’ effect as the typical Homeric ‘performative future’, ὑμνήσω, μνήσομαι, ἀείσω. This effect, seen from the reader’s point of view, can be conceptualised as a lamination of two experiential frames, borrowing the terminology of Goffman (1974: 82) and Fludernik (1996: 49-51).55 We can label these two frames ‘experience-report’ and ‘performed speech’, to capture the sense that the hymn oscillates between discharging a hymnic performance and relaying an audiovisual experience to a narratee.56 The frame of performed speech is the angle from which the hymn can be considered a performance delivered in the here and now, whereas the frame of experience-report produces what could be called a narrativisation of 53. Pfeijffer (1999: 33-43). Cf. Fleischmann (1990: 39-40). 54. For the notion of the performance of praise poetry as an act of display, see Nikolaev (2012); see also Vamvouri Ruffy (2004: 85-90) on the theme of “l’enchantement musical du dieu” in the Homeric Hymns, whereby “[on] offre une représentation narrative du plaisir que le dieu est invité à éprouver” (88). 55. My use of the concept of experiential frames borrows something from Jahn’s concept of ‘story windows’ (Jahn 1999). According to this model, it is not ‘narrative instances’ that are in question but rather the perspective offered on events and objects in the storyworld. 56. These two frames correspond roughly to the Benvenistan dichotomy of histoire and discours which Calame employs to explain the primary modalities of the Homeric Hymns (Calame 2011a). However, where Calame applies these terms broadly to distinguish hymnic narrative from other typically hymnic utterance-types such as the invocatio and preces, I employ my frame model more specifically to explicate more minute shifts in the modality of the hymnic discourse as manifested in the experience of a reader.

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this performance, which is accomplished by way of the figuration of the ‘song to Apollo’ as a mise-en-abyme of the enunciation of the Hymn toApollo.57 These frames are ‘laminated’ in that, while each represents a distinct ‘point of view’ on the hymnic discourse, they are superimposed together in such a way that both frames are equally available at all times. But here we come up against the narratological distinction between story and discourse, and between the world of the narrator and the world of the fiction. Let us try to bridge this gap. Stanzel in his TheoryofNarrative draws a useful distinction between a ‘narrating “I”’ and ‘experiencing “I”’ in first-person narratives.58 In autobiography, this denotes the distance between the self as autobiographer and the self as subject, a distance canonically marked by a gulf in biographical time. However, in reflecting on the experiences of one’s past self, one turns one’s narrating self into the subject of the experience of reflection, and thus the boundaries between writer and subject are promptly blurred. It will, I believe, be agreed that, while Callimachus’ HymntoApollo does indeed use the language of personal experience, the ‘goal’ of the poem is not to reflect on the experience implied in it in an autobiographical mode; rather, the node at which narrating self and experiencing subject coincide is in the performance of praise which constitutes the hymn. The performance of the hymn, whether conceived as the discourse of Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo or as the ‘song of Apollo’ referred to in the poem (vv. 8, 16, 17, 30, 97), can thus be seen a single object which is viewed, as we have said, through two superimposed or laminated frames – the frame of experience-report and the frame of performed speech – and the perspectival ‘switching’ between these frames does not necessarily entail a change of speaker or a shift between diegetic levels, but is better conceived as a shift in modality that occurs not at the level of the ‘characters’ (whether ‘narrators’ or ‘focalisers’) but at the global level, the level of the mediacy of the Hymnitself.59 Approaching the poem in terms of experiential frames helps us to reconceptualise the fundamental disjunction pointed out by Albert between the discourse and the events which we have pinpointed at v. 16, where the speaker apparently reacts to the beginning of the chorus’ song. The usual approach to this, as we have seen, has been to deduce that there has been a change of speaker, and either to apportion sections of text to 57. The concept of the narrativisation of performance is derived in part from Nünning’s concept of the MimesisdesErzählens(Nünning 2001); cf. Ricœur’s discussion of Günther Müller’s distinction between Erzählzeit and erzählteZeit (Ricœur 1985: 77-81). 58. Stanzel (1984: 90-104 and 209-214). 59. See Fludernik (1996: 50).

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various speakers or to conclude that the ambiguity of voice in the poem renders the decision impossible. I have argued, however, that it is more satisfactory to consider the discourse (Callimachus’ HymntoApollo) and the events or story (the complex of auditory and visual phenomena that makes up the ‘song of Apollo’) as the same object viewed through the lenses of two distinct yet overlapping frames. According to this logic, the distinction between character-text and narrator-text basic to classical narratology is inapplicable to his poem, because the agents which critics have identified as the ‘characters’ of this poem (the chorus, the choregos, and the spectators) are doing the same thing (or a version of the same thing) that the ‘narrator’ is doing, that is, simultaneously performing and experiencing a hymn to Apollo. The ‘enunciative ambiguities’ of the poem cannot be solved by apportioning lines to characters because these ambiguities are a function of the composite multimodality of the song of Apollo, of its synaesthetic crossing of the experiential roles of singer and spectator, of subject and object positions in auditory and visual perception. Our understanding of this poem has been debilitated by the strictures of classical narratology, which insists on defining the opposition of story and discourse in epistemological terms and regards the identification and classification of narrator-figures as the definitive solution to problems of voice and point of view. Thinking rather in terms of spaces and experiential frames permits us to move away from seeing the many and varied uses of person deixis in the poem as roll calls for a predetermined set of dramatis personae and towards considering them as orientating its participants in space, so that we cease to ask of the text ‘who is this “I”/“we”/“you”?’ and rather ask ‘where am I/are we/are you in relation to the space of inclusion?’ Once we accept that this space of inclusion is drawn around the experiential field of the ‘song to Apollo’, which acts in turn as an icon for the poem itself, we can appreciate how misguided it is to attempt to objectively reconstruct the mise-en-scene projected by the poem, since the hymn does not depict a scene but rather mobilises the very deictic field of its enunciation and the participants thereof to fill the indexical roles it produces. Previous attempts to set the HymntoApollo in a performative setting have on the whole failed to take into account this constitutive role of deixis, instead operating under the misconception that close and attentive reading can uncover a determinate scene that lies behind the text and can be reconstructed deductively from it. This criticism applies equally to those like Calame who assume the poem is a ‘literary fiction’, those like Vestrheim who argue that it could be performed but that its enunciative

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ambiguities are unsolvable, and even those like Petrovic who in recent years have endeavoured to set the poem in a real-world performance context.60 This deductive method overlooks the fundamental step of concretisation, the creation of communicative context and participant roles which occurs anew in every reception situation.61 This act of creation is not the sole reserve of the poet or the text, but must be seen as an intersubjective process, occurring between author, text, reader, and, in a performance setting, all those involved in the production and consumption of that performance. We need an interpretive method which takes into account this activity of contextualisation, of context creation; the current essay is only a programmatic gesture in this direction. I close with some comments on the question of fictionality raised at the beginning of the paper.

4. Conclusion: Fictionality and epiphany The most regrettable entailment of applying the paradigm of classical narratology to this poem is the theory of fiction it presupposes. It suggests that wherever there is a verbal representation of a fictional object, there must be a creator (an extradiegetic narrator or an ‘implied author’) who is ontologically prior and exterior to the world of her creation.62 Transgression of this boundary between the worlds of teller and told is called ‘metalepsis’, 63 a phenomenon which, according to Genette, “produces an effect of strangeness that is either comical […] or fantastic.”64 This is precisely how Bing responds to the question in the opening lines of the poem addressed, unexpectedly, to a singular addressee: οὐχ ὁράᾳς; (‘don’t you see?’, 4). “The urgent question is obviously addressed to an unspecified bystander, a fellow celebrant in the ritual […]. But a reader might well do a doubletake at this question, glancing uneasily over his shoulder as though to ask 60. Calame (2005); Vestrheim (2012); Petrovic (2011). 61. On concretisation see Ingarden (1973) and Iser (1978); on context creation see Van Dijk (2008); on participant roles see Goffman (1981). 62. For a critique of this model, see Walsh (1997: passim); (2007: 69-85). 63. Genette defines metalepsis as “any intrusion by the extradiegetic narrator or narratee into the diegetic universe (or by diegetic characters into a metadiegetic universe, etc.), or the inverse (1980: 234-235)”. For some useful revisions of the concept see Fludernik (2003); for some applications to ancient Greek poetry, see de Jong (2009). 64. Genette (1980: 235). Cf. 236: “All these [metaleptic] games, by the intensity of their effects, demonstrate the importance of the boundary they tax their ingenuity to overstep, in defiance of verisimilitude – a boundary that is precisely the narrating (or the performance)itself: a shifting but sacred frontier between two worlds, the world in which one tells, the world of which one tells.”

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‘Who, me?’, for the style of the hymn clearly coaxes the reader into the role of one of the worshippers.”65

For Bing, then, the question contributes to an overall effect by which ‘the audience is unwittingly drawn out of its detached sense of self and into the scene’.66 He considers the second-person address as stretching across two levels of communication, the fictional (narrator > narratee) and the extrafictional (author > reader).67 Likewise, Hunter seems to regard the question as a deliberate absurdity: “do you (sing.) not see?’ asks the poetic voice, and we are compelled to answer, ‘well, no’.”68 But I have argued that the poem’s lamination of the frames of experience-report and performed speech does not necessitate a change in speaker, let alone a shift between ontological levels. As it turns out, Reitzenstein offers a better formulation: according to him, the question “makes the reader himself the spectator”.69 Rather than parsing this statement into some monstrosity like ‘Callimachus invites the reader to identify metaleptically with one of the spectators within the fiction’, I suggest we keep it as it stands: the poet appeals to the reader’s vision. Let us see how this works. Consider again the verbal context in which the question appears: οἷον ὁ τὠπόλλωνος ἐσείσατο δάφνινος ὅρπηξ, οἷα δ᾽ ὅλον τὸ μέλαθρον· ἑκάς, ἑκὰς ὅστις ἀλιτρός. καὶ δή που τὰ θύρετρα καλῷ ποδὶ Φοῖβος ἀράσσει· οὐχ ὁράᾳς; ἐπένευσεν ὁ Δήλιος ἡδύ τι φοῖνιξ ἐξαπίνης, ὁ δὲ κύκνος ἐν ἠέρι καλὸν ἀείδει. (1-5) How the laurel shoot of Apollo trembled, and the whole shrine as well! Begone, begone, whosoever is unworthy! Surely that is Phoebus knocking on the doors with his beautiful foot – don’t you see? The Delian palm nodded sweetly of its own accord, and the swan is singing a beautiful song in the air.

From the context it is clear that the question is asked not only to make sure the addressee is paying attention. Rather, the question is an appeal to the addressee to acknowledge the harbingers of Apollo’s epiphany and so to back up the speaker’s inference (signalled by the cluster of 65. Bing (1993: 184). 66. Bing (1993: 184). 67. For a representative example of this structuralist schema of levels of communication, see Pfister (1988: 3-4). Cf. Payne (2007: 55) on the “uncanny effect” and “unsettling quality” of the “mimetic Hymns”, which he ascribes to the fact that the poems use the “device of the fictional addressee” to “project their world outward, into the world of the reader.” The assumption that poem and reader bydefaultoccupy separate worlds is taken as read. 68. Hunter (1992: 13). 69. Reitzenstein (1906: 160), my translation.

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discourse particles καὶ δή που)70 that the god is close at hand; that is, it both points to something visible and invites the addressee to share his interpretation of that thing. This is not the only instance in the poem of an appeal to an addressee in the second person singular: χρύσεα τὠπόλλωνι τό τ᾽ ἐνδυτὸν ἥ τ᾽ ἐπιπορπὶς ἥ τε λύρη τό τ᾽ ἄεμμα τὸ Λύκτιον ἥ τε φαρέτρη, χρύσεα καὶ τὰ πέδιλα· πολύχρυσος γὰρ Ἀπόλλων, καὶ δὲ πολυκτέανος· Πυθῶνί κε τεκμήραιο. (32-35) Golden is the dress of Apollo, his cloak, his lyre, his Lyctian bow and his quiver, and golden are his sandals, for Apollo is rich in gold, and rich in possessions too: youmayjudgebyPytho.

Surely Hunter or Bing would aver that this use of the ‘empty’ second person singular is of a different order than the ‘metaleptic’ οὐχ ὁράᾳς; However, the context in which it appears is strikingly similar. Whereas v. 4 appeals to the speaker’s vision to substantiate the claim that Apollo is knocking on the temple doors, here the speaker appeals to the addressee’s knowledge of Delphi to corroborate his assertions about the golden attire of the god. While ‘you may judge by Pytho’ does not appeal to the eyes directly in the way that ‘don’t you see?’ does, it is nevertheless primarily an aspect of Apollo’s physical appearance that is in question. The speaker acknowledges that the god is not (yet!) physically present to the addressee, and as such cannot affirm the assertion that he is rich in gold, so he asks her to recall the splendour of Delphi, which is an appeal to visual memory as much as anything else. Reitzenstein is correct, therefore, to note that the reader is invited to become a spectator; but what she is invited to see is not only a series of fictional events which the poem ‘mimetically’ depicts, but also the presentation or epiphany of Apollo effected through the very argumentation of the hymnic discourse, if we stretch ‘argumentation’ to include its etymological sense of ‘making manifest’. In both passages, then, the address to the second person singular functions as a captatiobeneuolentiae, inviting the hearer to collude with the speaker in a certain way of seeing Apollo. I would therefore correct Bing’s stratification of the communicative framework of the Hymn by positing that the very distinction between (extrafictional) reader and (intrafictional) spectator, which he supposes to be metaleptically transgressed by the question ‘don’t you see?’, is itself of questionable validity, being justified only by certain rather precarious 70. See Cuypers (2005: 41-45).

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assumptions, most fully articulated by Calame in the passage quoted above (section 1.1),71 about the fictionality of the poem on the one hand and about the pragmatics of fictional texts on the other. The way of seeing – the epiphany– that this poem brings into being is not readily classifiable according to a simple division of fact from fiction, of deixisadoculos from deixisadphantasma, because the object and field of this seeing, what I have called the ‘space of inclusion’, is not a determinate fictive space (and still less a determinate real space) but the product of a series of metaphorical mappings, which can now be delineated as follows.72 First,73 the visual phenomenon of epiphany is equated by analogy with the aural phenomenon of song.74 Second, the field of perceptibility of both epiphany and song is mapped onto the physical space of the temple and its spatial demarcation of sacred and profane.75 Thirdly, this space is mapped onto the ideal reciprocity between worshipper and god that characterises prayer, which is of course already informed by the metaphorical conception that being ‘in’ the god’s favour is equivalent to being in his presence and being able to see and hear him. Finally, the notion of reciprocity, mapped onto the field of perception, leads to a conception of the interchangeability of subject and object roles in the experience of sight and sound. This final mapping, in its interaction with the previous three, is in fact what produces the lamination of the frames of experience-report and performed speech which I have identified in the poem. Ultimately, then, despite the technical language which I have used to describe it, there is nothing more esoteric underlying this ‘lamination’ than the intuitive understanding that song is something which can be both produced and heard by humans.76 Peponi (2004: 301-302 and passim) has some useful insights on the mediation of the choral performance through the poetry in the Louvre Partheneionof Alcman. On her view, the question ἦ οὐκ ὁρῇς; at v. 50 invites the spectator to apply the transformative power of the words to 71. Calame (2005: 80-82). 72. With ‘metaphorical mappings’ I am adopting the terminology of Lakoff and Johnson (1980), with a nod to the concept of ‘conceptual blending’ outlined by Fauconnier and Turner (2002). 73. My ordering is, of course, purely heuristic. 74. The aural and the visual are intermingled straight away with the portents described at vv. 1-5. 75. See Lakoff and Johnson (1980: 30) on the conceptual metaphor of the ‘field of vision’ as a container. For more on sacred space in the poem, see Petrovic (2011). 76. Here we may find some common ground with Albert in noting that the frames of experience-report and performed speech permit the ‘song of Apollo’ to be experienced at one and the same time as an objective ‘process’ (Vorgang) and a subjective ‘event’ (Geschehnis).

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the spectacle before her so that her own eyes confirm the truth of the illusion conferred onto the performance by the poem. In the same way, I suggest, Callimachus’ οὐχ ὁράᾳς; (4) transforms his own hymn into a spectacle which unfolds ἐξαπίνης (5), ‘spontaneously’, before his reader’s or hearer’s eyes, as if independent of his own act of poetic creation. The lamination of the frames of experience-report and performed speech ensure that, whatever the milieu of staging, the occasion is madepresent by the poem, in a way that makes it possible to comprehend an affirmative answer to the question ‘do you not see?’.

REFERENCES Acosta-Hughes, B. & S.A. Stephens, 2012, Callimachusincontext:fromPlato totheAugustanpoets. Cambridge. Albert, W., 1988, Das mimetische Gedicht in der Antike: Geschichte und Typologie von den Anfängen bis in die augusteische Zeit. Frankfurt am Main. Bakker, E.J., 2005, Pointing at the past: from formula to performance in Homeric poetics. London. Bassi, K., 1989, ‘The poetics of exclusion in Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo’. TAPA 119: 219–31. Bing, P., 1993, ‘Impersonation of voice in Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo’. TAPA 123: 181-98. Bing, P., 1988, The well-read Muse: present and past in Callimachus and the Hellenisticpoets(Hypomnemata 90). Göttingen. Bulloch, A.W., 2010, ‘Hymns and encomia’. In: J.J. Clauss & M. Cuypers (eds), A companion to Hellenistic literature. London, 166-80. Bulloch, A.W., 1985, Callimachus:thefifthhymn. Cambridge. Bulloch, A.W., 1984, ‘The future of a Hellenistic illusion. Some observations on Callimachus and religion’. MH 41: 209-30. Bundy, E.L., 1986, StudiaPindarica, 2nd ed. Berkeley. Bundy, E.L., 1972, ‘The quarrel between Kallimachos and Apollonios’: part I: ‘the epilogue of Kallimachos’ hymn to Apollo’. CSCPh 5: 39-94. Bühler, K., 1982, ‘The deictic field of language and deictic words’. In: R.J. Jarvella & W. Klein (eds), Speech,place,andaction:studiesindeixis andrelatedtopics. London, 9-30. Calame, C., 2011a, ‘The Homeric Hymns as poetic offerings: musical and ritual relationships with the gods’. In: A. Faulkner (ed), The Homeric hymns: interpretativeessays. Oxford, 334-57. Calame, C., 2011b, ‘Enunciative fiction and poetic performance. Choral voices in Bacchylides’ Epinicians’. In: L. Athanassaki & E. Bowie (eds), Archaic andclassicalchoralsong:performance,politicsanddissemination. Berlin, 115-38. Calame, C., 2005, ‘Legendary narration and poetic procedure in Callimachus’ HymntoApollo’. In: Masksofauthority:fictionandpragmaticsinancient Greekpoetics. New York, 70-87. Cameron, A., 1995, Callimachusandhiscritics. Princeton.

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Carey, C., 1989, ‘The performance of the victory ode’. AJPh 110: 545-65. Cheshire, K., 2008, ‘Kicking Φθόνος: Apollo and his chorus in Callimachus’ Hymn 2’. CP 103: 354-73. Cuypers, M., 2005, ‘Interactional particles and narrative voice in Apollonius and Homer’. In: M. Cuypers & M.A. Harder (eds), Beginning from Apollo: studiesinApolloniusRhodiusandtheArgonautictradition. Leuven, 35-69. D’Alessio, G.-B., 2004, ‘Past present and future past: temporal deixis in Greek archaic lyric’. Arethusa 37: 267-94. Dällenbach, L., 1989, The mirror in the text, trans. J. Whiteley & E. Hughes. Cambridge. Depew, M., 2000, ‘Enacted and represented dedications: genre and Greek hymn’. In: M. Depew & D. Obbink (eds), Matricesofgenre:authors,canons,and society. Cambridge, MA, 59-80. Depew, M., 1997, ‘Reading Greek prayers’. CA 16: 229-58. Depew, M., 1993, ‘Mimesis and aetiology’. In: M.A. Harder et al. (eds), Callimachus(HellenisticaGroningana1).Leiden, 57-77. Dijk, T.A. van, 2008, Discourseandcontext:asociocognitiveapproach. Cambridge. Erbse, H., 1955, ‘Zum Apollonhymnos des Kallimachos’. Hermes83: 411-428. Falivene, M.R., 1990, ‘La mimesi in Callimaco: Inni II, IV, V, e VI’. QUCC 36: 103-28. Fantuzzi, M., 2011, ‘Speaking with authority: polyphony in Callimachus’ Hymns’. In: B. Acosta-Huges et al. (eds), Brill’scompaniontoCallimachus. Leiden, 429-53. Fantuzzi, M., 2010, ‘Sung poetry: the case of inscribed paeans’. In: J.J. Clauss & M. Cuypers (eds), A companion to Hellenistic literature. London, 18197. Fantuzzi, M. & R.L. Hunter, 2004, Tradition and innovation in Hellenistic poetry. Cambridge. Fauconnier, G. & M. Turner, 2002, The way we think: conceptual blending and the mind’s hidden complexities. New York. Fleischmann, S., 1990, Tense and narrativity: from medieval performance to modernfiction. Austin, TX. Fludernik, M., 2003, ‘Scene shift, metalepsis, and the metaleptic mode’. Style 37: 382–400. Fludernik, M., 1996, Towardsa‘natural’narratology. Leiden. Fraser, P.M., 1972, PtolemaicAlexandria, 3 vols. Oxford. Furley, W.D. & J.M. Bremer (eds), 2001, Greekhymns:selectedcultsongsfrom theArchaictotheHellenisticperiod, 2 vols. Tübingen. García, J.F., 2002, ‘Symbolic action in the Homeric Hymns: the theme of recognition’. CA 21: 5-39. Genette, G., 1980, Narrativediscourse:anessayinmethod, trans. J.E. Lewin. Ithaca, NY. Goffman, E., 1974, Frameanalysis:anessayontheorganisationofexperience. Harvard. Goffman, E., 1981, Formsoftalk. Philadelphia. Gutzwiller, K.J., 2002, ‘Art’s echo: the tradition of Hellenistic ecphrastic epigram’. In: M.A. Harder et al. (eds), 2002, Hellenisticepigrams(HellenisticaGroningana6). Leiden, 85-112.

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Harder, M.A., 2012, ‘Callimachus’. In: I.J.F. de Jong (ed), Space in ancient Greekliterature. Leiden: 77-98. Harder, M.A., 2004, ‘Callimachus’. In: I.J.F. de Jong et al. (eds), Narrators, narratees,andnarrativesinancientGreekliterature. Leiden: 63-81. Harder, M.A., 1992, ‘Insubstantial voices: some observations on the hymns of Callimachus’. CQ 42: 384-94. Harder, M.A., 1990, ‘Untrodden paths: where do they lead?’. HSCP 93: 287309. Hopkinson, N. (ed), 1984, Callimachus:Hymn to Demeter. Cambridge. Hunter, R.L., 1992, ‘Writing the god: form and meaning in Callimachus’ Hymn toAthena’. MD 29: 9-34. Ingarden, R., 1973, Theliteraryworkofart, trans. G.G. Grabowicz. Chicago, IL. Iser, W., 1978, Theactofreading:atheoryofaestheticresponse. London. Jahn, M., 1999, ‘More aspects of focalization: refinements and applications’. In: J. Pier (ed), GRAAT:Revuedesgroupesderecherchesanglo-américaines del’UniversitéFrançoisRabelaisdeTours 21: 85-110. Jong, I.J.F. de, 2009, ‘Metalepsis in ancient Greek literature’, in J. Grethlein & A. Rengakos (eds), Narratologyandinterpretation. Göttingen: 87-116. Manakidou, F.P., 2009, ‘Callimachus’ second and fifth hymn and Pindar: a reconstruction of syggeneiai in old and new Greece’. Rivista di Filologia 137: 350-79. Meillier, C.,1979, Callimaque et son temps: recherches sur la carrière et la conditiond’unécrivainàl’époquedespremiersLagides. Lille. Morgan, K.A., 1993, ‘Pindar the professional and the rhetoric of the κῶμος’. CP 88: 1-15. Morrison, A.D., 2007, The narrator in Archaic Greek and Hellenistic poetry. Cambridge. Nagy, G., 2011, ‘The earliest phases in the reception of the Homeric Hymns’. In: A. Faulkner (ed), The Homeric hymns: interpretative essays. Oxford, 280-33. Nikolaev, A., 2012, ‘Showing praise in Greek choral lyric and beyond’. AJP 133.4: 543-72. Nünning, A., 2001, ‘Mimesis des Erzählens’. In: J. Helbig (ed), Erzählen und Erzähltheorie im20.Jahrhundert:FestschriftfürWilhelmFüger. Heidelberg: 13–47. Page, D.L. (ed), 1951, Alcman:thePartheneion. Oxford. Payne, M., 2007, Theocritusandtheinventionoffiction. Oxford. Peponi, A.-E., 2004, ‘Initiating the viewer: deixis and visual perception in Alcman’s lyric drama’. Arethusa 37: 295-316. Petrovic, I., 2011, ‘Callimachus and contemporary religion: the HymntoApollo’. In: B. Acosta-Huges et al. (eds), Brill’scompaniontoCallimachus. Leiden, 264-85. Petrovic, I., 2007, VondenTorendesHadeszudenHallendesOlymp:ArtemiskultbeiTheokritundKallimachos. Leiden. Pfeiffer, R. (ed), 1985, Callimachus, 2 vols. Oxford. Pfeijffer, I.L., 1999a, FirstpersonfuturesinPindar. Stuttgart. Pfister, M., 1988, The theory and analysis of drama, trans. J. Halliday. Cambridge.

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Pulleyn, S., 1997, PrayerinGreekreligion. Oxford. Race, W.H., 1992, ‘How Greek poems begin’. YCS 29: 13-38. Reitzenstein, R., 1906, HellenistischeWundererzählungen. Leipzig. Ricœur, P., 1985, Timeandnarrative, vol. 2, trans. K. McLaughlin & D. Pellauer. Chicago. Slater, W.J., 1969, ‘Futures in Pindar’. CQ 19: 86-94. Stanzel, F.K., 1984, Atheoryofnarrative, trans. C. Goedsche. Cambridge. Stephens, S.A. (ed), 2015, Callimachus:thehymns. Oxford. Vamvouri Ruffy, M., 2004, La fabrique du divin: les Hymnes de Callimaque àlalumièredesHymnes homériquesetdesHymnesépigraphes. Liège. Vestrheim, G., 2012, ‘Voice and addressee in the mimetic hymns of Callimachus’. SymbolaeOsloensis 86: 21-73. Walsh, R., 2007, The rhetoric of fictionality: narrative theory and the idea of fiction. Columbus, OH. Walsh, R., 1997, ‘Who is the narrator?’. PoeticsToday 18.4: 495-513. Wilamowitz, U. von, 1924, HellenistischeDichtunginderZeitdesKallimachos, 2 vols. Berlin. Williams, F. (ed), 1978, Callimachus,Hymn to Apollo:acommentary. Oxford.

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1. Introduction Twenty years after Alan Cameron observed, “It is a gross oversimplification to think of an age of reading succeeding an age of listening,”1 scholarship has tended to regard Hellenistic poets’ textual experiments not so much as a book culture replacing a performance culture as one produced by and coexisting with it. Furthermore, the “bookishness” of Hellenistic poetry is no longer viewed as evidence of cultural decline as much as of organic continuity and interaction with the Greek literary past through the innovations of the present.2 Both of these points are emphasized particularly by the collection of papers in Clauss and Cuypers (2010). Jon Bruss, for example, stresses that one appreciates the play with genre in literary epigrams because of the real inscriptions and occasional contexts on which they are based, and Marco Fantuzzi suggests that the fictionalized festival poetry of Theocritus and Callimachus is informed by Hellenistic paeans composed for actual festivals.3 I would like to go one explicit step further and shift the focus momentarily away from the poet and onto the audience: a reader of a fictionalized account of a hymn, festival song, or funeral or dedicatory epigram can also be, on any given day, a participant at a real religious festival who would hear real songs or a reader of an epitaph or an epigram inscribed on an actual object. The imitation of something heard or seen gains special resonance because of the experiences of its readers.

1. Cameron (1995: 102). 2. Cf. Acosta-Hughes (2010: 91): “This scholarship foregrounds more the inventive than the reactive in poetry and… may well further change the way we discuss Hellenistic poetry – less as an art burdened by a Golden Age past but rather as one that enhances the principles it inherits from earlier artists and develops further.” Bing (1988) already had shifted the conversation away from cultural decline and focused more on poets’ innovative techniques as a desire for continuity within the Greek literary tradition; see in particular pp. 57-90. 3. Bruss (2010: 119-129); Fantuzzi (2010: 195-196).

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It should go without saying that the same holds true for textual imitations of drama. However, there has been less consensus about what constitutes dramatic versus quasi-dramatic poetry because of the very form of the dramatic dialogue and monologue. The Mimiambi of Herodas and the mimic Idylls of Theocritus (2, 14, and 15) depict characters similar to those seen in mime and comedy, engaged in realistic activities, but these Hellenistic poets also have their characters speak in artificial dialects and in meters not primarily associated with drama. Most scholars concur that Theocritus’ blend of literary Doric and hexameter, along with what has been considered a more elevated treatment than that of Herodas, indicates that these Idylls are imitations of drama.4 Scholars have been less willing to deny performance in some form to Herodas, who, especially in comparison with Theocritus, seems closer to the mime tradition and more “realistic” in his depiction of character and scenic detail.5 The discussion has revolved around whether the Mimiambi are performable or not, but the answer to this will always be a matter of opinion.6 I will look at the question from the standpoint of technique. I argue that the Mimiambi are mimetic in the same way that Callimachus’ Hymns are: the text imitates dramatic action. In the act of reading, the audience recalls their experience as spectators of comedy or mime, and the poet manipulates this recollection both to satisfy and confound their expectations.7 In Mimiamb 1 Herodas does this by evoking the structure and scenario of a comic scene and then imitating the dramatic technique of metatheater to acknowledge the audience’s participation in this mimesis.8 The first of a series of epigrams in Book Five of the PalatineAnthology, which Gow and Page call “thumbnail mimes” (AP V. 181-85),9 will serve as a good comparison to Herodas’ technique. A.P. V. 181 (Asclep. 25, Gow-Page), like Mimiamb 1, suggests a strong sense of performance because of its own evocation of a comic scene as well as a symposium setting. While it clearly had a reading public, Cameron singled out both the thumbnail 4. For a reassessment of the performance question for the Idylls, see Acosta-Hughes (2012). 5. See, for example, Hunter (1993: 39-44). 6. Hunter (1993: 39). 7. Cf. Kutzko (2006) on Herodas 6 and 7 and Kutzko (2007: 107-114) for a similar view of audience manipulation in Theocritus 6 and 11. 8. Kutzko (2007/2008) explores the imitation of this dramatic technique in Herodas 1, Theocritus 15, and V. Ecl. 3. Here I expand on these findings to present a fuller reading of Herodas 1, in comparison with the same technique in Asclep. 25. 9. Gow and Page, v. 2 (1965: 132); see also Gutzwiller (1998: 295-296), who adds V. 186-87 to this series.

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mime epigrams and Herodas’ Mimiambi as designated for performance at the symposium due to their content and form.10 I will focus on both poems’ imitation of metatheater, which indicates an imitation of performance as well.11

2. Staged, Recited, or Read? Scholars have asked this question of the Mimiambisince they were first published in 1891. Early on, the debate was primarily between recited or read – if the action in the poems would not be clear to listeners, that is, if they failed as orally communicated poetry, they must constitute book poetry.12 In recent times, I. C. Cunnigham’s formulation has remained most influential: evidence for popular mime shows that one actor would mimic several parts, so “the capabilities of a talented performer” could bring out changes in speaker in the Mimiambi, “helped out by facial expression and gesture.”13 Giuseppe Mastromarco argued against recitation, concluding that the text lacked sufficient indications of change of speakers and details of setting for listeners and therefore must have been designed for spectators who could see the actors and the action on the stage.14 Mastromarco’s findings have proven too subjective,15 but Cameron combines the theories of Cunningham and Mastromarco, arguing that both the Mimiambi and the thumbnail mime epigrams of A.P. V. 181-85 were designed to be performed by several symposiasts, each taking a part and acting out the action in dramatic recitation.16 Most recently, Graham Zanker has considered only group or solo recitation.17

10. Cameron (1995: 80 and 89-90). The notion that these poems were originally designed for dramatic recitation, even if not specifically for a symposium, has remained influential. 11. The collection in Johnson and Parker (2009), subtitled The Culture of Reading inGreeceandRome, acknowledges the Greek precedent for the reading culture in Rome, but only one article, R. Thomas’ “Writing, Reading, Public and Private ‘Literacies,’” discusses Greek evidence and this evidence is not related to poetry. 12. For the full history of scholarly interpretation, see Mastromarco (1984: 1-19 and Di Gregorio (1997: xv-xix. See Stanzel (1998) for a defense of the Mimiambi as book poetry, in connection with Theocritus’ Idylls. 13. Cunningham (1971: 15-16). 14. Mastromarco (1984: 21-63). 15. See Esposito (2010: 277-278) on both Mastromarco and Hunter (1993), who also argues for staged performance. 16. Cameron (1995: 90 n.121) also suggests this mode of performance for the Idylls. 17. Zanker (2009: 5-6).

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None of the scholars above, however, remark on the dramatic implications near the end of Mimiamb 1, where Metriche tells Gyllis that, if she had been any other woman, she would have taught her to sing her lame song with a limp (Herod. 1. 70-72 χωλὴν δ’ ἀείδειν χώλ’ ἂν ἐξεπαίδευσα).18 While Metriche utters a realistic threat, she does so in the “limping” meter of the Mimiambi as a whole; Herodas exposes his compositional artifice, the fact that his characters are not speaking in some mimetic or dramatic meter, but in Hipponactean choliambs. 19 Similarly, what is the intended effect in A.P. V. 181, when Asclepiades builds the dramatic setting and comic anger of the speaker against his slave, only to have the speaker in the end use the verb ἐπεγράφετο (12)? This technical verb detracts from the realism, referencing the very epigrammatic form of the poem itself.20 Acknowledging the artificial language and meter of the Mimiambi, Cunningham posits that the poems were recited “at gatherings of literary people, perhaps symposia,” which Cameron then takes up for the setting of the thumbnail mime epigrams as well.21 Mastromarco, similarly, suggests that Herodas “will thus have designed his mimiambi for the social and cultural élite of the Hellenistic society,” specifically for a theater.22 I instead regard the combination of the dramatic content with the artificiality of the form as an imitation of actual drama, focusing on the audience not so much in their elite status as in their capacity as readers who were well acquainted with comic theater and popular entertainment.23

18. Zanker (2009: 35) does acknowledge that Herodas might be referencing his own choliambic meter, but he calls it a “metatheatrical comment.” Below, I differentiate between metatheater in drama and the imitation of metatheater in quasi-dramatic poetry, which draws attention to the composition rather than the stage. 19. Hunter (1993: 33). 20. Sens (2011: 162 and 172). 21. Cunningham (1971: 16) and Cameron (1995: 80). 22. Mastromarco (1984: 95-97). 23. We do have evidence of mime troupes and solo mimes for the Hellenistic period. An Athenian terracotta lamp from the third century depicts three maskless performers, an old man, a young man, and a slave. The inscription on the back reads, ‘mime actors (μιμόλογοι), plot summary (ἡ ὑπόθεσις), the Mother-in-Law (Ἑκύρα)’ (Watzinger (1901)); see also the discussion of Cunningham (1971: 5-7). The fourth-century scholar Aristoxenus, as paraphrased at Athenaeus XIV. 620d-e, mentions ἡ μαγῳδία as one type of popular solo performance. The actor impersonates male and female characters while improvising comic plots (κωμικὰς ὑποθέσεις). Aristocles, at the end of the second century B.C., also mentions that the magodist impersonates a female pimp (μαστροπός), a character that is the feature and one of the titles of Mimiamb 1 (Ath. XIV 621c); see Zanker (2009: 21-22). On the influence of comedy on mime and mime on comedy in the Hellenistic period, see Hunter (2002: 196-206).

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3. Hellenistic Readers and Their Dramatic Expectations Mimiamb 1 begins with a scenic convention Herodas’ audience would have known well from the stage. In the opening lines, Metriche observes that someone is knocking at the door (1.1 ἀράσσει τὴν θύρην τις) and asks her slave, Threissa, to see who it is. Threissa then asks who is at the door (3 τίς τὴν θύρην;) and Gyllis announces herself. Similarly in the Epitrepontes, Smikrines calls for slaves to open his bolted door (Men. Epit. 1075-1077) and Onesimos, while asking who is at the door (Epit. 1078 τίς ἐσθ’ ὁ κόπτων τὴν θύραν;), comes forward onto the stage through the door. Gomme and Sandbach observe that Menander has Onesimos unbolt the door and come forward so that the following scene can take place outside, even though it would have been more natural for Smirkrines to enter the house unannounced as he did earlier in the play.24 Herodas seems to follow even this detail of the dramatic convention, in that Korrito is never described as going into the house. Gyllis asks Threissa to tell her mistress inside that she is there (7 ἄγγειλον ἔνδον Μητρίχῃ παρεῦσάν με) and Metriche then comes forward and addresses Gyllis (7), subsequently drawing direct attention to her arrival at the door (12 πρὸς τὴν θύρην).25 Within this dramatic setting, Herodas evokes an eavesdropping scenario.26 As soon as Metriche greets Gyllis at the door, she excuses Threissa: στρέψον τι, δούλη (8 ‘Turn away some, Slave’). In the middle of the poem, just as Gyllis is about to propose that Metriche sleep with a man named Gryllos, she first makes sure that no one is listening to them (47-49): (ΓΥ.) ⟨ΜΗ.⟩ ⟨ΓΥ.⟩

σύνεγγυς ἧμιν;

ἀλλὰ μήτις ἕστηκε οὐδὲ ε[ἷ]ς.

ἄκουσον δή ἅ σοι χρε[ΐ]ζουσ’ ὧδ’ ἔβην ἀπαγγεῖλαι·

Gyllis

But is there anyone standing near us?

Metriche Gyllis

No, there’s no one. Listen then to what I have come in need to tell you.

24. Gomme and Sandbach (1973: 377). 25. One of the most memorable uses of this convention occurs at Ach. 393-410, where Aristophanes is making fun of Euripides’ own use of stage conventions. 26. So too McKeown (1989: 198-199).

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The conclusion of the private portion of the conversation is marked by Metriche’s command to Threissa to come back into the room (79). Cunningham, on lines 47-48, says that it must have been common for characters in New Comedy to ask whether anyone was listening to them, given the abundant parallels in Plautus,27 but no Greek examples survive. In the extant examples, eavesdropping scenes are most often signaled by a willing eavesdropper. A character sees one or more characters approaching who are oblivious to anyone else on stage and announces his or her decision to eavesdrop. In the Samia, the Cook withdraws (Men. Sam. 368 ὑπαποστήσομαι) and then listens to the ensuing conversation between Demeas and Chrysis. While they speak, the Cook utters an aside, reacting to the news he has heard (375 τοιοῦτ’ ἦν τὸ κακόν· ⟨νῦν⟩ μανθάνω (‘This was the trouble. Now I understand’),28 and then concludes his eavesdropping by announcing his decision to come out of hiding (376 προσιτέον (‘I must go forward’).29 The eavesdropping actor heightens the audience’s awareness of their own natural role as eavesdroppers. Herodas’ audience is reminded of the dramatic conventions of an eavesdropping scene through the dismissal of the slave and the characters’ concern about being overheard, but Herodas does not then supply the conventional eavesdropper. The audience itself becomes the primary eavesdropper, due to the conspicuous absence of an eavesdropping character in the scene. After Threissa leaves, Gyllis reminds Metriche that Mandris has been gone for ten months; she has been alone long enough and should find a new lover (1. 20-39). Gyllis then, after confirming that they are not being overheard, tells Metriche to sleep with a young man named Gryllos, who will give her more than she can imagine (1. 50-66). ‘Nanny Gyllis’ (7 ἀμμίη Γυλλίς) will pose as a threat to Metriche’s fidelity to her beloved. In the Dyskolos, Sostratus is drawn to Knemon’s daughter because she is precisely the type of woman not raised around such threats (Men. Dysc. 384-389):30 εἰ μὴ γὰρ ἐν γυναιξίν ἐστιν ἡ κόρη τεθραμμένη μηδ’ οἶδε τῶν ἐν τῷ βίῳ τούτῳ κακῶν μηδὲν ὑπὸ τηθίδος τινὸς δειδισαμένη μαίας τ’, ἐλευθερίως δέ πως μετὰ πατρὸς ἀγρίου μισοπονήρου τῷ τρόπῳ, πῶς οὐκ ἐπιτυχεῖν ἐστι ταύτης μακάριον; 27. Cunningham (1971: 71). 28. For the text see Gomme and Sandbach (1973: 583-84). 29. For other eavesdropping examples in Menander see Bain (1977: 105-16 and 152); Blundell (1980: 16-24). 30. On the text and its interpretation, see Gomme and Sandbach (1973: 193).

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If the maiden has not been raised among women and does not know anything of the evils in this life, made afraid by an aunty or nanny, and lives well-born with a fierce father, hateful of evil-doers, how is it not a blessing to win this one?

One of the focuses of New Comedy is the male characters’ anxieties about how women behave when they are not there.31 In the Epitrepontes, Charisios returns from abroad to find his newly wed wife, Pamphile, with a baby, which he thinks is someone else’s child. He sends them both from the house, but he finds out in the end that Pamphile has not been unfaithful and that the baby is indeed his. Onesimos, his slave, announces in a monologue (Men. Epit. 878-907) that Charisios discovered the truth by eavesdropping from within his house (offstage) on the previous scene between Pamphile and Harbotonon (Epit. 852-877).32 In Mimiamb 1, the focus is similarly on whether Metriche will be unfaithful while Mandris is away. As opposed to in Comedy, Mandris will not come home to be able to react to the state of his affairs, and the audience replaces him as the judge of Metriche’s actions, now in the position of primary eavesdropper.33 The expectations of Herodas’ audience are heightened because of their familiarity with drama and its conventions. A.P. V. 181, like Mimiamb 1, immediately evokes a dramatic scenario (181.1-3): τῶν †καρίων† ἡμῖν λαβὲ †κώλακας†· ἀλλά ποθ’ ἥξει; καὶ πέντε στεφάνους τῶν ῥοδίνων. τί τὸ πάξ; οὐ φῂς κέρματ’ ἔχειν; διολώλαμεν. Get us the ___ of the ____. But will he ever come? And five garlands of roses. What is this ‘enough’? You say you don’t have change? We’re dead.

What is striking about the first line is not the abruptness of the imperative,34 but the dramatic aside, ἀλλά ποθ’ ἥξει; The speaker gives the command, realizes that the slave is not yet in the room, and then impatiently asks when he will enter. This is a well-documented type of entrance in scenes from comedy.35 It is also common for entering characters to speak with 31. Cf. Konstan (1993). 32. A similar situation occurs in the Samia, where Demeas, returning from a trip, finds his concubine, Chrysis with a baby, which he incorrectly assumes is his illegitimate child. 33. On Metriche and the comic tradition, see Di Gregorio (1995). On the characterization of Metriche and Gyllis as Hellenistic mime versions of Penelope and Eurycleia, see Esposito (2001: 155-158). 34. On the corrupt text, see Sens (2011: 163-164). 35. Cf. Blundell (1980: 11-13); Frost (1988: 4-6).

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and quote characters offstage, as Getas does, scolding slaves for not following orders (Men. Dysc. 456-57): τὸ λεβήτιον, φῄς, ἐπιλέλη[σθε]; παντελῶς / ἀποκραιπαλᾶτε (‘You say you all forgot the pot? An altogether / hungover lot’).36 However, while this also happens at the beginning of Asclepiades’ epigram, it becomes clear in what follows that the slave, who had not been present in at least the first line, is now “onstage” (181. 3-8): οὐ τροχιεῖ τις τὸν Λαπίθην; λῃστήν, οὐ θεράποντ’ ἔχομεν. οὐκ ἀδικεῖς οὐδέν; φέρε τὸν λόγον. ἐλθὲ λαβοῦσα, Φρύνη, τὰς ψήφους. ὢ μεγάλου κινάδους· πέντ’ οἶνος δραχμῶν, ἀλλᾶς δύο ‒ ⏑ ⏑ ‒ × ὦτα, λέγεις, σκόμβροι, †θέσμυκες†, σχαδόνες. Won’t someone put this Lapith on the rack? We have a thief, not a servant. You do no wrong? Bring the ledger. Come and get me the counters, Phryne. You big rascal! Wine for five drachmas, sausage for two, ______ ears, you say, mackerel, ______, honeycomb.

It is one thing for the master to quote the slave while he is absent and another for him to do so when he is in his, and therefore the audience’s, presence. Sens comments that it is typical in the Hellenistic mime of Herodas and Theocritus for characters to quote what their slaves says,37 and while this is true, Asclepiades’ evocation of a typical opening of a comic scene raises the expectation that the audience will not only see, but also hear characters emerging from offstage in mid-conversation. Thus, when the master continues to quote the slave, even when they have both entered, Asclepiades makes his audience self-conscious of the fact that they are not actually viewing a dramatic scene: if the audience really could see the slave and master on a stage, it would be awkward indeed for the one actor to quote the other one, whom we could see but not hear.38 Besides the dramatic expectations of Asclepiades’ audience, the poem carries its own conventional expectations as a sympotic epigram. Scenes from Middle and New Comedy feature speakers ordering others to shop for upcoming meals, but both Alcaeus and Anacreon in sympotic contexts 36. Noted by Handley (1996: 142). On this speech as a dramatic monologue versus a dialogue, where the speech of the slave is reported through the master, see Gow and Page (1965: 132). 37. Sens (2011: 162). 38. Cf. Sens (2011: 162): “The representation of ‘ordinary’ life must accordingly be understood as a fundamentally literary play with generic boundaries.”

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give shopping commands to their slaves.39 The epigrammatic expectation at the beginning of A.P. V. 181 is that the first-person speaker will be the poet himself, as is most common in Hellenistic epigram and earlier elegy. Indeed, the combination of the epigrammatic context and the evocation of a comic scene leaves the speaker’s identity in doubt, and it is not until the climax of the poem that it is revealed fully to the audience.40

4. Reader Recognition: The Imitation of Metatheater Herodas and Asclepiades play with dramatic conventions. Herodas replaces the eavesdropping character from comedy with the audience itself and Asclepiades “stages” the preparation for a symposium within a sympotic epigram. Having heightened their audiences’ dramatic expectations, both poets surprisingly stress the textuality of their compositions. Nevertheless, in doing so they further strengthen their ties to the stage, by manipulating the dramatic technique of metatheater. Metriche’s defiant response to Gyllis’ proposal directly addresses the audience’s concerns on Mandris’ behalf (1.67-77): Γυλλί, τὰ λευκὰ τῶν τριχῶν ἀπαμβλύνει τὸν νοῦν· μὰ τὴν γὰρ Μάνδριος κατάπλωσιν καὶ τὴν φίλην Δήμητρα, ταῦτ’ ἐγὼ [ἐ]ξ ἄλλης γυναικὸς οὐκ ἂν ἡδέως ἐπήκουσα, χωλὴν δ’ ἀείδειν χώλ’ ἂν ἐξεπαίδευσα καὶ τῆς θύρης τὸν οὐδὸν ἐχθρὸν ἡγεῖσθαι. σὺ δ’ αὖτις ἔς με μηδὲ ἕν⟨α⟩, φίλη, τοῖον φέρουσα χώρει μῦθον· ὅν δὲ γρήιηισι πρέπει γυναιξὶ τῆις νέηις ἀπάγγελλε· τὴν Πυθέω δὲ Μητρίχην ἔα θάλπειν τὸν δίφρον· οὐ γὰρ ἐγγελᾶι τις εἰς Μάνδριν. Gyllis, the white of your hair has dulled your mind. By Mandris’ return voyage and beloved Demeter, I would not have kindly listened through to the end of this speech from another woman, but would have taught her to sing her lame song limping and to hate the very threshold of my door. As for you, Dear, never come to my house again with any such words: tell your old tired tales to the young ladies, but allow Metriche, Pytheas’ daughter, to keep her seat warm. No one will have Mandris to laugh at. 39. Sens (2011: 161-62 and 173). 40. For a discussion of the sympotic and dramatic elements of this epigram, see Bettenworth (2002).

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Metriche does not concentrate on how she feels, but rather on the feelings of her lover: if Metriche were to sleep with Gryllos, Mandris would be made a laughing-stock. The audience relishes Metriche’s defense of her lover in large part because of the passion with which she threatens Gyllis, who is the threat to her chastity. At the same time, it is within this threat that Herodas inserts a literary joke (1.71): χωλὴν δ’ ἀείδειν χώλ’ ἂν ἐξεπαίδευσα. A limping song for an audience of Hellenistic poetry clearly would suggest Hipponax, the sixth-century poet who was credited with the invention of the χωλιάμβοι.41 Instead of adding to the realism and emotional intensity of the scene, Herodas chooses this moment to draw attention to the artificial meter of his composition. In the second half of A.P. V. 181, the speaker abruptly changes topic, from the servant’s past mistakes to the present business at hand, which revolves around a perfume-seller named Aischra (181. 9-12): αὔριον αὐτὰ καλῶς λογιούμεθα. νῦν δὲ πρὸς Αἴσχραν τὴν μυρόπωλιν ἰὼν πέντε λάβ’ ἀργυρέας· εἰπὲ δὲ σημεῖον, Βάκχων ὅτι πέντ’ ἐφίλησεν ἑξῆς, ὧν κλίνη μάρτυς ἐπεγράφετο. Tomorrow we’ll make a full calculation, but now go to Aischra the perfume-seller and get five silver flasks. For proof of your master, tell her that Bacchon loved her five times in a row, as witness of which the bed was inscribed.

At first, the switch to Aischra and her silver flasks seems to involve just another purchasing order, but the last couplet reveals that these details are the climactic punch-line of the poem. The speaker announces for the first time that he is not Asclepiades, but Bacchon. That this is not a personal epigram, featuring the persona of the poet himself, but one that evokes characters from the stage, is now confirmed. Just as the verbal abuse in the first half of the poem is common in mime, so is the last couplet’s emphasis on sex. In order that Aischra may know for sure that the servant asking for the goblets is really Bacchon’s, Bacchon tells the servant to relay a detail to her that only he would know: he had sex with her five times in a row. There is great humor in Bacchon’s use of ἐπεγράφετο as the last word in the poem: the bed itself has been endorsed as a sworn witness – the technical meaning of this verb in Demosthenes (D. 54.31) – in defense of the veracity of Bacchon’s claim to his marathon sex session with Aischra. More than humor, however,

41. See further Kutzko (2007/2008: 145).

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the verb ἐπιγράφω, in the context of an epigram, self-consciously draws attention to the very form in which Asclepiades is writing.42 Herodas and Asclepiades create the illusion of dramatic action and then draw attention to the artifice of this illusion, the non-dramatic forms of their compositions. What at first seems to be a departure from dramatic technique is actually an imitation of it. Dramatists will often play with conventions in order to make the audience participate more actively in the mimesis that they are helping to create. When the audience in a theater recognizes this intentional play with convention, it is often in the form of metatheater – theater drawing attention to itself as theater. While there are examples in New Comedy where an actor speaks of theatrical roles, stage props, or dramatic genres,43 the closest parallel to the instances in Herodas and Asclepiades is the technique of audience address.44 Menander helps make the audience an active participant in the action by having actors address them directly.45 While few scholars have regarded the metatheatrical aspect of direct address, Bain has shown that this technique draws attention to the audience in their role as spectators at key moments of the action. All of the eleven examples of direct address Bain identifies in Menander, not including the instances in the extradramatic prologue and epilogue, occur in the transition between scenes, eight at the beginning of a monologue, two at the end, and one marking the end of one character eavesdropping on another.46 In one eavesdropping scene, Sostratos comments in an aside on the beauty of Knemon’s daughter, who has begun to speak to herself, and right before he makes himself known to her, he addresses the audience (Men. Dysc. 194): ἄνδρε[ς.47 In another scene, Sikon, also in the Dyskolos, reacts happily to the news that Knemon has fallen down a well, ἡδέως / ἴδοιμ’ ἄν, ἄνδρες, νὴ τὸν Απόλλω τουτονί (Dysc. 658-659) ‘Gladly, / Gentlemen, by this Apollo here, would I see that,’ and then exits, as he gives orders to women imagined to be sacrificing in Pan’s shrine offstage (Dysc. 660665). The address to the audience enhances the dramatic illusion: the 42. Sens (2011: 172). Gutzwiller (1998: 3 n.8 and 47-48) has shown that even if the epigram was not a fixed genre under that name by the Hellenistic period, by Asclepiades’ time ἐπίγραμμα was a standard designation for this type of poetry. 43. For a measured discussion of the evidence, see Bain (1977: 208-226. See also Gutzwiller (2000), who analyzes Menander’s references to tragedy and his portrayal of characters who are fashioned as playwrights. 44. Cf. Kutzko (2007/2008: 146-151). 45. Gomme and Sandbach (1973: 14). 46. Bain (1977: 190-194); cf. Blundell (1980: 62-63). See also Bain (1977: 191) for a discussion of non-Menandrian fragments. 47. On the text here, as well as to the possible content of the address, see Gomme and Sandbach (1973: 166).

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statue of Apollo is a stage prop and Sikon, exiting into the shrine, is really just an actor walking off the stage, but the audience members are reminded here, at the end of the scene, of their participation in creating this illusion. When Metriche threatens that she will make Gyllis limp and sing choliambs, the effect is similar. Metriche remains realistic in her anger, but the words Herodas chooses create a moment of recognition between the poet and his audience. Instead of an actor’s metatheatrical remark, it is the poet himself who acknowledges the artifice behind his mimetic work. For want of a better term, I call this particular imitation of metatheater “indirect audience address.”48 The type of artifice also betrays, I believe, the intended audience. Where an audience of a play becomes self-conscious of the apparatus of the stage, here an audience of readers recognizes the imitation of drama through the reference to the textual composition, Herodas’ non-dramatic meter. In this moment of recognition, the readers also understand how Mimiamb 1 is fundamentally different from the comic scenario. Not only is the male lover absent in this eavesdropping scene, but, as Gyllis suggests, he may never return (1.26-33): κεῖ δ’ ἐστὶν οἶκος τῆς θεοῦ· τὰ γὰρ πάντα ὅσσ’ ἔστι κου καὶ γίνετ’, ἔστ’ ἐν Αἰγύπτωι· πλοῦτος, παλαίστρη, δύναμις, εὐδ[ί]η, [δό]ξα, θέαι, φιλόσοφοι, χρυσίον, νεηνίσκοι, θεῶν ἀδελφῶν τέμενος, ὁ βασιλεὺς χρηστός, μουσήιον, οἶνος, ἀγαθὰ πάνθ’ ὅσ’ ἂν χρῄζεις, γυναῖκες, ὁκόσους οὐ μὰ τὴν Ἅιδεω Κούρην ἀ]στέρας ἐνεγκεῖν οὑραν[ὸ]ς κεκαύχηται There is the home of the Goddess. Everything in the world, all that exists and all that is produced, is in Egypt: wealth, wrestling grounds, power, tranquility, reputation, spectacles, philosophers, gold, young men, the shrine of the sibling gods, the king’s a good one, the Museum, wine, everything good you could desire, women – more women, I swear by Hade’s Kore, than the sky boasts it has stars

When a man in New Comedy goes abroad, he always returns to Athens, and whatever conflict was produced by his absence is resolved in the end. The young lover, in particular, always has a happy ending. Herodas’ readers, whether they are in Alexandria or only acquainted with its power and influence, know that Mandris’ happy ending might be in Alexandria: 48. Kutzko (2007/2008: 150-51).

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this is no longer the traditional comic world.49 The indirect audience address in Mimiamb 1 serves as a recognition of this and also as a transition to the end of the poem. Metriche abruptly changes her tone, ordering Threissa back into the room to pour Gyllis a glass of wine (1.79-81). Gyllis accepts the wine and bids farewell, praying, as she leaves, that at least Myrtale and Sime will remain profitable to her (1.81-90). Metriche has overcome the temptations of the old bawd, but it is not at all clear that she will be rewarded for doing so. Herodas focuses not on any resolution between the characters, but on the relationship between the audience and the traditional comic material, as mediated by his quasi-dramatic text. Where Herodas uses the indirect audience address to transition between the private portion of the conversation, structured around the exit and reentrance of Threissa, Asclepiades uses the same technique to conclude his surprising yet satisfying imitation of drama. When the speaker reveals his identity as Bacchon, the setting of the poem finally comes into focus. The male servant whom Bacchon scolds remains nameless, but Phryne (181. 6), whose name is attested as a hetaera in both literature and real life,50 and Aischra (181. 9) – ‘Foul’ or ‘Ugly’ – fit firmly into the world of mime. The name Bacchon is certainly appropriate for the host of a symposium, but also for a lower-class character out of comedy or mime.51 The behavior he exhibits throughout the poem – verbal abuse towards his slave and his boasts of sexual prowess with Aischra – also confirms this character type. Sens suggests, because of the presence of Phryne, that the setting for the poem might be a brothel,52 and it is quite possible that Asclepiades intends Bacchon to be a pimp. Battaros in Mimiamb 2 is a pimp who delivers a prosecution speech against a captain of a ship, who he claims abducted one of his prostitutes and did damage to his brothel in the process. In the speech Herodas depicts Battaros as the wheedling, crude figure we would expect from a comic pimp, but to add to the humor he has him utilize the rhetoric and technical language of oratory.53 Asclepiades creates a similar humorous incongruity when Bacchon describes the bed in which he and Aischra had sex five times in a row as “caused to be endorsed on deposition as a witness (181.12).”54 Thus ἐπεγράφετο as the last word of the poem does double duty, completing 49. Herodas may have been from Kos, but there is no firm external evidence for this. In any case, he, like other Hellenistic poets, references Alexandria as the acknowledged new center of the literary world. See Cunningham (1971: 2-3). 50. Sens (2011: 166). 51. Cf. Bettenworth (2002: 32); Sens (2011: 163). 52. Sens (2011: 163). 53. Zanker (2009: 66-71). 54. Gow and Page (1965: 134); Sens (2011: 172).

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the comic portrayal of Bacchon and serving as acknowledgment to the audience that this is only an imitation of a dramatic monologue, that this is indeed an epigram. The readers both recognize that this is a familiar character type from the stage and acknowledge, through the indirect audience address, Asclepiades’ successful textual adaptation of this dramatic scenario.55 The richness of Hellenistic literature presupposes a culture that was simultaneously one of performance, reading, imitation, and innovation. The readers of Herodas and Asclepiades were certainly also theatergoers. The quasi-dramatic techniques both poets employ allow readers to reflect on the experience of seeing comedy or a mime performance and to appreciate the diverse ways we process information, both on the stage and the page.56 REFERENCES Acosta-Hughes, B., 2010, “The Prefigured Muse: Rethinking a Few Assumptions on Hellenistic Poetics”. In J. Clauss & M. Cuypers (eds), ACompaniontoHellenisticLiterature. West Sussex, 81-91. Acosta-Hughes, B., 2012, “’Nor When a Man Goes to Dionysus’ Holy Contests’ (Theocr. 17.112). Outlines of Theatrical Performance in Theocritus”. In K. Bosher (ed), TheaterOutsideAthens.Cambridge, 391-408. Bain, D., 1977, ActorsandAudience. Oxford. Bettenworth A., 2002, “Asclepiades XXV G.-P. (A.P 5,181): Ein Beitrag zum sympotische-erotischen Epigramm”. In M.A. Harder et al. (eds), Hellenistic Epigrams. Leuven, 27-38. Bing, P., 1988, TheWell-ReadMuse. Göttingen. Bing, P., 2009, TheScrollandtheMarble. Ann Arbor. Blundell, J., 1980, MenanderandtheMonologue. Göttingen. Bruss, J., 2010, “Epigram”. In J. Clauss & M. Cuypers (eds), ACompanionto HellenisticLiterature. West Sussex, 117-135. Cameron, A., 1995, CallimachusandHisCritics. Princeton. Cunningham, I.C., 1971, HerodasMimiambi. Oxford. Di Gregorio, L., 1995, “La figura di Metriche nel primo Mimiambo di Eronda”. In L. Belloni et al. (eds), StudiaclassicaJohanniTarditioblate,v.1. Milan, 675-694. Di Gregorio, L., 1997, ErondaMimiambi(I-IV). Milan. Esposito, E., 2001, “Allusività epica e ispirazione giambica in Herond. 1 e 8”. Eikasmos 12, 141-159. 55. For a similar view of the design of Theoc. 15.87-93 as indirect audience address, where a man criticizes Gorgo and Praxinoa for speaking Doric while speaking in the same literary dialect, see Kutzko (2007/2008: 143-144 and 152-153). 56. I thank the participants of the 12th Groningen Workshop on Hellenistic Poetry for their helpful comments and questions.

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Esposito, E., 2010, “Herodas and the Mime”. In J. Clauss & M. Cuypers (eds), ACompaniontoHellenisticLiterature.West Sussex, 267-281. Fantuzzi, M., 2010, “Sung Poetry: the Case of Inscribed Paeans”. In J. Clauss & M. Cuypers (eds), ACompaniontoHellenisticLiterature. West Sussex, 181-196. Frost, K.B., 1988, ExitsandEntrancesinMenander. Oxford. Gomme, A.W. & Sandbach, F.H. (eds), 1973, MenanderACommentary. Oxford. Gow, A.S.F. and Page, D.L. (eds), 1965, The Greek Anthology: Hellenistic Epigrams,2vv. Cambridge. Gutzwiller, K., 1998, PoeticGarlands:HellenisticEpigramsinContext. Berkeley. Gutzwiller, K., 2000, “The Tragic Mask of Comedy: Metatheatricality in Menander”. ClAnt 19, 102-137. Handley, E., 1996, “Two Epigrams by Asclepiades (XXV, XVI G.-P.)”. MH 53, 140-149. Hunter, R., 1993, “The Presentation of Herodas’ Mimiamboi”. Antichthon 27, 31-44. Hunter, R., 2002, “Acting Down: the Ideology of Hellenistic Performance”. In P. Easterling & E. Hall (eds), Greek and Roman Actors. Cambridge, 189-206. Johnson, W. & Parker, H. (eds), 2009, AncientLiteracies:theCultureofReading inAncientGreeceandRome. Oxford. Konstan, D., 1993, “The Young Concubine in Menandrian Comedy”. In R. Scodel (ed), Theater and Society in the Classical World. Ann Arbor, 139-160. Kutzko, D., 2006, “The Major Importance of a Minor Poet: Herodas 6 and 7 as a Quasi-Dramatic Diptych”. In M.A. Harder et al. (eds), BeyondtheCanon. Leuven, 167-183. Kutzko, D., 2007, “The Bemused Singer and Well-Versed Audience: The Use of Polyphemus in Theocritus”. SIFC 5, 73-114. Kutzko, D., 2007/2008, “All the World’s a Page: Imitation of Metatheater in Theocritus 15, Herodas 1, and Virgil Eclogues 3”. CJ 103, 141-161. Mastromarco, G., 1984, ThePublicofHerondas. Amsterdam. McKeown, J.C., 1989, OvidAmores,v.2. Liverpool. Sens, A., 2011, AsclepiadesofSamos:EpigramsandFragments. Oxford. Stanzel, K.-H., 1998, “Mimen, Mimepin, und Mimiamben – Theokrit, Herodas und die Kreuzung der Gattungen” in M.A. Harder et al. (eds), Genre in HellenisticPoetry. Leuven, 143-165. Watzinger, C., 1901, “Mimologen”. MDAI(A) 26, 1-8. Zanker, G., 2009, HerodasMimiambs. Oxford.

WATCHING TRAGEDY IN LYCOPHRON’S ALEXANDRA* Katherine MOLESWORTH

1. Introduction: Speaking and Seeing This paper aims to examine the Alexandra not only as a ‘dramatic fragment’ in itself1 but also the idea of drama and performance within the long reported messenger speech and Cassandra’s prophetic vision, through the scene of Agamemnon and Cassandra’s murder by Clytemnestra.2 This * Warmest thanks to Professor Harder and the organisers of the Groningen Workshop for their welcome and for support in attending. I am very grateful to all those participants who contributed questions and suggested areas for further investigation and thought, as well as to Professor Kotlińska-Toma for chairing the panel, my supervisor, Dr. Andrew Morrison, for further feedback and discussion, and Alexandra Wilding for reading previous drafts. 1. Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004: 439-440), Cusset (2002: 139, 2009: 119-139) and Kolde (2009: 121): the poem plays with being a part of a whole, and a whole in a part; it outdoes and takes the place of the tragedy it should belong to. As well as Kolde’s discussion (2009), this follows Sharrock (2000) on discerning “parts and (w)holes” in literature. For eusynopticplot see Arist. Po. 1450b21-1451a5, 1459a17-1459b7. In terms of relating episodes from a character’s life to their whole biography or myth, interesting comparison can be made with Brewer’s (2005) work on the “afterlife of character” in 18th-century English literature, when readers begin to create a “fictional archive” and see books as “instalments from a larger fictional reality” (2005: 26). In terms of “visualization, theatricality and fame” (2005: 53-77) he underscores how the experience of spectatorship in the theatre influences the way readers construct “gestures and expressions for literary characters in order to make them appear vivid to the mind’s eye.” We perhaps need to acknowledge further the impact of the theatre on the Hellenistic imagination and in literature, as theatrical performance spread so widely in this period (see Kotlińska-Toma (2015)), especially in terms of re-imagining character in engagement with the literary past. 2. On the much-debated genre of the Alexandraand the relationship between tragedy and epic see e.g. Fusillo (1984), West (1983, 1984, 2001); Cusset (2002); Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004: 439-440); Fountoulakis (2009); Sens (2010); Sistakou (2008, 2012). See Sens (2010: 300) on the “specific allusions and generally Aeschylean style and metre” with further references. Polanski (2004: 3) goes back to Ziegler’s 1927 discussion of Lycophronic language and the conclusion that the poet “based his style above all on Aeschylus.” The approach to the Alexandra offered here follows the work of Hummel (2006) and her emphasis on vision in the Alexandra; Sistakou (2012: 26-27) on the “growing importance of visuality in post-Classical culture” and the visual experience of Cassandra (133-138); Cusset (2009: 119-139) in exploring the poem’s mirror-like or ‘specular’ effects, through the process of mise-en-abyme. While I do not see a simple or resolved divide into “ecstatic vision” and “rational speech” in the way Cassandra prophecies in the Al., Mazzoldi’s (2002: 145-54) discussion of the interplay between sight and speech in Cassandra’s different ‘phases’ of prophesying in a range of literary texts must be acknowledged here.

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scene, or Lycophron’s ‘Agamemnon’, has already been singled out as a eusynoptic whole within the prophecy by Kolde, called a “miniature of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon” by Sistakou,3 and discussed by scholars such as Durbec, Fountoulakis and Sens.4 While this play with ‘parts and wholes’ takes place elsewhere in Hellenistic poetry,5 the overwhelming notion of Cassandra’s sensory experience has the capacity to inscribe drama in the narrative text in a far more arresting way, by focussing time and vision on a highly constrained and centripetal presentation of events best known from Aeschylus’ tragedy. I will try to build on these discussions of the intense channelling of time and space in the climactic and dramatic murder scene6 and show how it recaptures the notion of a one-off and originary performance of a tragedy,7 to demonstrate that a number of elements combine to give the 3. Sistakou (2012: 171). 4. Kolde (2009: 49-55), stressing the importance of Cassandra’s focalization and the metaphor of the net in creating this effect; Durbec (2006), (2009); Fountoulakis (2009: 419-423); Sens (2014: 110-111). See also Sistakou (2012: 171-172) on the horror of the scene as the prophetess’ “blackest vision of all”. 5. For example, perhaps the (not without its own oddities and tragic touches) ‘miniIliad’ of the Doliones episode in A.R. 1.1025-1062. 6. Hutchinson (1988: 259): “the climactic scene is deliberately made memorable and direct in its impact”; Kolde (2009: 121); Hornblower (2015:10): Al. 1099-1122 as “exceptionally vivid”. Its beginning is also fairly close in terms of line numbers (Al. 1099) to the beginning of the Cassandra scene in the Ag. (1072). There are other places in the Alexandra where Cassandra becomes the subject of extended sections of her own prophecy (e.g. 251-257; 348-372; 1126-1142; 1451-1460). What is special about this scene is the sustained focus on both the moment and the particularised interior space. The nearest comparable passage, with a constrained focus on space and time may be Hector’s death (Al. 258-268), although the setting is not an interior, but the plain of Troy (cf. Hector in battle, 281-297; Xerxes’invasion of Attica, 1412-1434); Dardanus and the flood, 69-82). For sustained focus on an interior, we could consider Cassandra’s description of her prison (349-351) and the attack on her in the shrine (352-364), although this also looks back to her past for maximum contrast between her behaviour and Aias’ crime (cf. e.g. 110-114: Paris and Helen in bed (only four lines); Proteus’ journey 115-13 (underground); Cycnus 232-24 (closer, but still moves the reader in time and out into the sea!); Athene’s temple 984-99). Odysseus looks into his house at 769-771 (ὄψεται δὲ πᾶν /μέλαθρον ἄρδην ἐκ βάθρων ἀνάστατον/μύκλοις γυναικόκλωψιν) but the details of the domestic interior are lacking. When there is a sustained focus on a single character for several unbroken lines, it is more usual for the setting/space to range/widen (e.g. Achilles at 168-201), or for the prophecy to also point back in time to other parts of the character’s lineage or mythic backstory (e.g. Priam’s death and history 335-347) which does not happen in the ‘Agamemnon’ passage (cf. e.g. Teucer, Aias and Herakles (450-466); compression of Theseus’ deeds (1322-1340). Diomedes’ founding of Argyrippa (594-632) stretches both back into his epic past (612, cf. Il. 5.335-340) and future worship (630-631). 7. See Easterling (2005: 27) who has argued that through “quotations” of the murder scene in the Agamemnon elsewhere in tragedy (S. El. 1415-1416, E. Hec. 1035-7; and the parody in E. Cyc. 663) “we surely get the sense that the scene in the Agamemnon was perceived as a paradigm case.”

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scene a theatrical and dramatic feel that is exceptional even within the Alexandra.8 We can read this part of the poem as Cassandra’s spectatorship of the canonical artwork of the future, a prophetic vision of a representation.9 It can be taken not only as a Hellenistic reception of Aeschylean tragedy and its reworking, but also as contributing actively to the idea of Aeschylus as the fount of the genre10 and the importance of the Agamemnon in particular.11 This is just one example of the game played throughout the poem of Cassandra always ‘seeing first’ through her prophetic vision, making her the first spectator of future events and not only the first to see them, but to experience, read and interpret those actions12 8. ‘Theatricality’ may be thought too “elastic” a term to be of use (see e.g. Davis and Postlewait (2003: 1) and I am grateful to Max Leventhal for raising the question of its definition. Davis and Postlewait (2003: 1-39) is useful in its consideration of Graeco-Latin tradition (in terms of the theatrōn, theatrummundi etc.) and its emphasis that ‘theatricality’ should refer to an analysis of “the concepts and practises which [the theatre] invokes” in a way sensitive to historical and cultural context (2003: 2-3). They also stress the twoway process of creating “the theatrical event” by both spectators and performers (2003:23), so that “theatricality is thus located both on the stage and in the perceiver.” For further discussion see Bleeker (2011: 1-3) who adds similarly that the “growing awareness of the inevitable entanglement of vision with what is called visuality – the distinct historical manifestations of visual experience – draws attention to the necessity of locating vision within a specific and historical cultural situation.” This means that “the relationship between someone seeing and what is seen is often considered to be a fundamental characteristic of the theatrical event and crucial to the intense experiences it can invoke” (2011:2-3) as exploited in Lycophron’s (metaphorical) re-staging. 9. Stewart (1997: 43-44) is instructive here. He draws on the distinction made in aesthetics (citing Neer on Wollheim) between ‘seeing-as’ and ‘seeing-in’ in his discussion of the ecphrasis of Odysseus’ brooch (Od.19.224-235.): “ ‘seeing an image as the object it represents….is really just a species of error, missing as it does the distinction between [for example] looking at a real lion and…looking at a picture of one’, in ‘seeing-in’ by contrast ‘one sees the object in the image’ – the bifurcated experience of viewing a representation.” Like Odysseus’ brooch, this scene in the Alexandraalso contains an act of sight within it, as the representation ‘comes to life’. 10. On the Alexandra as “proto-tragic” and its interest in uncovering the origins of tragedy see Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004: 439-440); Sens (2010: 300). 11. See Easterling (2005: 34): despite the various problems tracking the evidence, “… [we are] left in no doubt of the generative power of this play for subsequent Greek culture.” Further (2005: 33, n.37) on Lycophron who, “studiously avoiding overt quotation and imitation, must equally rely on the continuing classic status of the Agamemnon.” Nervegna (2013: 166, 170-1) argues that although Aeschylus is the “hardest to locate” on fourth-century and later stages, he is “consistently presented” as a “ground-breaking” figure in the history of tragedy, and the idea that Aeschylus “brought the genre to a new level” is “a common motif in our sources” (e.g. Ar. Ra. 1004-1005 Διόνυσος: ἀλλ᾽ ὦ πρῶτος τῶν Ἑλλήνων πυργώσας ῥήματα σεμνὰ /καὶ κοσμήσας τραγικὸν λῆρον, θαρρῶν τὸν κρουνὸν ἀφίει). 12. Following Hummel (2006: 216): “‘La texte de Lycophron propose en quelque sorte la conversion de la réalité en langage. La perception visuelle est convertie, tant bien que mal, dans la trame linéaire de la discursivité.” See Sens (2010: 305307) on poetic authority in the poem; further Sens and McNelis (2011). On the reader as spectator see Nünlist (2009: 153-154), further, on the ancient scholia (e.g. the “assumed

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raising the question of the reliability and truth of the well-known accounts as she struggles to give her own and lend it authority.13 After looking at this passage in detail in terms of vision, staging and performance, we will move on to examine some additional intertexts which may feed into the poet’s exploration of speech and vision in the poem, and in the context of the tragic stage in particular. This fits into the way the poem asks us to reflect throughout on its “inherited dichotomies”;14 here the interplay of voice and vision, speech and sight, narrative and dramatic action are privileged.15 These tensions, which are central to the structure of the poem as a messenger speech, also force the reader to countenance their experience of and reaction or response to an initial encounter with challenging works of art. The exploration of different modes of communication and perception in the poem, and their relative reliability as sources of knowledge, are tied to Cassandra’s identity: on the one hand a tragic, mortal figure and problematic speaker, on the other hand privy to divine knowledge through authoritative sight – thanks to the dubious ‘gifts’ of the god Apollo.16 2. Cassandra on Stage Let us now consider the Alexandra passage (1099-1119) itself and note some elements that encourage the reader to regard it as a sort of viewing of a staged tragedy. In this scene, tragic events, known to us best from tragedy, are visualised in a way evoking their presentation on the tragic stage:17 comparison” between reader and spectator (cf. schol. bT Il.22.476b ex.) as the poet ὑπ’ ὄψιν ἄγειν what he needs for his story, and the reader colludes in turn) with further sources on graphic description (e.g. [Longin.] 15.2, 25); Sistakou (2012: 23) on [Longin.] 15.1-7 and his deployment of “φαντασία, ὄψις and εἰδωλποιία to denote either the poetic images which capture the imagination of the audience or the actual representation of supernatural scenes on stage”. 13. The most obvious place to consider this is her recounting of Odysseus’ life and adventures (Al.648-819; see Schade’s (1999) commentary on this section of the poem); Sens (2010: 301, 305-307) and Sens and McNelis (2011: 77-78) on the question of “poetic authority” and Cassandra’s competition with Odysseus as character-narrator; Hurst (2012: 97-111). 14. As succinctly expressed by Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004: 440). 15. See De Jong (1997: 139-177) on messenger speeches as narrative: “Comparing narrative and drama has been a favourite pastime of literary critics…”; further Barrett (2002) in general on messenger speeches as “staged narrative”. 16. On Apollo’s two gifts to Cassandra see Redfield (2003: 138); cf. Lyc. Al. 14541458 for Cassandra’s statement on Apollo’s infection of her words with the ‘rumour of lies’ and the subsequent guarantee of their truth, to be recognised only in the future. 17. Contrast, for example, the fantastic scene of Aias’ underwater end at lines 387-408.

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ὁ μὲν γὰρ ἀμφὶ χύτλα τὰς δυσεξόδους ζητῶν κελεύθους αὐχενιστῆρος βρόχου ἐν ἀμφιβλήστρῳ συντεταργανωμένος τυφλαῖς ματεύσει χερσὶ κροσσωτοὺς ῥαφάς. θερμὴν δ᾽ ὑπαὶ λουτρῶνος ἀρνεύων στέγην τιβῆνα καὶ κύπελλον ἐγκάρῳ ῥανεῖ, τυπεὶς σκεπάρνῳ κόγχον εὐθήκτῳ μέσον. οἰκτρὰ δέ πέμφιξ Ταίναρον πτερύξεται, λυπρὰν λεαίνης εἰσιδοῦσ᾽ οἰκουρίαν. ἐγὼ δὲ δροίτης ἄγχι κείσομαι πέδῳ, Χαλυβδικῷ κνώδοντι συντεθραυσμένη, ἐπεί με, πεύκης πρέμνον ἢ στύπος δρυὸς ὅπως τις ὑλοκουρὸς ἐργάτης ὀρεύς, ῥήξει πλατὺν τένοντα καὶ μετάφρενον, καὶ πᾶν λακίζουσ᾽ ἐν φοναῖς ψυχρὸν δέμας δράκαινα διψὰς κἀπιβᾶσ᾽ ἐπ᾽ αὐχένος πλήσει γέμοντα θυμὸν ἀγρίας χολῆς, ὡς κλεψίνυμφον κοὐ δορίκτητον γέρας δύσζηλος ἀστέμβακτα τιμωρουμένη. βοῶσα δ᾽ οὐ κλύοντα δεσπότην πόσιν θεύσω κατ᾽ ἴχνος ἠνεμωμένη πτεροῖς.

1099 1100 1101 1102 1103 1104 1105 1106 1107 1108 1109 1110 1111 1112 1113 1114 1115 1116 1117 1118 1119

He, at his bath, looking for the difficult exits from the strangling snares in the net wrapped up around him, shall search the fringed stitching with blind hands. And ducking under the hot surface of the bath he shall sprinkle tripod and jug with his head’s insides, struck in the middle of his skull with a well-sharpened axe. And his pitiful ghost shall fly on wings to Tanairon having looked once on the distressing housewifery of the lioness. I too shall lie on the ground near the bath chopped to pieces by the Chalybdic doublesword, since she shall break me open, both broad sinew and back, just as some woodcutter workman on the mountains cuts a column of pine or trunk of oak and tearing apart my entire cold body in bloody carnage, she – the life-sucking snake – having stamped on my throat shall slake her soul bursting with savage anger, as if I were a stolen bride and not a spear-won prize, the jealous woman unrelentingly wreaking her revenge. And crying out aloud to my master and husband who no longer hears, I shall fly quickly, following his track on the wings of the wind.18

To begin with, there are three actors ‘on-stage’ over the course of the passage (Agamemnon, Clytemnestra and Cassandra herself),19 and the focus 18. Text from Hornblower (2015). Translation in obvious debt to Mair (1921), and Hornblower (2015) esp. line 1117. 19. See Nünlist (2009: 358-361) on the “so-called” stage conventions for a demonstration that although the “rules of tragedy” may not exist so rigidly in practice, they are discussed in the scholia in these terms. A number of useful sources are collected here as well as some discussion of Poetics1452b12 (“without explicit condemnation” of violence on/off stage), e.g. schol. Eur. Hec. 484; schol. bT Il. 6.58-9 ex; schol. A. Cho. 904; schol. Soph. Aj. 297a; Schol. Soph. El. 1495, 1404.

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is also on the key visual clues, or ‘props’ and ‘scenery’ which function to identify the domestic internal scene. This is something which Sommerstein is keen to demonstrate is marked by their mention in Aeschylus’ play,20 and Kolde has already commented on how “les objets utilises pour le crime semblent … identiques” in Lycophron.21 Further, as Durbec has pointed out, the steps leading up to Agamemnon’s death are very much shown rather than told (with “aucun verbe, aucun nom ne dit la mort qui est donnée à voir”), and the contrast between the heard and the seen is brought to the fore.22 The scene passes in silence here up until line 1118, with no description of any sound, contributing to the oddly eerie effect, particularly in the claustrophobic interior at the beginning of the passage, and to the feeling of visuality overall. Previous work on the poem has already shown the prominent re-use of specific language from Aeschylus’ Agamemnon,and that it is primarily the version of events from Aeschylus’ play that is followed.23 The painstaking use of language (which has been thoroughly researched by the poem’s commentators) also attests to how careful the later poet has been in appealing to the dramatic and graphic imagery of the Aeschylean trilogy.24 For example, the employment of δροιτή for bath (1108), which appears once in each of the three plays of the Oresteia (Agamemnon1540, Libation Bearers 999, Eumenides 633) and only appears once in the Alexandra, in its original context, reinforcing the domestic interior ‘frame’, as Hurst and Kolde have noted.25 These already linked points in time and connected symbols of the Oresteia come together in the singular instant of Cassandra’s vision of the revealed scene, perhaps evoking the feeling that Knox has already suggested about Cassandra’s prophecies in 20. Sommerstein (1996: 34); De Jong (1997: 160-163) on the use of objects in messenger speeches. 21. Kolde (2009: 49). For further consideration of performative elements in literature, see Chesterton (this volume, on Herodas Miniamb 8). 22. Durbec (2006: 10 = 2009: 397)). See further De Jong (1997: 144-148) on “tone, sound and silence” in messenger speeches. 23. See further the detailed commentaries of Holzinger (1895), Lanzara (2000), Hurst and Kolde (2008), Hornblower (2015) ad loc. on the linguistic details of the passage; Durbec (2006), Fountoulakis (2009: 419-423), Kolde (2009: 51-55) for more discussion. If Lycophron has to cope somehow with the existence of all his literary forebears here, we can perhaps also see Cassandra in parallel stumbling across her own self-evident image and having little power to change it. On the other hand, there are changes and differences, for example, the absence of Aegisthus, the lack of sacrificial imagery, or the emphasis on Cassandra’s ineffectual voice (see Hornblower (2015) 1118 ad loc.), meaning the possibility of creativity cannot be completely dismissed; what is a matter of ‘tradition and innovation’ for the poet are a matter of fate and free will for the prophetess. 24. See note 23 above. 25. Hurst and Kolde (2008: 1099-1022 adloc.).

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Aeschylus, where they “almost suspend dramatic time” as the actions are “fused in a timeless unity” until Agamemnon screams. 26 The way time is manipulated in the Alexandra is brought out further when we think back to the Attic tragedies; Cassandra’s prediction of her own and Agamemnon’s future death before it happens in Aeschylus’ play and Clytemnestra’s description there of her shocking act after the fact are brought together in the present vision of Cassandra in the Alexandra, with Cassandra depicting herself at the centre of it (A. Ag. 1072-1330, 1372-1394).27 However, in another sense, these vivid and rather more lucid details in the presentness of Cassandra’s vision make the presentation relatively naturalistic, as if the ekkuklēmahas been rolled out to reveal this scene on-stage. As Durbec has put it, “la scène s’ouvre (v.1108) par la vision spatialisée de mort” and the narrating Cassandra must navigate the scene presented before her eyes almost as a picture, describing (in fairly ordered terms) this “morbid vignette” and suddenly bringing the inside outside in full ‘view’ of the reader.28 Sommerstein’s description of the ekkuklēma underlines this movement from interior to exterior and the interplay between what can be seen and what remains hidden:29 “What is seen on the ekkuklēma is, in principle, what one might see looking into the house through an open door. If the tableau was simply set up inside the skēnē the audience would not be able to see it, therefore it is displaced forwards to a position where they can. [It is a] ‘fiction of an interior’.”30

Whether one of the earliest uses of the ekkuklēmadevice was infact for this scene in the Agamemnon, which scholars who approach tragedy primarily through the lens of performance and stagecraft have debated,31 does not really matter here, although it is worth underlining that the use of stage devices to talk about a “non-dramatic text” does have precedent 26. Knox (1972: 114). On the interconnected quality of the imagery in the Oresteia see e.g. Thalmann (1985: 221). 27. Fountoulakis (2009: 419, 423); cf. Kolde (2009: 49) on the change of time and place in this scene. 28. Sistakou (2012: 144-145 with n.45 and 48 on ‘presentification’ and ‘presentiality’ (citing Fusillo (1984: 513-516)) in the Alexandra and style of the narrative overall “made up of snapshots, or…of expressionist sketches – not paintings, in the sense that Alexandra’s visions are extremely brief and enlarge on a single detail rather than provide an elaborate illustration of an entire episode.” Hutchinson’s brief but important discussion (1988: 257-264) also emphasizes the poet’s interest in magnified and physical detail overall and in this scene specifically. 29. On the importance of hidden and closed spaces in the poem see Lambin (2009: 165-166) with Hornblower (2015: 318 adloc.). 30. Sommerstein (1996: 221). 31. See e.g. Sommerstein (1996: 41-43), with the discussion of Taplin (1977: 325-327).

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in the Homeric scholia, as Nünlist has discussed.32 It would, however, given the game of coming before and seeing first in the Alexandra, be pleasurably diverting to speculate that Cassandra’s vision of her own death in this way is also the poet’s way of telling us that this was, in fact, the first time such a device was employed in performance; an imaginative way of concretizing this special and one-off event, that the prophetessgets to ‘see first’ on stage, not just in her prophecy. In this case her astonishment and horror at her own death would be analogous to the astonishment of the Attic audience at this novel dramatic revelation of the scene. In any case, the idea of the ekkuklēma revealing an interior seems like something that would appeal to our poet and his playful obsession with paradox, whereby the innermost, the secret, the interior can only exist once it is dragged out into the open, to astonishing effect.33 We also need to appreciate the way that the movement from interior to exterior is exaggerated and emphasized.34 As the passage begins (Al.1099-1101) there is the feeling of a sudden ‘zoom-in’, or ‘coming into focus’ and we are immediately looking at a man ‘at his bath, seeking’ a way out of ‘the net’. As Lanzara and Durbec have both commented, the scene of Agamemnon’s murder by Clytemnestra is so well known from Aeschylus’ tragedy that the typically un-named but also here literally ‘hidden’ Agamemnon himself can instantly be recognized by these features.35 In a motif typical of the poet, being hidden is precisely and paradoxically what makes the character recognizable, showing just how apt Kolde’s summarization of the Alexandra as a poem that obscures and reveals information at the same time is.36 This paradox recurs throughout the poem and is aligned here to the dramatic consideration of 32. Nünlist (2009: 357), where “interestingly” schol. bT Il. 18.476-7 describes the making of the shield by Hephaistos in his forge as ὥσπερ ἐπὶ σκηνῆς ἐκκυκλήσας. The way the use of the μηχανή (deusexmachina) becomes a cliché, with ἀπὸ μηχανῆς “proverbial for an unexpected turn of events” is much more familiar to us. The way that Cassandra sets herself out before us here may also find a parallel in the scholiasts’ discussions of explicit “stage-directions” within dramatic texts (especially as plays come to be read): see Nünlist’s examination (e.g. (2009: 107) on schol. A. Eum.29, where the priestess narrates her own actions). 33. On ekplēxis see conclusion below {p.20}. 34. Cf. Goff (1990: 2) on Euripides’ Hippolytus, suggestive for our discussion here: “The relation between speech and silence is set up by the play as an opposition analogous to that operating on a social and sexual level between male and female, on a spatial level between interior and exterior, and on a dramatic level between revelation and concealment.” For the importance of Cassandra’s “feminine perspective” in the Alexandra see Biffis (2012) and her forthcoming monograph. 35. Durbec (2006: 9); see also Durbec (2009: 394-398) which sets this scene within the context of other important deaths in the Alexandra. 36. Kolde (2009: 119).

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how what is interior and hidden can be made exterior and visible. Already obscured, no further periphrasis or animal term is used to designate Agamemnon, and neither is the location made reference to by any learned geographical allusions, or almost anthropological details as we see elsewhere.37 This is somewhat of a turnaround for the readers of the Alexandra,38 and positions them more akin to the spectator of tragedy who has a level of knowledge above that of the characters involved. We can also take this as further encouragement to find ourselves in the blank and non-real space of a created work of art, not necessarily situated in space and time but more aligned to the idea of a premiere or the originary moment of performance.39 In more concrete terms, what I want to suggest here is a peculiarly dramatic and tragic act of viewing in the way Cassandra narrates the scene and its events as staged. As well as revealing to the spectator the truth about events, it is visualized as close to the ‘tableau’ as viewed on the tragic stage by those spectators,40 and as Cassandra’s prophetic vision brings all the details of the scene to us at once, as if she’s just watched the Agamemnon as she looks long past it into the future. As 37. Cf. e.g. the Boeotians at 635-342 (with Hornblower’s comment (2015) ad loc.); detailed periphrasis for location at e.g. 44-45 (Olympia), 451-452 (Salamis), 911-912 (Philoctetes in South Italy). This often features when a new subject is introduced and they are identified by a genealogical and geographical link (e.g. 1034-1035 (Elephenor and his old and new home)). Although the lines preceding the ‘Agamemnon’ passage (1090-1098) introduce its theme (Nauplius’ revenge leads into unhappy homecomings, with some Aeschylean words in play, as Hornblower (2015) has shown 1090-1098 adloc.), and the change in location and style of narration is still a shock for the reader. Instead of Argos, lines 1097-1098 refer to Palamedes’ grave on Lesbos (contrast the move to Tenedos prior to the Cycnus passage at 229-231). 38. Sistakou (2012: 176): “‘Who, and what are you?’ is a question with which the addressees of the Alexandra are constantly faced because it reflects not only the obscure identity of the characters but…the ontological mystery surrounding them.” Cf. Fountoulakis (2009: 421-422) who also notes the less riddling nature of the passage alongside its typical use of animal designations for Clytemnestra and Orestes, drawn from Aeschylean language (see below). 39. That is, if we privilege the idea of Cassandra as spectator here. The other side of the ‘mirror’, to follow Cusset (2009:119-129) on the poem’s specularity, is of course the moment of creation by the poet, whom Cassandra can also be seen as embodying (though exactly how is debatable). See Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004: 443) on the “total failure of enargeia” in the poem and Cassandra’s visions as happening in the “creative and envisioning mind” of the poet; Sistakou (2012: 137-138) on the “visionary moment” and the way she “may be seen – at least partly – as the persona of the poet who has a transcendental experience.” Here I want to focus less on the idea of Cassandra as poet and more on the idea of Cassandra as spectator herself (as well as the object of the dramatic spectator’s attentions). 40. Taplin (1977: 325) on “the murder tableau” as similarly un-introduced and enumerated by distinct details in Aeschylus’ play.

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Taplin has shown, “generally in tragedy where there is an indoor murder, there is narrative between victim cries and revelation of the scene”;41 but here the revelation comes first and Cassandra’s cry is final – the scene has already happened, immediately and without warning. We get to see Cassandra through her description of herself, as if she sits with us in the audience, and as such we share in her odd out-of-body experience of her own death.42 As with the description of Agamemnon’s grisly end, Clytemnestra’s wrathful slaughter of Cassandra brings even more violence ‘on-stage’. Yet the cold and static body of Cassandra also maintains the weird feeling of distance as we gaze on the scene, and again, evokes the silent and motionless figure who enters the stage in Aeschylus’ play (and will leave it silent and motionless – her entrance prefiguring her imminent death). Although Cassandra’s call to Agamemnon breaks the silence in the Alexandra as we leave the bloody scene, unlike in Agamemnon’s recollection in the Odyssey (11.421-426), Cassandra’s cry does not get heard and the poet is careful to retain the utter futility of her voice (Alexandra 1118-1119).43 As Hornblower notes of 1118, this is a key innovation of the part of the later poet, where “the difference (did he hear her or not?) is a brilliant allusion to Kassandra’s gift of unbelieved prophecy” vis- à -vis the Homeric account, where “…it is even more pathetic that at the end of her life she should not even be heard.”44 While the beginning of the Alexandraplays with the idea of Cassandra’s breaking into speech from silence that we already see in her entrance in the Agamemnon(as Cusset has discussed),45 the renewed silence evoked in this scene also recalls us to the play, where Cassandra’s silence, as Fraenkel notes, is given especial emphasis.46 In addition, the distancing effect of looking on her own body, also contributes towards the feeling 41. Taplin (1977: 324). 42. Sistakou (2012: 171-172); see further on the “uncanny” in Lycophron and other Hellenistic authors. 43. On Cassandra’s voice in the Alexandra see Cusset (2002: 139-141; 2004: 53-60; 2006: 43-60; 2009: 119-139; this volume {00-00}), Kossaifi (2009: 141-159) and Biffis (2012). 44. Hornblower (2015) 1118 adloc. 45. Cusset (2002: 140-142). 46. Fraenkel (1950: 1035-1071 adloc.). The appearance on stage in silence is of course also part of the characterisation of Aeschylus himself in Aristophanes’ Frogs (e.g. 832-834) as well as of his works (see especially the claim of ‘Euripides’ about the way the earlier dramatist began his tragedies at 911-913: πρώτιστα μὲν γὰρ ἕνα τιν’ ἄν καθεῖσεν ἐγκαλύψας,/Ἀχιλλέα τιν’ ἤ Νιόβην, τὸ πρόσωπον οὐχὶ δεικνύς,/πρόσχημα τῆς τραγῳδίας, γρύζοντας οὐδὲ τουτί). See Sens (2010: 308) on Callimachus’ Aetia and the Frogsas a“precursor” to Hellenistic aesthetic debates. Is the mysterious messenger of the Alexandra ‘Euripides’ to Cassandra’s ‘Aeschylus’ (see, for example, the description of Aeschylean speech at Ra. 836-839 and the dialogue that follows)? For more on the relationship between Old Comedy and Hellenistic poetry see Nelson (this volume: {00-00}).

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of audience facing a skēnē; that is, of both the speaker-spectator Cassandra and the reader being part of an audience sharing the same perspective, and looking on the scene rather than being involved in its action. In other words, in this part of the poem, more than any other, the deployment of Cassandra as both “spectatrice” and “actrice” is magnified to spectacular (and specular) effect,47 as events become clearer than usual48 and the “narrating ‘I’ (‘erzählendes Ich’) becomes especially estranged from the experiencing I (‘erlebendes Ich’)”, now objectified by death.49 In seeing herself die, the narrating Cassandra must of course become fully estranged from the experiencing Cassandra. As the poem violently bisects the self in this way, the readers are also recalled to what can be all too easy to forget sometimes, once they are mired in the labyrinthine poem, that these events are all prospective and part of Cassandra’s intense prophetic and divine experience.50 Finally, to return to the beginning of the passage for one more time. At line 1102, we are literally in the dark and as Sens has stated, “Cassandra focuses on Agamemnon’s lack of perception … she underscores his blindness.”51 Agamemnon’s desperate struggle within the net, or sleeveless robe is vividly conjured as we are taken suddenly deeper inside a dark space, an extreme interior beyond what could ever have been seen on the tragic stage. Touch takes over from vision as Agamemnon’s ‘blind hands’ search for a way out of the stitched garment;52 yet the ‘synaesthetic’ 47. Cusset (2009: 129). 48. Hutchinson (1988: 259). 49. De Jong (1997: 2, 30); Nünlist (2009: 125) on Odyssey9-12 with n.35 on Spitzer’s terms ([1928], 1961: 448-449). 50. See especially Hummel (2006). 51. Sens (2014: 110-111) shows how Cassandra’s simile at Al. 1374-1375, making reference to Orestes as son of the man murdered ἐν άμφιβλήστροις ἔλλοπος μυνδοῦ δίκην, “makes…concrete” the “implication” of Clytemnestra’s likening of the robe to a net at Ag. 1381-1382, where Agamemnon is helpless ὥσπερ ἰχθύων. There is unfortunately no context for Sophocles fr. 1072.1: μυνδός ἰχθῦς, which Alexandra 1375 may also recall. The trope of the voiceless fish is also found in Aeschylus fr. 307 Sommerstein (unattributed fragments) = TrGF 307: σφύρας δέχεσθαι κἀπιχαλκεύειν μύδρος,/ὡς ἀστενακτὶ θύννος ὣς ἠνείχετο/ἄναυδος. See also the sideways glance of the ‘tunny’ in A. fr. 308: τὸ σκαιὸν ὄμμα παραβαλὼν θύννου δίκην (with Sommerstein’s notes (2008: 298-299), and the comparison of something to a netted tuna in TrGF adesp. 391 = A. fr. dub. 489d (θύννος βολαῖος πέλαγος ὣ διαστροβεῖ). This suggests (perhaps) a set of linked imagery in Aeschylus around the netted fish (developing the ‘death throes’ imagery of Hom. Od. 22.383-387?); trapped, voiceless and unable to protest, with communication of distress only possible through wild glances, that the Alexandra poet picks up on in the interplay of sound and vision here. Compare also Holoka (1985: 228) on Iphigenia’s gaze once she is silenced for sacrifice, as described by the chorus in the Agamemnon (224-249). 52. See Hutchinson (1988: 259): “The vividness of the evocation is brought to a grotesque sharpness by the closing phrase ‘tasselled embroidery’ … [t]his conveys trenchantly the physical sensation of Agamemnon and the bizarreness of the happening.” Hornblower (2015) 1101 adloc, noting especially the “hapax word” συντεταργανωμένος,

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description of his feeling in the dark here is pointed and the correlation to sight surely significant. Relying on the common link between sight and knowledge, linguistically and metaphorically, his hands’ blindness (τυφλαῖς…χερσὶ, 1102) also signifies his utter lack of comprehension about what is happening and about to happen, with the hypallage “traduit et donne à voir cet aveuglement du roi, qui n’a pas su prévoir la mort… ”;53 the misapprehension of reality so fundamental to Greek tragedy leading the reader towards the generic context of viewing in this passage.54 We stay with Agamemnon as he remains the subject of the verb, still groping his way blindly round the familiar scene – the detail of the ‘hot covering of the bath’ reminding us he is feeling not seeing; we are in the dark interior right up to the point of the blow of the axe.55 In death, as Agamemnon’s soul flees his body, a different act of vision occurs within the scene.56 At line 1107, he finally looks back on the ‘distressing house-keeping of the lioness’ – identifying his murderous wife, whose appearance is sudden (as Durbec notes).57 The Aeschylean context is again underpinned by the use of language, as Clytemnestra appears to Cassandra as a λέαινα in her prediction in Aeschylus too,58 and while many animal terms are used to designate people in the Alexandra, this one only appears here and for Scylla (Al.47).59 We should also pay attention “occupies the whole second half of the … line … enact[ing] the sense of envelopment and inextricability”, so Durbec (2009: 397). 53. Durbec (2006: 10). 54. See e.g. Buxton’s (1980) discussion of Sophocles’ Oedipus plays; further Calame (1998). The phrase ‘blind hands’ is associated with Oedipus in Sophocles at O.C. 1639 (ἀμαυραῖς χερσίν) where a messenger describes Oedipus’ last moments. See also E. Ph. 1699 (communicating Oedipus’ desperation as he touches his dead sons): see GiganteLanzara (2000) on Alexandra1102-1104 adloc. 55. The movement from the θερνὴν….στέγην (1103) to Cassandra’s ψυχρὸν δέμας (1113) perhaps also underlines the movement from inside to out, as well as from life to death. 56. Brewer’s (2005: 53-55) discussion of Joseph Spence’s 1726 essay on Pope’s translation of Homer, in which the speaker ‘Philypsus’ supplements Pope’s (and Homer’s) text with some imaginative details of his own is fascinating comparative material in terms of the shared emphasis on the visual in the re-writing of the murder scene; I hope to expand on this instance of reception in a future study. 57. Durbec (2006: 111). 58. Durbec (2006: 111); Fountoulakis (2009: 421-422); cf. Neblung (1997: 81 n.63) who has noted all the references to the λεαίνης οἰκουρία (A. Ag. 1224, 1258, 1626 (cf. E. Hec. 1277 with Holzinger 1107 adloc.) and Lycophron as “Anschaulichkeit der brutalen Details” in answer to the “züruckhaltendere Schilderung des Aischylos.” 59. Scylla is also yet another of the names Cassandra calls Clytemnestra in the Agamemnon; both words appear only once in the extant plays of Aeschylus (Agamemnon 1233 (Σκύλλα) and 1258 (λέαινα) respectively). Perhaps we can read this as further appropriation of the Aeschylean Cassandra’s voice in particular. See further Cusset (2001: 64) on animal imagery and metaphor in Lycophron and Aeschylus where “il est plus productif

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to Hurst and Kolde’s astute note on how line 1107, where Agamemnon’s visual recognition of the scene is described (εἰσιδοῦσ᾽), emphasizes Clytemnestra’s sole guilt both through the sound effect that begins the line (λυπρὰν λεαίνης) and the transfer of the language of housekeeping as an insult to Aegisthus as οἰκουρός in the Agamemnon(1225 (by Cassandra), 1626 (by the chorus)), to Clytemnestra’s murderous work in the Alexandra (οἰκουρίαν, Al. 1107).60 This animal designation for ‘lioness’ Clytemnestra is also of course an ainigma drawn from Cassandra’s prophetic words in the Agamemnon, and unravelled and interpreted here by Agamemnon’s act of vision.61 Here, not only are the ‘puzzles’ presented in an Aeschylean way, as keys to his style and to the plot, but as symbols of the play itself; they are not really riddles for the reader of Lycophron. Instead the Hellenistic reception of the play reifies ‘Aeschylus’ and the Agamemnon further. In other words, the signs and symbols in the Agamemnon scene are not necessarily the same as the ones elsewhere in the poem.62 This final vision in death is indeed paradoxical as Durbec has stated: “les vers 1106-1107 présentent l’image saisissante de l’ombre d’Agamemnon qui s’envole pour l’au-delà et voit enfin sa meurtrière. Paradoxalement, c’est la mort qui rend la vision au roi.”63 We can also read this as part of Cassandra’s experience of watching a tragedy, as she bears witness to an act of climactic tragic recognition (and the common trope of a moment of clarity all too late).64 In other words, Cassandra sees Agamemnon solving the riddle (of himself) here, a man both fighting his way out of

d’en appeler à une autre intertextualité tragique, celle d’Eschyle, et de presenter l’Alexandra comme une hypertrophie des prophéties de Cassandre dans Agamemnon.” 60. Hurst and Kolde (2008: 1106-1107 adloc.); Kolde (2009: 51). Cf. E. Hipp. 787 where the death of Phaedra is described as a πικρὸν οἰκούρημα: Goff (1990: 9) for comparison of Phaedra and Clytemnestra in this play. 61. The overlap between prophetic sign or visual omen, riddle and literary imagery (metaphor and simile) also has to be borne in mind in considering the Alexandra more widely; see Struck (2004: 1-76). See further Ferrari (1997: 41) on the riddles in the Agamemnon as “the means by which dramatic mimesis is deconstructed. The audience are made aware from the start that they must decipher what they see and hear, as they are given powerful verbal and visual clues so that the “action on stage comes to be viewed as a play within a play.” 62. E.g. this is not the same as the animal metaphors we see throughout the poem, or the likening of people to objects (e.g. Paris as firebrand (Al. 86, identifying him with the ominous omen of his birth and symbolising his destructive role) or objects that are special for other reasons (e.g. the κρατῆρ given to Triton (887)). 63. Durbec (2009: 398) 64. So Durbec (2009: 396), on this latter point: “L’hypallage τυφλαῖς … χερσὶ exprime cet aveuglement du roi, qui n’a pas su prévoir la mort et dont la visage est maintenant emprisonné d’un voile.”

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a net and a riddle,65 until eventually, in dying, he understands andalso literally sees what has happened in his household. This act of vision can be understood as a significant and tragic act of viewing, a recognition of one’s own identity and fate,66 and part of the tragic climax to Aeschylus’ play that Cassandra ‘sees first’ as part of her prophecy. Sens has shown how the fate of Agamemnon as depicted in the Alexandra resounds even more strongly when the version of events offered by Agamemnon’s shade in Odyssey11.404-434 is taken into account. Unlike the Homeric king, “Lycophron’s [Agamemnon] is complete[ly] insensate and helpless, without the ability even to hear, see or speak at the moment of his death; … though he is said to have witnessed the bitter housekeeping of his serpent-wife, his vision is couched as a past act (ἰδών)”, which I suggest we also imagine as a tragic act.67 With Cassandra, we follow Agamemnon moving outside himself as the life leaves his body, returning the reader to the act of viewing what is ‘on-stage’ (so to speak), playing his role as he recognises the scene that also so vividly evokes Aeschylus’ tragedy, the staged version of his life-story. Again the temporal freedom means we do not get Cassandra’s prophecy first as in the drama – we are in it here, as if the prophetess herself is gazing at events ‘on-stage’, with Agamemnon’s glance here (1107) affirming Cassandra’s promise to the chorus in Aeschylus that they will soon ‘look on the death of Agamemnon’ (1246: Ἀγαμέμνονός σέ φημ’ ἐπόψεσθαι μόρον), ‘behold it’ and call her a ‘true prophet’ (ἀληθόμαντις, 1241). Agamemnon’s understanding in death prefigures the way Cassandra’s words will be eventually proved true for the reader of the Alexandra too. Cassandra will ‘follow [Agamemnon’s] track on the wings of the wind’ (1119); surely an indication not just of the role Agamemnon plays in her story, but the role the Agamemnonwill play in the way she is remembered.68

65. Gigante-Lanzara (2000: 1099-1101 adloc.) comments on the liminal position of the image of the net between literal and metaphorical. 66. That is, close to Aristotle’s concept of anagnōrisis at Po. 1452a29-1452b9 (perhaps we can also think of the use of paradox in terms of peripateia?). 67. Sens (2014: 111). The shared scene also looks forward to the pair’s “important and historically verifiable” role in cult, described in the ensuing lines (Al. 1123-1142) the “main new element” that Lycophron introduces (Hornblower (2015) 1099-1107 adloc.), perhaps also replacing the sacrificial imagery of the Ag. that the Al. lacks? 68. Cf. Sens (2014: 110): “The obvious self-referential character of Cassandra’s engagement with the fate of her Aeschylean literary predecessor is underscored by the fact that the language of verses 1099-1100 recapitulates the language with which the messenger describes his own reporting of Cassandra’s prophecies in the prologue”.

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3. The limits of spectatorship 3.1. Revelation:ShowingVersusTelling The appearance of a simile at Alexandra 1110-1112 may be felt somewhat troubling to the notion that we are watching a tragedy along with Cassandra in this passage (1099-1119), or to the idea that these lines might evoke the idea of an (imagined) debut performance. In this section I wish to explore this further and suggest some further ways of reading Cassandra’s use of simile within a context that is highly dramatic.69 We have already seen that Sens (2014) has demonstrated that this imagery must be taken with Agamemnon’s own description of his murder found in Odyssey11.404-434; the simile “evokes the deaths of Homeric warriors” through close Iliadic phrasing and language customarily used for fighters killed from behind, alongside the convention of “comparisons of dying warriors to falling trees” and awards Cassandra the heroic end that Agamemnon is deprived of.70 While Sens brings out the epic qualities of the simile, he also reminds us of the unusualness of the situation in the Alexandra: “Unlike all but a few similes in Homer, the similes of the Alexandra are explicitly focalized by a particular speaker, Cassandra, rather than by an anonymous narrator” and (to paraphrase) “the predominant mode” otherwise is for identification rather than comparison.71 Because of the form of the Alexandra,72 and the 69. For an overview of similes in the Alexandra see Sens (2014: 97-111) for discussion (109-111) and an extremely useful list of where they occur (2014: 97 n.4); for metaphor in the Al. Lambin (2010: 252-260) (with comprehensive references to the poem). 70. Sens (2014: 109-111); Durbec (2006: 8) on the epic rather than tragic language here, with (2006: 12) on the elaboration of the simile. 71. Sens (2014: 107 and 97); see 98 on the formal qualities of the Alexandra similes as closer to “tragic similes and the short εἰκόνες of epic”); De Jong (1997: 87-94) on “comparisons” in Euripides’ long messenger speeches; Nünlist (2009: 122-134) on simile in narrator and character speech and the relevant discussions in the scholia on how this blurs the line between poet, narrator and character; something clearly pertinent to the complex narrative voice of the Alexandra. In terms of simile in Aeschylus, we can fortunately turn to Earp’s (1948) study of imagery and style, in which he usefully collects all the metaphors and similes in the extant plays, and their place in dialogue or lyric (1948: 93-149 for general discussion, 141-142 for count-lists pertaining to the Ag.). While the number of similes remains lower than metaphors in all cases (two hundred and twenty-two for the Ag. cf. Sens (2014:97-98) on the preference for metaphor in the Al.), Ag. also contains the most similes at twenty-seven (with the other complete plays containing between three and eleven). While Earp notes that “…except for the elaborate simile of the αἰγυπιοί in the first chorus [Ag. 49-51, cf. the image of Achilles at Al. 258-268], the similes here are not conspicuous”, we may note here some other features pertinent to our discussion. For example, their use to describe violence (e.g. Iphigenia’s sacrifice Ag. 232, 243, and 1415; Clytemnestra’s description of the murder at 1382 (nb. ἀμφίβληστρον, cf. Lyc. Al. 1101);

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dramatic context here, I think we are justified in thinking not just of an epic narrator, but also dwelling on the figure of the messenger as an anonymous narrator too. For De Jong, ‘comparisons’ (i.e. short similes) in Euripidean messenger speeches “are a means by which the messenger can make clear his focalization”;73 in the Alexandra, the use of the simile shows us that Cassandra seems to view events from without in this scene rather than being an experiencing I (or eye) within the scene itself. Perhaps then, we can think of the simile as reintroducing the spoken and narrative element into the otherwise highly visual presentation of the scene, that is the messenger speech itself. It is the messenger speech which brings narrative into drama, and the messenger speech is the element of staged drama that turns visual eyewitness experience into spoken narrative. The simile brings an element of narrative and even epic into a passage striking in its visuality and dramatic elements. We can read the Alexandra simile as functioning like or standing for a (mini) messenger speech, continuing the process of mise-en-abymewhere this (mini) tragedy, enclosed within a messenger speech, in turn has its own messenger speech embedded within it.74 1472-3 the chorus’ description of Clytemnestra standing over the corpses), the beacon signals (e.g. 288, 297-28, 491), and Cassandra’s actions (e.g. 1093-1094, 1298, 1316). Moreover, a great number describe linguistic expression (e.g. 628, 919, 980-1, 1671), including that of Cassandra herself, by others (1050, 1142-1145, 1444-1445) and in her own words (1179-1179 – a complex set of images, 1181, 1194). Cassandra’s comparison of her own prophecies’ changing nature at 1178-1179 stresses all those aspects of her characterization that are picked up in Lycophron: her status as a young woman (and the myriad ways this connects to the marital and sacrificial imagery in the Agamemnon), the visual nature of her prophecy and the way this cannot be fully disentangled from her speech, partly because the visual metaphor is so prevalent in Greek and western culture in general (see e.g. the mixing of visual and spoken communication in Ag. 280 where the chorus ask about the ‘swift messenger’ of the fire signals; Lakoff and Johnson (1980); (1999)), and suggests the later poet expands on this potential for self-referentiality in the description of prophetic/poetic language. Cassandra’s other uses of simile at 1260-1261 describe Clytemnestra’s plotting as ‘compounding a poison’ (rather than aiming at a visual image of the violence she will commit) and at line 1311 she describes the scent of the ill-fated house as like that of a grave. While the use of simile attests to the thematic importance of unravelling language and symbol in Aeschylus’ play, by contrast, it highlights how Cassandra’s use of simile in our passage is concerned with evoking the visual. Thanks to Dr. David Kutzko for prompting further consideration of Cassandra’s use of simile in the Ag. 72. By this, I mean the way the poem forces us to connect the figure of messenger and prophet, who both must mediate their eyewitness knowledge through narrative speech to an often hostile addressee; following e.g. Lowe (2004) on the levels of narration and communication in the poem and Sens (2010) on the connections between the messenger who must deliver bad news and the seer/prophet figure both reliant on their eyewitness status (cf. Sens (2014) 108); Fountoulakis (2014: 103-124). See e.g. A. Ag. 1999-1201 where the chorus marvel at Cassandra’s description of events as if she were actually there. 73. De Jong (1997: 94). 74. Cf. Cusset (2002: 139, 2009: 119-139) on mise-en-abyme.

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We may also set this within the context of some tragic scholia where “frequent traces of a scholarly discussion in antiquity about what should and should not be shown and on the different ways of representing shocking events to the audience” are found. Is a messenger report, offstage cries, or the use of spectacle to be preferred?75 On the one hand, the Alexandra gives its central character the chance to be the messenger of her own death here and give her own messenger speech (as if replacing the use of the ekkuklēma,i.e. rendering the visual revelation of the scene unnecessary);76 on the other, the fact that the poem is a prophetic vision restores the notion of a dramatic revelation that is actually seen on stage. That the use of the simile here represents a crux to shove the question of whether violence should be seen or described under the nose of the reader is perhaps supported by the conclusion that in the final analysis, the use of poetic device here fails to fully cover up what is going on. As Durbec has commented, “en effet les vers … donnent à voir le démembrement du corps de Cassandre.”77 For Gigante-Lanzara too, while “un’inattesa similtudine interrompe la descrizione dell’assassinio” the abrupt return to the action of the corpse’s destruction accentuates the harsh nature of the murder.78 The point is that as Cassandra both sees and speaks simultaneously here, the scene is presented to us (in a sense) both visually and as spoken report (again reflecting the structure of the whole poem) as the poet experiments with conveying both the seen and heard, or narrative and dramatic at the same time.79 As Elsner has suggested for Philostratus’ ecphrastic description of a painted version of the climactic Agamemnon scene in Imagines2.10, the poet perhaps not only asks which method is best but also tries to go further and explore how “pictorial and ecphrastic media might surpass 75. Easterling (2005: 27 with n.16). Of particular interest in her discussion, given that the woodcutter simile is found again in the Sophoclean Electra’s description of her father’s death (S. El. 97-99), is the analysis of a scholion to verse 1404 of that play, which suggests Electra’s shouts are employed ratherthan an aggelosspeech to maintain pace and retain the focus on Electra’s suffering. Perhaps we may speculate further that the Alexandra poet engages with these debates about audio and visual effects on the audience; the use of spectacle in Aeschylus (to portray the aftermath of the murder) and the use of sound, in the simultaneous off-stage cries employed in Sophocles’ Electra. 76. Perhaps inspired by Menelaus’ disguise (as the messenger who brings news of his own demise) in Euripides’ Helen(1251-1293), although it must be stressed that although Theoclymenus looks on Menelaus as a bringer of good news (1250), the report of his demise is in stichomythia (rather than a messenger speech as such) and the task of giving most of the information falls to Helen (E. Hel. 1206-1223). 77. Durbec (2006: 13). 78. Gigante-Lanzara (2000: 1112-1113 adloc.). 79. As well as Cusset (2009), this follows Hummel (2006: 216): “Cassandra ne raconte pas: elle décrit plûtot ce qu’elle voit: le déplacement, ou plûtot le report, se fait ainsi de la diégèse à la mimèse.”

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their Ur-texts”.80 In this case, the description of the treatment of Cassandra’s body through simile and stark physical detail seems to leave the reader faced with a sort of flux between what is seen and how it is described, or how something really is and how it appears, leading the reader to consider how Cassandra perceives the truth through her extraordinary sight.81 3.2 Controlandpropriety As Sens and others have noted, the epic imagery of the simile “is mediated by a more specific reworking of Sophocles’ Electra 97-99” which describes both Clytemnestra and Aegisthus killing Agamemnon ‘just as woodcutters chop an oak’, so the blame more squarely falls on the king’s wife here (as well as enhancing Agamemnon’s “pathetic victimhood”).82 Even Agamemnon’s words designed to persuade Clytemnestra that the new concubine is no threat to her (as a slave rather than a bride), found in both Agamemnon 950-55 and Euripides’ Electra 1030-8, are put into Cassandra’s mouth (Lyc. Al.1116-1117). She also perhaps takes on Electra’s role as lamenter of Agamemnon’s death par excellence found in Sophocles’ tragedy83 as 80. Elsner (2007: 332). In particular, as he discusses, the more explicit acknowledgement in Philostratus’ text that visual representation can do something which narrative epic and even performed tragedy simply cannot (Im. 2.10.1 (33-35, 356K): καὶ εἰ μὲν ὡς δρᾶμα ἐχετάζομεν, ὦ παῖ, ταῦτα, τετραγῴδηται μεγάλα ἐν σμικρῷ, εἰ δ’ ὡς γραφήν, πλείω ἐν αὐτοῖς ὄψει). See further pages 310-11 on diachronic and synchronic presentation of the new composite scene; 330-3 on the tree simile. Especially suggestive is his discussion of the focalization of the characters and the way “the picture effectively enters a meta-level of representation in which his characters can speak across texts, their cries echoing between tragedy and epic.” 81. Elsner (2007) 330. See Nünlist (2005: 154) for discussion of the idea that poetry can go beyond everyday sight, with the reader able to grasp events in a way beyond that of an eyewitness who is physically present. 82. Sens (2014: 111). S. El. 95-102: πατέρ᾽, ὃν κατὰ μὲν βάρβαρον αἶαν /φοίνιος Ἄρης οὐκ ἐξένισεν, /μήτηρ δ᾽ ἡμὴ χὠ κοινολεχὴς /Αἴγισθος ὅπως δρῦν ὑλοτόμοι / σχίζουσι κάρα φονίῳ πελέκει, /κοὐδεὶς τούτων οἶκτος ἀπ᾽ ἄλλης /ἢ ‘μοῦ φέρεται, σοῦ, πάτερ, οὕτως /αἰκῶς οἰκτρῶς τε θανόντος. Hornblower (2015) 1111 ad loc. notes that S. El. 97-9 is “surely” the model, which Finglass (2007: S.El. 98 ad loc.) traces to Hom. Il.13.39 = 16.482-4, although “Lyk[ophron]’s language is predictably more unusual.” 83. Dué (2012: 241-248) on Sophocles’ Electra urges caution on focussing too reductively on the lament aspect of female speech in tragedy, yet concedes that in the case of the virginal Electra a case can be made for the young woman as an über-lamenter. See especially S. El. 103-109 (ἀλλ᾽ οὐ μὲν δὴ λήξω θρήνων στυγερῶν τε γόων…) which comes just after the woodsman simile, and E. El. 140-156 (with the following description of his murder at 157-162); cf. e.g. 59, 85 (Orestes). On Cassandra’s speech and lament, particularly as it relates to her gender and status, see Biffis (2012) and Cusset (this volume: {00-00}).

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Electra’s claim that no-one other than her utters a ‘pitiful lament’ for the crimes committed against her father (S. El.100-2) directly follows from her use of the oak simile as cited above.84 In the Alexandra, Cassandra gets all the lines, even as her voice goes unheard.85 The use of simile by victim rather than perpetrator of course also certainly contrasts with Clytemnestra’s boastful use of simile to describe her joy at the fact of Agamemnon’s death in her unashamed account of how she committed the crime (A. Ag.13801394; 1391-2 for the simile) that the chorus are utterly astounded at (A. Ag. 1399-1400).86 We may also set Cassandra’s description of the scene within the question of what sort of speech is appropriate in tragedy to a maiden parthenos.87 In Euripides’ Orestes, Electra (again) says she cannot give the reasons that her mother killed her father: (26-27) παρθένῳ λέγειν/ οὐ καλὸν ἐῶ τοῦτ’ ἀσαφὲς ἐν κοινῶ σκοπεῖν.88 These attendant questions of propriety in describing the motivation for the murder alert us further to the question in the Alexandra over whether Cassandra really wants to say what she does, and the extent of Apollo’s control over her perceptions, voice and will as she wrestles with the god’s control.89 Electra’s concerns for appropriate speech also appear to narrow her options for saying the unsayable to either silence or riddling as she addresses the corpse of Aegisthus in Euripides’ play (El.945-6: ἃ δ᾽ ἐς γυναῖκας — παρθένῳ γὰρ οὐ καλὸν λέγειν — σιωπῶ, γνωρίμως δ᾽ αἰνίξομαι.)90 Cassandra can certainly see what others cannot91 – can she 84. …κοὐδεὶς τούτων οἶκτος ἀπ᾽ ἄλλης /ἢ ‘μοῦ φέρεται, σοῦ, πάτερ, οὕτως /αἰκῶς οἰκτρῶς τε θανόντος. 85. See Sens and McNelis (2011) on Cassandra’s interest in her own and Trojan kleos; Biffis (2012: 193-196). 86. The Alexandra passage thus also closely co-opts Clytemnestra’s version (see e.g. Gigante-Lanzara (2000) 1099-1101 further on the shared language): A. Ag. 1388-1392: οὕτω τὸν αὑτοῦ θυμὸν ὁρμαίνει πεσών:/κἀκφυσιῶν ὀξεῖαν αἵματος σφαγὴν/βάλλει μ᾽ ἐρεμνῇ ψακάδι φοινίας δρόσου,/χαίρουσαν οὐδὲν ἧσσον ἢ διοσδότῳ/γάνει σπορητὸς κάλυκος ἐν λοχεύμασιν. 87. An important part of Cassandra’s characterization as Giulia Biffis has now shown at length in her (2012) thesis and forthcoming monograph. 88. Her follow-up question also includes the role of Apollo in events, E. Or. 28: Φοίβου δ’ἀδικίαν μὲν τί δεῖ κατηγορεῖν; 89. Following Lowe (2004) and Hummel (2006: 14-15) on Cassandra’s struggle and frustration. 90. Nünlist (2009: 232); Schol. Eur. Hipp. 375 gives αἰδώς as the reason Phaedra ‘riddles’ about her love. 91. Easterling (2005: 27 n.16) cites Hunter for his suggestion that Cassandra is used to “explore ways of achieving enargeia while dealing with unseen events” in TrGF Adesp.649 (cf. Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 443); text and discussion in Coles (1968); further Neblung (1997: 73-106); Taplin (2014: 147-149). See Sistakou (2012: 136-137) on Alexandra’s special sight.

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also say the unsayable? Is she concerned with what is appropriate (or τὸ πρέπον) in a narrower moral sense as well as what is true and has the potential to convince (just as the meaning of the verb πρέπω is rooted in visual clarity as well is what is considered appropriate and convincing)?92 Her blurting out of what happens here goes against her promise in Euripides’ Trojan Women not to tell what will happen (yet already in Euripides the rhetorical paralipsis already suggests questions of how much she gets to shape the content of her speech).93 The idea that the god’s possession of Cassandra also pushes her publically to overstep the line in terms of her maidenly reticence is developed much more explicitly in the later text of Quintus Smyrnaeus’ (Fall of Troy, 12.553-557),94 where, as the prophetess runs loose among the Trojans in full flow, an anonymous Trojan voice asks:95 ‘ὦ κούρη Πριάμοιο, τί ἤ νύ σε μάργος ἀνώγει γλῶσσα κακοφραδίη τ᾽ ἀνεμώλια πάντ᾽ ἀγορεύειν; οὐδέ σε παρθενικὴ καὶ ἀκήρατος ἀμπέχει αἰδώς, ἀλλά σε λύσσ᾽ ὀλοὴ περιδέδρομε∙ τῶ νύ σε πάντες αἰὲν ἀτιμάζουσι βροτοὶ πολύμυθον ἐοῦσαν.

92. Pohlenz (1965); Nünlist (2009: 12, 250): to prepon “can cover both ethics and aesthetics” and they are intertwined in ancient discourses on art and literature. See also Holoka (1985: 228) on Ag. 239-242 where Iphigenia πρέπουσα τὼς ἐν γραφαῖς at her sacrifice (and see the chorus’ reaction at 247: τὰ δ’ ἐνθεν οὔτ’ εἶδον οὔτ’ ἐννέπω) and the nexus of silence, visuality and maidenhood. Of interest in terms of simile use and the slippage between the meanings of πρέπω (i.e. to be clearly seen, to liken, and to be fitting (L.S.J. 1-3 s.v. πρέπω)) is Cassandra’s famous final pronouncement on mortal fortunes at 1322-1330, where the prospering man is likened to a shadow (1327-1328: … εὐτυχοῦντα μὲν/σκιᾷ τις ἂν πρέψειεν·). 93. E. Tro. 353-364, (esp. 361-2: ἀλλ᾽ ἄττ᾽ ἐάσω: πέλεκυν οὐχ ὑμνήσομεν,/ὃς ἐς τράχηλον τὸν ἐμὸν εἶσι χἁτέρων). 94. Quintus’ Cassandra scene begins at 12.525, where we might note the emphasis on the contrast between the outward appearance of the ‘mad’ prophetess and her inner state, according to the narrator (525-526: οἴη δ’ ἔμπεδον ἦτορ ἔχεν πινυτόν τε νόημα/ Κασσάνδρη …; cf. 537-538: ὅσσε δε οἱ μάρμαιρεν ἀναιδέα∙ τῆς δ’ ὑπὸ δειρή,/ἐξ ἀνέμων ἄτε πρέμνον ἄδην ἐλελίζετο πάντῃ), along with the futility of her voice (526-7) in the play of sight and sound in the ensuing lines. Also note the use of πρέμνον as comparator to Cassandra’s neck as in the simile under discussion (Al. 1110 with Hornblower (2015) 1112 ad loc.). Finally, the characterization of Cassandra’s speech as polymuthos could certainly point to the Alexandra’s content and length! Cf. Hom. Il. 3.214 (Menelaus not prone to lengthy speech); Hom. Od. 2.200 (Telemachus’ failure to persuade the suitors with his speeches). The potential for further work examining the relationship between the Alexandra and later Greek poetry was highlighted by Dr. Martine Cuypers at the workshop, and I regret I have not been able to do the topic more justice here; let us hope that this area blossoms in future. 95. Perhaps a comparable figure to the anonymous Trojan messenger of Lycophron’s poem.

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‘O daughter of Priam, why does your rampant tongue and your foolishness urge you to shout out all these empty words? Nor does pure and maidenly shame cover you, instead deadly madness encircles you! So now all men dishonour you for being full of stories!’

In this context, perhaps we can also read the use of the short simile in the Alexandra as akin to a messenger speech, albeit one that ultimately fails to keep the violence ‘off-stage’, arising also out of Cassandra’s concern to try and hide the spectacle of her violated body that the god forces her to prophesy and reveal here.

4. Conclusion: Emotion and Genre: Victors, Victims and Violence. As discussed above, the simile allows us to ‘see’ the action through poetic speech, mirroring the role of narrative messenger speech within drama (or representing its aim of enargeia in a peculiar way).96 Using a simile draws the reader’s attention to the poetic work involved in imagining what the description attempts to place before their eyes, and this cuts both ways; while it aims to make the description more vivid, it also undercuts the notion of seeing directly. Speech, narrative and simile can create enargeiabut they can also be a species of deception. So while the use of the simile may be seen to trouble the idea of a vision overall, it does not necessarily disturb the idea of watching a tragedy as a part within the whole (or whole enclosed in the part, and so on). There is perhaps one additional point to make about the use of epic language concerning the noun μετάφρενον specifically,97 and the context of its use in this scene which demonstrates the elastic relationship the Alexandraexplores between drama in narrative and narrative in drama, as well between tragedy and epic.98 We may want to further add to this 96. Nünlist (2009: 198) has pointed out that although there is not so much interest in the dramatic scholia in ἐνάργεια (as we would expect when events are actually seen and acted out), but when these discussions do occur it is relation to messenger speeches. 97. Cf. Sens (2014: 111). μετάφρενον appears sixteen times in the Iliad, most usually when a warrior receives a spear wound in the back; see Sens’ examples (Patroclus’ wounding by Apollo and subsequently Euphorbos), Il. 16.791, 806; for Patroclus’ demise as tree-like (Il. 16.482-4); cf. Hornblower (2015) 1111 adloc. Whether the parallels are a play for sympathy, or a nod to Apollo’s role in Cassandra’s fate is an option for the reader who recalls Il.16. Kolde (2009: 53) also discusses the way the description evokes Homeric battle scenes and the excessiveness of Clytemnestra’s action. Finally, of interest is the double appearance of the word at the close of the Thersites episode at Iliad 2.265 and 2.267 where violence silences the speaker who rails against the Greek heroes and the war project. 98. Kolde (2009: 53).

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an interest in the Iliad and the Odyssey and their different attitudes to the violence of the conflict.99 This is because μετάφρενον does appear just once in the Odyssey where it is also used to describe the body of a woman, in a context which is suggestive for the Alexandra scene and the poem’s interest in simile and song within song. It occurs within the elaborate simile comparing Odysseus’ emotional reaction to Demodocus’ Trojan War ballad to a woman lamenting her beloved husband who has died defending his city (Od. 8.521-31). As the woman clings to his dead body, looking on his final moments (ἰδοῦσα, 526), she is struck in the back by enemy blows: ἡ μὲν τὸν θνήσκοντα καὶ ἀσπαίροντα ἰδοῦσα100 ἀμφ’ αὐτῷ χυμένη λίγα κωκύει· οἱ δέ τ’ ὄπισθε κόπτοντες δούρεσσι μετάφρενον ἠδὲ καὶ ὤμους εἴρερον εἰσανάγουσι, πόνον τ’ἐχέμεν καὶ οἰζύν· τῆς δ᾽ ἐλεεινοτάτῳ ἄχεϊ φθινύθουσι παρειαί· ὣς Ὀδυσεὺς ἐλεεινὸν ὑπ᾽ ὀφρύσι δάκρυον εἶβεν.

526 527 528 529 530 531

And seeing him dying and gasping, she shrieks loudly clasping him round; but the men behind her beat her back and shoulders with spears, leading her into slavery, to bear hard labour and misery, while her cheeks are worn away by most pitiful distress – so Odysseus let pitiful tears drop from under his eyebrows.

An analogue with this simile would certainly further demonize Clytemnestra’s aggression as akin to the violence of an invading army, and encourage the reader to consider further connections, such as the parallel in the image of Cassandra’s own fate as an abducted slave and the idea that if she suffers this violence through loyalty as does the victim in the simile, she is more like the good and true wife than her rival, again placing her at the centre of the scene as its hero.101 However, it also contributes to the complexity of imagery brought together by the poet in this climactic tragic scene. The simile ends by comparing the tears of the captured woman to the emotional reaction of Odysseus to the song and the past events at Troy inscribing the experiential reaction to tragedy at the heart of this scene. Odysseus reacts to a Trojan war song that is part of his own story, in a way that brings a ‘mini-tragedy’, very like Cassandra’s own, into Homer’s narrative epic, perhaps further attesting to the Hellenistic 99. See Ambühl (2010) on tragedy’s relationship to the Homeric epics. 100. ἀσπαίροντα ἰδοῦσα also recalls the revelation scene in Il. 10 (specifically 10.521) of the slaughter committed stealthily in the night, which the Lycophron scholia cite in relation to our passage (schol. Lyc. ad. 1113; cf. schol. vet. Il.10.250-1 (Erbse)). 101 See Electra’s accusatory characterisation of Clytemnestra as a shameful spectacle at E. El.1083-1085: Ἑλένης δ᾽ ἀδελφῆς τοιάδ᾽ ἐξειργασμένης /ἐξῆν κλέος σοι μέγα λαβεῖν: τὰ γὰρ κακὰ /παράδειγμα τοῖς ἐσθλοῖσιν εἴσοψίν τ᾽ ἔχει.

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poet’s delight in mise-en-abymeeffects as well as the inter-generic relationship.102 This hidden tragic whole, buried deep within the imagery of this scene in a single word, perhaps also suggests that the poet plays with concealing Aristotelian praxis and the appropriate emotional fulfilment (played out by Odysseus here). Even as his poem revels in arousing the sensational effects of opsis,103 the studiously intertextual use of simile strains to achieve some sort of whole meaning that recalls the Trojan themes of the Alexandra itself as a whole.104 That this is played out in the ‘Agamemnon’ scene returns us to that play, whose hypothesis, as Easterling has drawn attention to, records that Cassandra’s prophecy of the murders to come “is admired for its power to arouse ekplēxis… and pity in full measure”. Perhaps the poet of the Alexandra too tries to combine astonishment and catharsisat the heart of his own ‘Agamemnon’ played out in Cassandra’s vision of a dramatic performance.105 REFERENCES Ambühl, Anne-Marie. 2010, “Trojan Palimpsests: The Relation of Greek Tragedy to the Homeric Epics”. In P.S. Alexander et al. (eds), IntheSecondDegree: ParatextualLiteratureinAncientNear-EasternandAncientMediterranean CultureanditsReflectionsonMedievalLiterature.Leiden, 99-121. 102. Again, on mise-en-abyme, see Cusset (2009: 119-139). 103. Konstan (2013: 66-68) has argued that Aristotle “does not take the negative view of opsis or visual effects that many scholars suppose” in the Poetics but rather that these effects must be properly “in the service of the emotions proper to tragedy” (1453b1-14). The characterization of τὸ τερατώδες as “mere shock and horror” comes out of the Aristotelian emphasis on the whole πρᾶξις and pity and fear as a response to “an event …. embedded in a narrative that reveals its moral status”. This should not be taken as a prohibition of opsis, but a prescription of the correct use of it, motivated by the plot of the tragedy as a whole. Ιndividual spectacle can only lead to some sort of Stoic “proto-” or “pre” emotional state (προπάθειαι) according to Konstan. Cf. Sistakou (2012: 22-26) on Aristotle, visualization and sensation specifically in reference to “darkness” in Hellenistic poetry where the “idea that ‘specularity’ evokes the monstrous (τὸ τερατῶδες)…once more shifts the emphasis from the intellectual to the sensual pleasure of art”. As her study shows (2012: 140), we are constantly kept in this unfulfilled state of spectacle, impulse and sensation in reading the Alexandra and its episodic (future) scenes. I regret that I have not addressed fully Dr. Andreas Fountoulakis’ question of the relationship between Aristotle’s theory of tragedy and the Alexandra, and I hope to engage with this, and his work on it (esp. 2009: 432-435), in the very near future. 104. This also takes us back to the Agamemnon, with its interest in victor and victim; see e.g. Clytemnestra’s speech at 320 and following, especially line 325. 105. Easterling (2005: 25-6); of additional interest is her discussion of Taplin’s suggestion that the details of the hypothesis may point to a Hellenistic re-performance of the play. Again on the question of the effects of visuality and tragedy see Sistakou (2012:24), who asks “[d]oes visualization reflect the degradation of the tragic, the latter being rendered as coherent plot structure by Aristotle, and the emergence of the sensational?”.

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Barrett, J., 2002, StagedNarrative:PoeticsandtheMessengerinGreekTragedy. Berkeley. Biffis, G., 2012, CassandraandthefemaleperspectiveinLycophron’sAlexandra, PhD Diss. University College London. Bleeker, M., 2011, VisualityintheTheatre:TheLocusofLooking. New York. Brewer, D., 2005, TheAfterlifeofCharacter,1726-1825. Philadelphia. Buxton, R.G., 1980, “Blindness and Limits: Sophokles and the Logic of Myth”. JHS100, 22-37. Calame, Claude. 1998, “Vision, Blindness and the Mask: The Radicalization of the Emotions in Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex”. In M. Silk (ed), Tragedy and theTragic. Oxford, 17-37. Coles, R.A., 1968, “A New Fragment of Post-Classical Tragedy from Oxyrhynchus”. BICS15, 110-118, plate VII. Cusset, C., 2001, “Le Bestiare de Lycophron: Entre Chien et Loup”. Anthropozoologica33-34, 61-72. Cusset, C., 2002, “Tragic Elements in Lycophron’s Alexandra”. Hermathena 173,137-153. Cusset, Christophe. 2004, “Cassandre et/ou la Sibylle. Les voix dans l’Alexandra de Lycophron”. In M. Bouquet & F. Morzadec (eds), LaSibylle.Paroleet representation. Rennes, 53-60. Cusset, Christophe. 2006, “Dit et Non-Dit dans L’Alexandra de Lycophron”. In M.A. Harder et al. (eds), BeyondtheCanon(HellenisticaGroningana11). Leuven, 43-60. Cusset, Christophe. 2009, “L’Alexandre dans l’Alexandre: du Récit Spéculaire à l’Œuvre Potentielle”. In C. Cusset & E. Prioux (eds), Lycophron:Éclats d’obscurité (Actes des Colloque Organisé à Lyon et St.Étienne Vol.18). Sainte-Étienne, 119-139. Davis, Tracy & Postlewait, Thomas. 2003, “Theatricality: an Introduction”. In T.C. Davis & T. Postlewait (eds), Theatricality. Cambridge, 1-39. De Jong, I., 1991, NarrativeinDrama  :TheArtoftheEuripideanMessengerSpeech. Leiden and New York. Dué, Casey. 2012, “‘Lament as Speech Act in Sophocles”. In K. Ormand (ed), ACompaniontoSophocles.Hoboken, 236-250. Durbec, Y., 2006, “Lycophron, Alexandra1099-1119: la mort d’Agamemnon et de Cassandre”. Theatrographies14, 6-14. Durbec, Yannick. 2009, “Représentations de la mort et de l’au-delà dans l’Alexandra de Lycophron”. In C. Cusset & E. Prioux (eds), Lycophron: Éclats d’obscurité (Actes des Colloque Organisé à Lyon et St.Étienne Vol.18). Sainte-Étienne, 393-402. Earp, F.R., 1948, TheStyleofAeschylus. Cambridge. Easterling, Patricia. 2005, “Agamemnon for the Ancients”. In F. Mackintosh et al. (eds), AgamemnoninPerformance458BCtoAD2004. Oxford, 23-36. Elsner, Jás. 2007, “Philostratus Visualizes the Tragic: Some Ecphrastic and Pictorial Reception of Greek Tragedy in the Roman Era”. In C. Kraus et al. (eds), VisualizingtheTragic. Cambridge, 309-337. Fantuzzi, M. and R. Hunter, 2004, Tradition and Innovation in Hellenistic Poetry.Cambridge. Ferrari, G., 1997, “Figures in the Text: Metaphors and Riddles in the Agamemnon”. CP92.1, 1-45.

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Finglass, P.J. (ed.), 2007, Sophocles: Electra (vol. 44). Cambridge. Fountoulakis, A., 1995, Violence and Theatricality: Studies on Violence as a Dramatic Element in Classical and Post-Classical Greek Tragedy. PhD Diss. University of Manchester, 140; 175; 186-189. Fountoulakis, Andreas. 2009, “Λυκόφρων: διερευνώντας τα όρια και τα συστατικά της τραγικης ποιησης”. In In F. Manikidou & K. Spanoudakis (eds), Αλεξανδρινή Μούσα. Συνέχεια και νεωτερισμός στην ελληνιστική ποίηση. Athens, 417-439. Fountoulakis, Andreas. 2014, “The Poet and the Prophetess: Lycophron’s Alexandra in Context”. In Harder M.A. et al. (eds), Hellenistic Poetry in Context(HellenisticaGroningana 20). Leuven, 103-124. Fraenkel, E., 1950, Agamemnon:editedwithacommentarybyEduardFraenkel. Oxford. Fusillo, M., 1984, “L’Alessandra di Licofrone: Racconto Epico e Discorso ‘Drammatico’”. ASNP14, 495-525. Gigante-Lanzara, V., 2000, Licofrone:Alessandra. Milano. Goff, B., 1990, TheNooseofWords  :Readingsofdesire,violenceandlanguage inEuripides’Hippolytos.Cambridge. Goldhill, Simon. 1994, “The Naive and Knowing Eye: Ecphrasis and the Culture of Viewing in the Hellenistic World”. In S. Goldhill & R. Osbourne (eds), ArtandtextinAncientGreekculture.Cambridge, 197-223. Goldhill, Simon. 1996, “Refracting Classical Vision: Changing Cultures of Viewing”. In T. Brennan and M. Jay (eds), Vision in Context: Historical andContemporaryPerspectivesonSight.New York and London, 17-28. Holoka, J.P., 1985, “The Point of the Simile in Aeschylus Agamemnon 241”. CP80.3, 228-9. Holzinger, C.v., 1895, repr. 1973, Lykophron’s Alexandra: Griechisch und DeutschmitErklärendenAnmerkungen. Hildesheim. Hornblower, S., 2015, Lykophron: Alexandra: Greek Text, Translation, Commentary,andIntroduction. Oxford. Hummel, P., 2006, Lycophron, Cassandre: Traduction, Notes et Commentaire deP.Hummel. Chambéry. Hurst, A. and A. Kolde, 2008, Lycophron,Alexandra:TexteÉtabli,Traduitet Annoté. Paris. Hurst, A., 2012, SurLycophron. Droz. Hutchinson, G.O., 1988, HellenisticPoetry. Oxford. Kolde, Antje. 2009, “Parodie et Ironie chez Lycophron: un mode de dialogue avec la tradition?”. In C. Cusset & E. Prioux (eds), Lycophron: Éclats d’obscurité (Actes des Colloque Organisé à Lyon et St.Étienne Vol.18). Sainte-Étienne, 39-57. Kossaifi, Christine. 2009, “Poétique messager. Quelques remarques sur l’incipit et l’épilogue de l’Alexandra de Lycophron”, In C. Cusset & E. Prioux (eds), Lycophron: Éclats d’obscurité (Actes des Colloque Organisé à Lyon et St.ÉtienneVol.18). Sainte-Étienne, 141-159. Kotlińska-Toma, A., 2015, HellenisticTragedy:Texts,TranslationsandaCriticalSurvey. London. Knox, B.M.W., 1972, “Aeschylus and the Third Actor”. AJP93.1, 104-24. Lakoff, G. and Johnson, M., 1980, repr. 2003, MetaphorsWeLiveBy. Chicago and London.

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SILENCING ORPHEUS: THE FICTION OF PERFORMANCE IN APOLLONIUS’ ARGONAUTICA Jackie MURRAY

In the Argonautica, there are over 40 explicit references to songs, dances, and dancing places.1 Indeed, the text of the Argonautica appears to be a veritable museum of the song-culture of bygone eras. Most performance genres are represented.2 Orpheus himself invents as many as twelve of these while playing his kithara in response to different commemorative or religious occasions throughout the poem.3 It is not my purpose in such a short compass to discuss all of these performances. My focus here will be on the depiction of Orpheus in the Catalogue. Some commentators on the Argonautica take Orpheus to be a kind of alteregoof the poet.4 Yet, Apollonius’ relationship with Orpheus seems a bit more complicated than a straightforward mise-en-abyme. As I will argue, Orpheus is introduced in the Catalogue as the symbol for the musical past. By the Hellenistic era, Orpheus was regarded as the fountainhead, if not of all songs, at least of all musical versions of τὰ Ἀργοναυτικά.5 The textualization of the past, a theme that is quite prominent in the Argonautica, is specifically highlighted in the narrator’s metapoetic prelude and the Catalogue entry for Orpheus. I contend that these two passages provide a useful frame of reference for understanding the tensions that arise later in the poem between the poet’s narrating persona and his presentation of Orpheus.6 1. I.23-31, 215, 260-93, 493-518, 536-69, 569-74, 574-79, 736-41, 819, 857-60, 106570, 1134-38, 1138-41, 1150-51, 1221-25; II.155-63, 699-719, 780-82, 837-40, 904-910; III.876-84, 896-99, 948-50, 1217-20; IV.624-26, 890-903, 904-21, 933-52, 1155-60, 11921200, 1398-99, 1406-21, 1665-70, 1719-30. 2. With the exception of the first monodic song, the depiction of Amphion’s ligainon on Jason’s cloak (1.736-741), and Medea’s incantation against Talos (4.1665-1670), all the other songs in the poem are choral humnoi: cult hymns including those associated with specific deities, the Phrygian chorus-in-armor to Rhea (1.1138-41) and the paean to Apollo (Ἰηπαιήων, 2.699-719); bucolic song (νόμιον μέλος, 1.578), epinician (2.155-63), lamentation (gooi: 2.837-840, 4.624-26, 4.1406-21, elegoi: 2.780-82), wedding songs (4.115560, 1192-1200),aischrologia (4.1719-1730). 3. Orpheus’ songs: I.23-31, 493-518, 536-69, 574-79, 857-60, 1134-38; II.155-63, 699-719; IV.904-21, 1155-60, 1192-1200, 1406-21. 4. Clauss (1993: 15-17); Cuypers (2004: 54-59); Asper (2008: 174-179); Klooster (2011: 75-113); Schaaf (2014: 36-54) 5. West (1966: 40) with references; Power (2010: 274-285). 6. Hunter (1993: 54-55).

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1. A fiction of performance A.R. 1.1-34 Ἀρχόμενος σέο Φοῖβε παλαιγενέων κλέα φωτῶν μνήσομαι οἳ Πόντοιο κατὰ στόμα καὶ διὰ πέτρας Κυανέας βασιλῆος ἐφημοσύνῃ Πελίαο χρύσειον μετὰ κῶας ἐύζυγον ἤλασαν Ἀργώ.

Beginning from you, Phoebus, the song-worthy glories of splendid mortals born long ago I will commemorate, those who down the mouth of the Pontus and through the Dark Rocks obeying the commands of King Pelias on the quest for the Golden Fleece rowed the well-thwarted Argo.

A.R. 4.1773-81 Ἵλατ’ ἀριστῆες μακάρων γένος, αἵδε δ’ ἀοιδαί εἰς ἔτος ἐξ ἔτεος γλυκερώτεραι εἶεν ἀείδειν ἀνθρώποις· ἤδη γὰρ ἐπὶ κλυτὰ πείραθ’ ἱκάνω ὑμετέρων καμάτων, ἐπεὶ οὔ νύ τις ὔμμιν ἄεθλος αὖτις ἀπ’ Αἰγίνηθεν ἀνερχομένοισιν ἐτύχθη, οὐδ’ ἀνέμων ἐριωλαὶ ἐνέσταθεν, ἀλλὰ ἕκηλοι γαῖαν Κεκροπίην παρά τ’ Αὐλίδα μετρήσαντες Εὐβοίης ἔντοσθεν Ὀπούντιά τ’ ἄστεα Λοκρῶν, ἀσπασίως ἀκτὰς Παγασηίδας εἰσαπέβητε. Heroes, offspring of the blessed ones, I say to you be propitious, and year after year may these songs be sweeter for men to sing. For now I have reached the glorious end of your achievements, since no ordeal happened to you again on your way back after Aegina, no storm of winds threatened, but in calm weather you passed by Cecropia land and Aulis inside Euboea and the Opuntian towns of the Locrians, and onto the shores of Pagasae you gladly disembarked.

Several scholars have pointed out that the opening and closing lines frame the Argonautica in hymnic terms. Moreover, the narrator behaves in many ways like a hymnic narrator engaged in a live performance at a festival of Apollo.7 Indeed, I have argued elsewhere that much of the imagery associated with the performances depicted in the poem reinforces the impression that the Argonautica is in some way a hymn to

7. See Gow (1950: 327) on the conventionality of the language. Cf. De Marco (1964: 351-352), Bundy (1972: 58); Beye (1982: 13-17); Race (1992: 26-27); DeForest (1994: 37); Clauss (1993: 15-22); Goldhill (1991: 286-300); Albis (1996: 7-42); Hunter(1993: 119-29); Cuypers (2004); Murray (2005a: 26-41); Asper (2008); Klooster (2011: 75-113), Schaaf (2014: 36-62).

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Apollo.8 It has also been argued that this hymnic frame is related to Orpheus’ metapoetic function. Klooster, for example, has recently suggested that since most of the songs that Orpheus performs in the poem are hymns, “Apollonius wanted closely to relate his own epic songs to the songs of Orpheus.”9 I agree with Klooster that the way Orpheus is handled is connected to the hymnic frame and that the presentation of Orpheus is crucial to Apollonius’ metapoetics. However, I see the relationship between Orpheus, the kitharode in performance, and Apollonius, the scholar-poet creating a text, as fundamentally agonistic. This competition is bound up with a struggle for the supremacy of text over performance as a medium of commemoration. As Albis observes, the hymnic frame creates the fiction of a live rhapsodic performance.10 Thus, this frame has two important consequences for the treatment of Orpheus as a metapoetic symbol. First, because kitharôidiaand rhapsôidia were traditionally in competition in the ‘marketplace’ of musical entertainment, the fiction of rhapsôidia stresses the generic tension between the poem and Orpheus’ kitharôidia.11 Second, since for Apollonius, the Alexandrian scholar-poet, actual rhapsôidia was in aesthetic terms passé, the kind of rhapsôidia that Orpheus’ kitharôidia is pitted against is learned and textual. In the Argonautica Orpheus’ virtuoso kithara playing competes with Apollonius’ virtuoso playing with texts. To begin let us consider how Apollonius establishes his scholar-poet persona at the beginning of his text. The Argonautica begins with a pun: Ἀρχόμενος σέο Φοῖβε, plays on the etymology of Apollonius own name. It also foregrounds his claims to proximity and affinity to the god of poetry. There is nothing particularly textual about this name-game, but his peculiar use of hymnic diction here, as I will show, produces a tension between text and performance. It is worthwhile reviewing the conventions of rhapsodic hymns to see just how innovative (or not) this beginning is.12 The structure of rhapsodic hymns fall into six functions: (1) the poetic intention – expressed in the first person; (2) the divine subject – name in the oblique case; (3) the selection of the divine subject – some rhapsodic questions (τίς; πῶς; ἤ… ἤ;) about which god to sing, which particular exploit to treat, 8. Murray (2005a: 6-41) 9. Klooster (2011: 88); cf. Schaaf (2014: 36-54). 10. Albis (1996: 7-42) 11. On generic rivalry in post-Callimachean poetics see Klein (1974: 229). On the rivalry between rhapsodes and kitharodes see Power (2010: 250-273). 12. I rely primarily on Race (1990: 102-117); For a thorough discussion of the language of rhapsodic hymns see Nagy (2012: 187-353).

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or where to begin the narrative; (4) the treatment of the divine subject – a narrative about the god’s exploits introduced by a relative clause expansion; (5) the leave taking – a charis (i.e. apologetic salutation of the god, e.g. χαίρε, ἵληθι) and a request for a pleasing song; (6) the metabasis – an announcement of the rest of the song to follow.13 As far as the end of the Argonautica is concerned, the narrator more or less follows the leave-taking rhetoric of rhapsodic hymns. The Argonauts, the subject announced at the beginning of the poem (Ἀρχόμενος σέο Φοῖβε παλαιγενέων κλέα φωτῶν / μνήσομαι, 1.1-2), are addressed in the leave-taking salution (Ἵλατ’ ἀριστῆες μακάρων γένος, 4.1773); there is a request for the songs to become sweeter year after year.14 However, there is no metabasis. Apollonius’ narrator, explicitly closes off the possibility for anything more to be sung about the voyage of the Argonauts, (ἤδη γὰρ ἐπὶ κλυτὰ πείραθ’ ἱκάνω, 4.1775). The narrator has accomplished all that he set out to sing, the catalogue and everything the heroes did on their journey: νῦν δ’ ἂν ἐγὼ γενεήν τε καὶ οὔνομα μυθησαίμην / ἡρώων, δολιχῆς τε πόρους ἁλός, ὅσσα τ’ ἔρεξαν / πλαζόμενοι, 1.20-22). The clear expectation is that year after year this song will be repeated from the beginning adinfinitum. Turning to the opening of the Argonautica, however, the diction and rhetoric do not follow the opening of rhapsodic hymns. The poeticintention is expressed in the first person (μνήσομαι, 1.2; μυθησαίμην, 1.18), but the god Apollo is the addressee (Ἀρχόμενος σέο Φοῖβε, 1.1; τεὴν κατὰ βάξιν, 1.8). The treatment of the subject follows the rhapsodic model structurally with a relative clause expansion (οἳ … ἤλασαν Ἀργώ, 1.2-4) and a narrative (Τοίην γὰρ Πελίης φάτιν ἔκλυεν … ὀλέσσῃ, 1.5-17), but unlike the opening of a rhapsodic hymn, the subject of the Argonautica, is not the god, but the heroes. From this casual glance at the hymnic elements, the opening of the Argonautica may appear to be an innovative mixture of rhapsodic and cultic hymnic types.15 It has even been suggested that the whole Argonautica is a prooimion.16 13. Race has neatly summarized the formal features of each type in a useful chart (1990: 106). 14. Albis (1996: 40-41; Murray (2005a). Apollonius’ leave-taking statement may also look to the end of the third Homeric Hymn to Dionysus (12-13): δὸς δ’ ἡμᾶς χαίροντας ἐς ὥρας αὖτις ἱκέσθαι, / ἐκ δ’ αὖθ’ ὡράων εἰς τοὺς πολλοὺς ἐνιαυτούς (‘Hail, Dionysus, abundant with grapes! Grant us to come again rejoicing to season after season for many years’). 15. Wheeler (2002: 46) sees a mixture of traditional and novel elements, but does not recognize that 1.1-4 is actually a very traditional metabasis. De Marco (1964: 354) sees the influence of Euripidean prologues; 16. Goldhill (1991: 294-6).

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However, there are serious objections to reading the Argonautica as a hymn or prooimion to the god. Not the least is the religious importance of the charis as part of the leave taking function before the metabasis.17 As Calame has argued the rhapsodic prooimion frames the epic it introduces as a cultic act.18 Accordingly, the function of the charis, i.e. the leave-taking imperative, χαίρε / ἵληθι, is to express the wish that the god not be angered at the singer’s transition to another theme and feel pleasure at the new offering of song. With the charis the performer “eases the god’s displeasure at this transition by marking him clearly as the ἀρχή of the song to follow.”19 So, any shift to a theme other than the god needs an apologetic gesture because the god expects to be in the thoughts of the singer all the time, i.e. at the beginning, middle and end of the performance. A metabasis without a preceding charis would court the god’s displeasure. In this context, Apollonius seems to begin rather boldly vis-à-vis what is an appropriate musical offering to the god of poetry. As it stands the opening address to the god assumes that Apollo would be satisfied with a mere speech act. Can the narrator’s ‘ἀρχόμενος σέο Φοῖβε’, stand as the prooimion by itself? Even so there is no charis before the declaration of a different theme, i.e. the Argonauts. The end of the poem also seems odd in this light. There the narrator offers charisto theArgonauts but not the god. Reading the whole poem as an innovative hymn or prooimion seems too problematic religiously to accept. It implies that the poet, whose persona is extremely pious, is willing to be neglectful of Apollo, the god of poetry but fastidious about offending the Argonauts, mere heroes.20 The ancient poets all aimed to please the god of poetry; it is hardly likely that a poet called ‘Apollonius’ would be any different. A better reading can be achieved if we compare the language of the opening of the Argonautica to that of rhapsodic hymns, especially with those with the closest diction. An interesting pattern emerges: HomericHymntoAphrodite 292 -293 Χαῖρε θεὰ Κύπροιο ἐϋκτιμένης μεδέουσα· σεῦ δ’ ἐγὼ ἀρξάμενος μεταβήσομαι ἄλλον ἐς ὕμνον.

17. Bundy (1972); Race (1990: 119-127). 18. Calame (2011). 19. Bundy (1972: 53). 20. Punishment for offending the gods by omission is mentioned in the metapoetic prelude at 1.5-17.

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Hail and enjoy my song as it now stands, goddess, queen of well-built Cyprus! But having begun from you, now I will move ahead and change to the rest of the song.21

HomericHymntoArtemis 7-9 Καὶ σὺ μὲν οὕτω χαῖρε θεαί θ’ ἅμα πᾶσαι ἀοιδῇ· αὐτὰρ ἐγώ σε πρῶτα καὶ ἐκ σέθεν ἄρχομ’ ἀείδειν, σεῦ δ’ ἐγὼ ἀρξάμενος μεταβήσομαι ἄλλον ἐς ὕμνον. And so I say to you and to all the goddesses with you: Hail and enjoy my song as it now stands! As for me, I will sing you first and begin to sing from you. But having begun from you, now I will move ahead and change to the rest of the song.

HomericHymntoHermes 10-12 Καὶ σὺ μὲν οὕτω χαῖρε Διὸς καὶ Μαιάδος υἱέ· σεῦ δ’ ἐγὼ ἀρξάμενος μεταβήσομαι ἄλλον ἐς ὕμνον. χαῖρ’ Ἑρμῆ χαριδῶτα διάκτορε, δῶτορ ἐάων. And so I say to you, son of Zeus and Maia: Hail and enjoy my song as it now stands! But having begun from you, now I will move ahead and change to the rest of the song. Hail and enjoy, Hermes, giver of pleasure, messenger, giver of good fortune.

HomericHymntoHelios 17-19 Χαῖρε ἄναξ, πρόφρων δὲ βίον θυμήρε’ ὄπαζε· ἐκ σέο δ’ ἀρξάμενος κλῄσω μερόπων γένος ἀνδρῶν ἡμιθέων ὧν ἔργα θεοὶ θνητοῖσιν ἔδειξαν. Hail and take pleasure, King, be favorable, grant me a heart pleasing life. Having begun from you I will glorify in song the lineage of ancient men, demigods, whose deeds the gods have shown to mortals.

HomericHymntoSelene17-20 Χαῖρε ἄνασσα θεὰ λευκώλενε δῖα Σελήνη πρόφρον ἐϋπλόκαμος· σέο δ’ ἀρχόμενος κλέα φωτῶν ᾄσομαι ἡμιθέων ὧν κλείουσ’ ἔργματ’ ἀοιδοὶ Μουσάων θεράποντες ἀπὸ στομάτων ἐροέντων. Hail and take pleasure, Queen Selene, goddess, white-armed, brilliant, with lovely locks, be kind! Beginning from you I will sing the song-worthy glories of splendid mortals, demigods, whose deeds singers, attendants of the Muses, glorify in song with their lovely mouths.

21. The translations here are adapted slightly from Nagy (2012: 233-242) with Race (1982: 8-10), (1990: 119 n.2).

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All of these examples are from the charis and metabasis, i.e. the point in the hymn where the narrator apologizes to the god before introducing the new theme.22 In the HymnstoHelios and toSelene, where the diction is closest to the beginning of the Argonautica, it is explicit that the hymn will be followed by some kind of epic (ἀρχόμενος σέο Φοῖβε παλαιγενέων κλέα φωτῶν / μνήσομαι, 1.1-2 ~ ἐκ σέο δ’ ἀρξάμενος κλῄσω μερόπων γένος ἀνδρῶν / ἡμιθέων, 31.18; σέο δ’ ἀρχόμενος κλέα φωτῶν / ᾄσομαι ἡμιθέων, 32.18-19).23 In other words, the language of 1.1-2 is the language of a metabasis;but a metabasis without the preceding charis. However, the end of the Argonautica makes sense. The Argonauts, who are announced in the first line, are the subject of the rest of the song, and so are addressed with the charis at the end. But Apollonius’ final leave-taking has no metabasis. Rather than ending with a shift to the rest of the song, Apollonius ends the epic by announcing theend. In actual rhapsodic competitions, in addition to beginning with a prooimion to a god, rhapsodes took turns narrating the Iliad and Odyssey in relay, each starting where the other left off.24 By starting with a metabasis without a preceding charis, Apollonius simultaneously draws attention to the fiction of rhapsodic performance and to the text of the Argonautica and its ‘missing’ prooimion to Apollo. Likewise, the emphatic declaration at the end simultaneously emphasizes the end of the rhapsodic relay and the end of the text of the Argonautica. In this way, the hymnic features give the impression that the narrator of the Argonautica is the last rhapsodic performer in the relay, while at the same time that Apollonius’ persona has edited the text. Hence, we can read the deployment of hymnic language at the beginning and end of the poem as highlighting editorial and generic decisions about the text of the Argonautica.25 Apollonius and his contemporaries were very interested in questions about where the texts of the performed poetry of earlier eras should begin and end.It is not difficult to see Apollonius, the author of a work titled Πρὸς Ζηνόδοτον (AgainstZenodotus), donning his scholar-poet cap and engaging in literary critical debates with the Argonautica from start to 22. For the view that the Homeric Hymns were prooimia to the Homeric epics, see Wolf ([1795] 1985: 112–13); Wilamowitz (1912: 23); Keyßner (1932: 9); Böhme (1937: 28–30); Koller (1956: 191); Beletskii (1958: 59); Costantini and Lallot (1987); Nagy (1990: 353–60), (2009: 187-353), (2010: 103-127); Watkins (1995: 97–98); García (2002: 8); Power (2010: 185-314); for a different opinion see Maslov (2012). 23. For the possible Hellenistic date of these two hymns see Allen, Halliday, and Sikes (1963: 431). 24. See Frame (2010: 551-620); Nagy (2017: 59-78). 25. Clauss (1993: 16) notices the issue of genre is salient here.

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finish.26 It is generally acknowledged that the last line of the Argonautica alludes to ἀσπάσιοι λέκτροιο παλαιοῦ θεσμὸν ἵκοντο at Od. 23.296, where Aristophanes of Byzantium and Aristarchus famously marked the end of the Odyssey.27 To this observation, I am suggesting that the beginning of the Argonautica – through its pretense to having been separated from a prooimion to Apollo – alludes to the start of the Iliad which once had a version of the HomericHymntoApollo as its prooimion.28 I have argued elsewhere that Apollonius’ agonistic stance vis-à-vis his predecessors is evident in the metapoetic prelude in the way he handles the tradition about the construction of the Argo, but it bears a brief rehearsing here.29 The narrator mentions as an explicit point of contrast between himself and earlier poets that they still glorify Argus for building the Argo according to Athena’s instructions (Νῆα μὲν οὖν οἱ πρόσθεν ἔτι κλείουσιν ἀοιδοί / Ἄργον Ἀθηναίης καμέειν ὑποθημοσύνῃσι, 1.18-20). However, in his catalogue of Argonauts, which is Apollonius’ counter to the construction narrative, this claim of earlier poets is subtly corrected: Athena herself built the Argo with a different (invented?) Argus as her assistant (αὐτὴ γὰρ καὶ νῆα θοὴν κάμε, σὺν δέ οἱ Ἄργος / τεῦξεν Ἀρεστορίδης κείνης ὑποθημοσύνῃσι, 1.111-12). Moreover, the elements of the corrected construction narrative are scattered as fragments throughout the poem. In this account, the goddess cut the timbers from the peak of Pelion with a bronze axe (2.1187-88); she installed a holy oak of Dodona in the ship’s cut-water (1.526-7; 4.582-83); she made the keel props (1.723-24); and she breathed divine strength into it (2.612-3).30

Apollonius even goes so far as to have the Argus of his predecessors (i.e. the son of Phrixus) affirm the corrected narrative and to deny categorically that his shipwreck was the Argo (3.340-44).31 In first quoting and then correcting the text of his predecessors in a very textual way, Apollonius the scholar-poet is fully manifest. Likewise, Ἀρχόμενος σέο 26. Rengakos (1994), (2008). 27. This opinion about the end of the Odyssey may go back to Demetrius of Phaleron see Stobaeus Ecl. 3.5.43. Cf. Rossi (1968: 151-63); See Livrea (1973) and Hunter (2015) on A.R. 4. 1781; contra Campbell (1983: 154-55). cf. P.Oxy. 2883 (PRhianos) seems also to allude to Od. 23.296: see Lloyd-Jones and Parsons on SH 947. 28. Cf. Thuc. 3.104.3-4. The Iliad and the Odyssey have no hymnic prooimia in the medieval manuscript tradition, whereas prooimia for Theogony (1-115) and the Worksand days (1-10) have been transmitted. See West (1966: 50), (1978: 64-66, 137, 364); Pfeiffer (1968: 241); Porter (1992: 98); Nagy (2012: 246-248), (2017: 120-121). 29. Murray (2005b). 30. Murray (2005b: 101). 31. Murray (2005b: 101-4).

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Φοῖβε introduces Apollonius’ persona as simultaneously the last in a relay of rhapsodes engaged in a performance and the editor of the text of the poem.

2. First Orpheus A.R. 1.23-25

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Πρῶτά νυν Ὀρφῆος μνησώμεθα, τόν ῥά ποτ’ αὐτή Καλλιόπη Θρήικι φατίζεται εὐνηθεῖσα Οἰάγρῳ σκοπιῆς Πιμπληίδος ἄγχι τεκέσθαι. First then let us commemorate Orpheus, it was he whom the report is that once upon a time Calliope herself after she slept with Thracian Oeagrus bore near the peak of Pimpleia.

Orpheus is first in Apollonius’ catalogue, and emphatically so. Πρῶτά νυν Ὀρφῆος μνησώμεθα, (1.23) echoes Ἀρχόμενος σέο, Φοῖβε, … / μνήσομαι (1.1-2), creates a parallel between Apollo and Orpheus with respect to thematic priority that is emphasized by the repetition of the verb μνήσομαι / μνησώμεθα. In the agonistic environment established by the metapoetic prelude, the placing of Orpheus so emphatically at the head of the catalogue prompts comparison with the catalogue in Pindar’s version of the myth, which has been singled out for direct contradiction. Pi. Py.4.170-77 ὤρνυεν κάρυκας ἐόντα πλόον φαινέμεν παντᾷ. τάχα δὲ Κρονίδαο Ζηνὸς υἱοὶ τρεῖς ἀκαμαντομάχαι ἦλθον Ἀλκμήνας θ’ ἑλικοβλεφάρου Λήδας τε, δοιοὶ δ’ ὑψιχαῖται ἀνέρες, Ἐννοσίδα γένος, αἰδεσθέντες ἀλκάν, ἔκ τε Πύλου καὶ ἀπ’ ἄκρας Ταινάρου· τῶν μὲν κλέος 175 ἐσλὸν Εὐφάμου τ’ ἐκράνθη σόν τε, Περικλύμεν’ εὐρυβία. ἐξ Ἀπόλλωνος δὲ φορμιγκτὰς ἀοιδᾶν πατήρ ἔμολεν, εὐαίνητος Ὀρφεύς. [Jason] urged heralds to announce everywhere that there was going to be a sea voyage. Soon three spear-wielding sons of Zeus son of Cronus came, the sons of eye-catching Alcmena and Leda, two heroes with hair flowing high, offspring of the Earth-shaker, respected for their might, from Pylos and from the Cape of Taenarus. Their noble glory was accomplished and Euphemus’ and yours too, broad and mighty Periclymenus. From Apollo came the kitharode, the father of songs, famous Orpheus.

Given that the catalogue, as I have already suggested, is where we can expect Apollonius’ narrator to be the most agonistic toward his predecessors

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in the tradition, it is not surprising that the placement of Orpheus is tendentious. In Pindar’s catalogue, far from being first, Orpheus is in the middle. He is placed after the sons of Zeus, Heracles and the Dioscuri, and the sons of Poseidon, Periclymenus and Euphemus. He is also placed before the sons of Hermes, Echion and Eurytus, and the sons of Boreas, Zetes and Calais. When compared to Apollonius’ catalogue, Orpheus’ position at the head replaces Pindar’s Heracles, who has been moved to what was effectively Orpheus’ position. This is hardly a neutral move for Apollonius.32 The exchange signals that his catalogue has different organizing principles. Pindar’s catalogue is clearly organized according to the divine paternity of the heroes: Zeus, Poseidon, Apollo, Hermes, and Boreas. However, the organization of Apollonius’ catalogue is far more complex than Pindar’s. Geography and order of arrival seem to be dominant principles.33 But other factors play a role too, notably the desire for kleos. As Clauss observes, the catalogue falls into two halves, with Orpheus and Heracles at the head of each. In the first half, the majority of heroes are like Orpheus inclined to use skill, metis; in the second half the majority of heroes are like Heracles, inclined to use violence, bia.34 I would add another observation. Since most of the bia-Argonauts already have poetry about their exploits, especially as Heracles’ sidekicks, it is not difficult to surmise that the heroes in the second half of the catalogue join the mission because Heracles’ presence guarantees their fame. As a corollary, I would suggest that since most of the metisArgonauts are either inexperienced, rely on the kleos of their fathers, or were not mentioned in the poetry of earlier poets (e.g. Pindar), they join because Orpheus as the first to join the expedition has a similar guaranteeing effect on their kleos. His fame as a musician who can glorify them in song attracts these Argonauts. As the number of heroes grows the pull of certain kleos is irresistible, and even Heracles is forced to interrupt his kleos-worthy exploits and join the Argonauts, since with so many heroes involved, the quest for the golden fleece threatens to eclipse even his labors. The way Orpheus is introduced encourages this reading.

32. On placing Orpheus first in the Catalogue see Hunter (1993: 120-21); Albis (1996: 29); Scherer (2006); on the significance of the position of Orpheus and Heracles in Apollonius’ catalogue see Clauss (1993: 26-36); on the structure of the Catalogue generally, see Carspecken (1952:38-58). 33. Scherer (2006); Clauss (1993: 26-36). 34. Clauss (1993: 30-32).

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The position of Orpheus in the middle of Pindar’s catalogue and the presentation of him as a son of Apollo and a kitharode (176) are primarily related to the praise of Arcesilas IV and his Cyrenean performance context. The sons of Zeus resonate with the Dorian and Spartan ancestry of the Cyreneans, the sons of Poseidon resonate with the Battiad dynasty’s claim to descent from Euphemus and connection to Pylos (cf. Py.5.6372).35 Orpheus, the kitharode and son of Apollo likewise appeals to Cyrenean veneration of Apollo Carneius, whose festival is mentioned in Py.5.72-80, which celebrated the same victory. We know more about the Spartan than the Cyrenean Carneia, but it is most likely that just as in Sparta, the kitharodic agônes were very prestigious among the musical contests.36 Moreover, as is evident in the art of the Hellenistic and Imperial periods, it is likely that the Cyrenean tradition of representing Apollo Carneius as a kitharode goes back to the Archaic period and was therefore influential during Arcesilas’ reign.37 Orpheus’ connection with the Argonautic myth is at least as ancient as the myth’s connection tokitharoidia, and this may not be a coincidence. The Argonautic myth evidently originated in Thessaly and was most likely first spread to Ionians by Aeolic colonists on Lesbos.38 Lesbos early on was a center for kitharoidia. Seventh-century kitharodicArgonauticas are likely the source for both the earliest rhapsodic and lyric treatments like the CarmenNaupactum and Pythian 4, respectively.39 The Sicyonian Treasury in Delphi (ca. 570 BC – ca. 550 BC) has a metope with the oldest depiction of Orpheus on the Argo.40 The Dioscuri with horses on one side and Orpheus, who is identified, as a kitharode holding a kithara, on the other.41 Beside Thracian Orpheus is another figure holding a kithara, who is most likely the Delphic kitharode associated with the Argo, Philammon. According to Pherecydes of Athens (FGrH 3F 26) it was Philammon not Orpheus who sailed with the Argonauts. As Power 35. Dougherty (1999: 81-156). 36. Power (2010) 278-279; Malkin (1994:143-168); for bibliography on the Carneia see Dougherty (1998: 119 n.27). 37. Power (2010: 70); on the historical context of the Hadrianic statue of Apollo Kitharoidos from Cyrene in the British Museum see Flashar (1992:126) and Higgs (1994) with Boatwright (2003: 177) on Hadrian’s interest in Cyrene. Pfrommer (1992: 19-23) on the kithara as a symbol of Cyrene. 38. West (1973: 189). 39. Power (2010: 274), on Lesbos as a center for kitharoidia see his discussion at 379-385. For the Argonautica myth in the fragmentary lyric poets such as Ibycus and Simonides see Acosta-Hughes (2007: 222 with n.58 and 2010: 141-213). 40. Delphi Archaeological Museum, inv. 1323. 41. Vojatzi (1982: 42) says it is a khelus-lyre, but see Power (2010: 274 n.221) who properly identifies the instrument as a square-based kithara.

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suggests, the inclusion of both on the Treasury might reflect an attempt to harmonize the competing traditions: “We may thus imagine kitharodes appeasing local sensibilities at Delphi, above all the Pythian agônes, by making Philammon, a legendary Pythian victor (Pausanias 10.7.2), their avatar in the Argonautic narratives they sang there”.42

Pindar is probably similarly engaged in appeasing local Cyrenean sensibilities. His ‘Argonautica’ is remarkable for its length and epicizing narrative. Accordingly, the scholarly consensus holds that this ode was performed as a monody, i.e. kitharodic, as opposed to his more typical mode, i.e. choral.43 Pindar evokes the image of father of kithara-songs to legitimate his performance of an ‘Argonautica’, a very kitharaappropriate theme, especially before the Cyreneans, a very kithara-loving audience. Moreover, implying that Orpheus is a son of Apollo as Pindar assimilates himself to Orpheus serves to further delight his Cyrenean audience who may have already assimilated the first Argonautic kitharode to Apollo Kitharôidos. So, in a catalogue where all the other heroes are sons of gods, the ambiguous expression ἐξ Ἀπόλλωνος invites the interpretation that Orpheus too is the son of a god too, in this case Apollo.44 Pindar’s ambiguous handling of Orpheus’ paternity may have been deployed to win over his Cyrenean audience, but in subsequent eras when the occasion and audience was no longer so salient, ἐξ Ἀπόλλωνος … Ὀρφεύς caused consternation in readers of Pythian 4, especially those who read it as a text alongside other texts and commentaries. For, apparently, the sources were divided on the question of Orpheus’ parentage: the majority named Oeagrus and the minority named Apollo as Orpheus’ father. Pythian4, however, ambiguously appears to endorse the minority view and it provoked controversy which is reflected in the scholia: ‘[Pindar] says Orpheus is the son of Apollo, whom both Pindar himself and others say is the son of Oiagros’ (Ἀπόλλωνος τὸν Ὀρφέα φησὶν εἶναι, ὃν καὶ αὐτὸς ὁ Πίνδαρος καὶ ἄλλοι Οἰάγρου λέγουσιν).45 Apollonius and his contemporary intellectuals were collecting, cataloguing, and producing commentaries on the poetry of the past astexts, 42. Power (2010: 275). 43. Davies (1988: 56) with references; cf. Power (2010: 277) for a recent attempt to defend choral performance of Pi.Py.4. 44. This interpretation coheres with Medea’s address to the Argonauts earlier in the poem: ‘Listen up, sons of the magnanimous heroines and gods’ (Κέκλυτε, παῖδες ὑπερθύμων τε φωτῶν καὶ θεῶν·, Pi. Py. 4.13). 45. Schol. Pind. Pyth. iv, 176 Drachmann (II, 139, 15)

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and their work is the ultimate ancestor of the scholia.46 Hence, this controversy in the scholia to Pindar sheds some light on the way Orpheus’ parentage is presented in Apollonius’ catalogue. A.R. 1.23-34: Πρῶτά νυν Ὀρφῆος μνησώμεθα, τόν ῥά ποτ’ αὐτή Καλλιόπη Θρήικι φατίζεται εὐνηθεῖσα Οἰάγρῳ σκοπιῆς Πιμπληίδος ἄγχι τεκέσθαι αὐτὰρ τόνγ’ ἐνέπουσιν ἀτειρέας οὔρεσι πέτρας θέλξαι ἀοιδάων ἐνοπῇ ποταμῶν τε ῥέεθρα· φηγοὶ δ’ ἀγριάδες κείνης ἔτι σήματα μολπῆς ἀκτῇ Θρηικίῃ Ζώνης ἔπι τηλεθόωσαι ἑξείης στιχόωσιν ἐπήτριμοι, ἃς ὅγ’ ἐπιπρό θελγομένας φόρμιγγι κατήγαγε Πιερίηθεν. Ὀρφέα μὲν δὴ τοῖον ἑῶν ἐπαρωγὸν ἀέθλων Αἰσονίδης Χείρωνος ἐφημοσύνῃσι πιθήσας δέξατο, Πιερίῃ Βιστωνίδι κοιρανέοντα· First then let us commemorate Orpheus, the one whom they say once upon a time Calliope herself bore near the peaks of Pimpleia after sleeping with Thracian Oeagrus. As to [Orpheus] they say that he charmed the rugged rocks in the mountains with the din of his songs, and the streams of the rivers too. But the wild oak trees are still signs of that song-and-dance, flourishing on the Thracian shore at Zone, standing in orderly rows, the ones that he led down from Pieria charmed by his kithara. Obedient to Chiron’s commands, Jason welcomed Orpheus, as such a helper for his ordeals, when he was ruling in Bistonian Pieria.

In these lines Orpheus is presented very provocatively. Three verbs of speaking are deployed in quick succession to introduce him: μνήσώμεθα (1.23), φατίζεται (1.24), and ἐνέπουσιν (1.26). This mannerism, which Ross has labeled the ‘Alexandrian footnote’, became a favorite among highly allusive Latin poets.47 It involves using a general appeal to the tradition, as in ‘earlier poets still sing’ (οἱ πρόσθεν ἔτι κλείουσιν ἀοιδοί, 1.18) or ‘the report is’ (φατίζεται), in order to draw attention to the process of alluding. Hinds deftly elaborates on the use of the Alexandrian footnote in a particularly apt example for the present discussion. It is worth quoting in full:

46. Bing (1988); Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004: 23); on Hellenistic scholarship in general see Pfeiffer (1968); on the scholia to Pindar see Deas (1931); on Hellenistic editions of Pindar see Irigoin (1952: 31-75); Phillips (2016: 63-72). 47. Ross (1975: 78); see Hinds (1998: 1-5) for an elaboration with examples.

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“Consider, for example, the opening lines of Catullus 64, on the departure of the Argo: Peliaco quondam prognatae vertice pinus Dicunturliquidas Neptuni nasse per undas Not only is the poem’s whole introductory section highly allusive, as was established in a fine article by Richard Thomas, which traces references in lines 1-18 to no fewer than five previous versions of the Argo story; but also, in line 2, the word dicuntur ‘are said to have…’ draws attention to this very quality of allusiveness. ‘Are said [in tradition]’, but also, specifically, ‘are said [in my literary predecessors]’: the hinted ‘footnote’ underlines the allusiveness of the verses, and intensifies their demand to be interpreted as a system of allusions. And Ross’s phrase ‘Alexandrian footnote’ catches it just right. Dicuntur is not of course a real footnote or scholium, such as one would find in Crassicus’ commentary on Cinna’s Zmyrna or in Servius’ commentaries on Virgil; but it does very precisely mimic the citation style of a learned Latin commentary. What emerges, then, is a trope for the poet’s allusive activity, a figurative turn: the poet portrays himself as a kind of scholar, and portrays his allusion as a kind of learned citation (citation, it may be, with a distinctly polemical edge).” 48

Hinds’ explanation of the significance of Catullus’ deployment of the Alexandrian footnote dicuntur is especially pertinent here. In all likelihood Apollonius is not just one of Catullus’ predecessors in the Argo tradition, but he is the predecessor whose own allusive poetics is the blueprint for Catullus 64. In other words, with dicuntur, Catullus is not only alluding to Apollonius to correct his text about details, like the kind of wood that was used to build the Argo, as Thomas observes, but also and more importantly Catullus alludes to Apollonius’ persona as scholarpoet to draw attention to his own figuring of his persona in Catullus 64 as a scholar-poet. And since on the mirco-level (e.g. was the Argo made of pine or oak?) Catullus’ stance toward Apollonius is polemical, it is safe to assume that on this macro-level the point of adopting a similar persona is to signal rivalry. Apollonius uses φατίζεται in much the same way as Catullus, at the beginning of the poem in a context where an appeal to inspiration is more appropriate. In fact, Apollonius has just asked, however ambiguously, for the Muses to be involved with his song (Μοῦσαι δ’ ὑποφήτορες εἶεν ἀοιδῆς, 1.22).49 The first person plural μνησώμεθα at the beginning of 48. Hinds (1998: 2) with references; on Catullus 64 see Thomas (1982). 49. Apollonius’ request is directed at Apollo: ‘May the Muses be ὑποφήτορες of song.’ Precisely what Apollonius means by this unfamiliar (possibly new) word, ὑποφήτορες, has been the subject of some debate. While some scholars prefer to translate ὑποφήτορες as ‘inspirers’, most choose for ‘interpreters’. Comparisons with the related terms προφήτης and ὑποφήτης substantiate the popular “interpretative” line in that the

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the catalogue signals the inclusion of the Muses, in the narrative voice, of whom at least one of the Muses, if not all, is certainly privy to the relevant facts surrounding Orpheus’ parentage. The Alexandrian footnote deployed here is thus an aggressive assertion of Apollonius’ persona as a scholar-poet as opposed to an inspired performer. For, rather than being the mouthpiece for the Muses, he is the scholar who harmonizes their voices, which he treats as the texts of the literary past. Indeed, in the first 22 lines this orchestration of voices/texts is already evident. There are 12 different expressions referring to speech and these are distributed among 7 different speakers: narrator – μνήσομαι (1.2), μυθησαίμην (1.20); Pelias – ἐφημοσύνῃ (1.3), ῥέζε θεοῖς, οὐκ ἀλέγιζεν (1.14), ἔντυε (1.16); Apollo – φάτιν (1.5), τεὴν κατὰ βάξιν (1.8); Jason – ὑπ’ ἐννεσίῃσι (1.7); earlier poets – ἔτι κλείουσιν (1.18); Athena – ὑποθημοσύνῃσι (1.19); Muses – ὑποφήτορες εἶεν ἀοιδῆς (1.22). Furthermore, speech as text is thematized by the use of quotation twice in the prelude. I have already discussed the quotation of the construction narrative of earlier poets at 1.18-19, so here I will turn to the first quotation. The φάτιν that Pelias heard about his evil fate is quoted at 1.5-7: Τοίην γὰρ Πελίης φάτιν ἔκλυεν, ὥς μιν ὀπίσσω μοῖρα μένει στυγερή, τοῦδ’ ἀνέρος ὅντιν’ ἴδοιτο δημόθεν οἰοπέδιλον ὑπ’ ἐννεσίῃσι δαμῆναι· Such was the report Pelias heard that in the future a loathsome fate awaited him, to be subdued at the instigation of a man whom he would be seen [coming] from the demos wearing one sandal.

poet’s persona here invites the Muses to relay, or transmit, the song to the audience. This seems to be confirmed in 1.1311, where the minor sea god Glaucus, who reveals to the Argonauts’ Zeus’ will concerning Heracles, is called the ὑποφήτης of divine Nereus. A few scholars have elaborated on this meaning, suggesting, on the basis of the more common terms, that ὑποφήτορες implies “supporters of the poet” (Albis) or “interpreters of Apollo’s oracles” (González). However, William Race in his recent Loeb translation chooses to revisit the minority position, translating ὑποφήτορες as “inspirers”. In a footnote explaining his translation, he says, “The term ὑποφήτορες most likely means “interpreters” (cf. A.P. 14.1), but elsewhere Apollonius consistently portrays the Muses as the originators of his songs (cf. 3.1-5, 4.984 and 1381-1382).” Race’s observation that the Muses are portrayed as the “originators” of the songs in the rest of the poem is consistent with Cuypers’ interpretation, “sources of the past”, which I accept here for the most part. However, it is my own view that Apollonius introduces ὑποφήτορες deliberately to call attention to his evolving relationship with the Muses. I argue elsewhere (Murray 2005a: 82-113) that in the proem their role has yet to defined because they have not entered the fictional performance. For further discussions on the meaning of ὑποφήτορες, see Faedo (1970); Fusillo (1985: 365-66); Clauss (1993: 17-18); Hunter (1993: 125); Albis (1996:21); Gonzalez (2000); Cuypers (2004). The most recent interpretations, “supporters of the poet” (Albis 1996: 21), “interpreters of Apollo’s oracles” (González 2000) and “sources of the past” (Cuypers 2004) all have much to recommend them.

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When Pelias sees evidence that the report may be coming true, his response is expectedly impious: he tries to prevent the rest of it from coming true. It is unclear whether Pelias knew that Apollo was its source, but the narrator does, and makes a point saying so to the god at 1.8: τεὴν κατὰ βάξιν, ‘according to your oracle.’ Since φάτιν and βάξιν appear in the context to refer to the quotation, the difference in diction suggests a corresponding difference in attitude toward its contents.50 Focalized through Pelias, the prediction is φάτις because he either received it as an anonymous report and disbelieved that Apollo was its source or he knew that it is from Apollo and believed he could prove the god to be a liar. Focalized through the narrator, however, the prediction is βάξις because he knows that Apollo is its source and that the god’s words always come true. In this context where speech, text, and the authority of sources are foregrounded, the presentation of Orpheus’ parentage as a quotation of the tradition calls attention to the divergent claims about him made by earlier poets. And whereas Pindar made Orpheus the son of Apollo in his ‘Argonautica’ to serve the encomiastic and metapoetic exigencies of his Cyrenean performance, and whereas the controversy it triggered arose inadvertently and only later in learned readers, the same cannot be said with any confidence about Apollonius’ use of a quotation to introduce Orpheus’ parentage. For one thing, Apollonius and his readers were the learned readers who would see something worthy of comment in Pindar’s ἐξ Ἀπόλλωνος … Ὀρφεύς.51 Pindar’s genealogy of Orpheus triggered controversy among the literate and learned readership of later eras because it lent support to the minority view that Apollo fathered Orpheus. In contrast, by quoting the tradition about the majority view, i.e. Oeagrus and Calliope are Orpheus’ parents, Apollonius is deliberately stirring up controversy where it need not arise. And it cannot be stressed enough that an Alexandrian footnote calls attention to the quotation itself as an allusive gesture. It signals that Apollonius the scholar-poet has reduced Orpheus to the traditions about him, i.e. as a collection of texts to be edited and harmonized with one another. It is useful at this point to recall 50. The slight possibility remains that the quotation and Apollo’s prophecy do not overlap completely. However, at 1. 1304-9 the narrator mentions the funeral games of Pelias, referring to his death Πελίαο δεδουπότος which is similar to the language used for death of Apsyrtus at 4.557: δεδουπότος Ἁψύρτοιο. 51. On Hellenistic scholarship in general see Pfeiffer (1968); on the scholia to Pindar see Deas (1931); on Hellenistic editions of Pindar see Irigoin (1952: 31-75); Phillips (2016: 63-72).

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that the previous quotation of the tradition at 1.18-19 about the construction of the Argo underwent a rewrite. So, it is likely that this quotation about Orpheus’ parentage could also suffer the same fate later in the poem. To focus now on the quotation about Orpheus’ parentage: the communis opinio holds that Calliope and Oeagrus are Orpheus’ parents. Hence, deploying the Alexandrian footnote here, just to repeat, deliberately provokes a controversy where it would not normally arise. The scholia take the bait by referring to two minority views: Schol. A.R. 1. 23 Εἶναι δὲ Ὀρφέα, κατὰ μὲν Ἀσκληπιάδην, Ἀπόλλωνος καὶ Καλλιόπης, κατὰ δὲ ἐνίους Οἰάγρου καὶ Πολυμνίας. According to Asclepiades Orpheus was the son of Apollo and Calliope, but according to some he was the son of Oeagrus and Polymnia.

So, according to the scholia, Asclepiades Tragilensis (ca. 4th cent. BCE) appears to be responsible for the earliest claim that Apollo and Calliope were Orpheus’ parents.52 Some others say his parents were Oeagrus and Polyumnia, and there appears to be no evidence (available to the scholiast) that anyone ever paired Apollo with Polymnia. The parental combinations that are salient to the quotation are: Oeagrus + Calliope – held by the majority Oeagrus + Polymnia – held by some Apollo + Calliope – held by Asclepiades Apollo + ? – held by Pindar in Py. 4

In the rest of the Argonautica, when Orpheus’ paternity is asserted, his father is always Oeagrus.53 So, Apollonius is not challenging the communisopinio on this detail. Calliope, however, raises suspicion since she is never mentioned by name again. Since the quotation distances Apollonius and the Muses from responsibility for this text about Orpheus’ parentage, it is thus safe to assume that it is Calliope’s status as Orpheus’ mother that is being called into question. So, the quotation, on the one hand, suppresses the view that Orpheus is Apollo’s son, and, on the other hand, challenges the view that Calliope is his mother. As a polemic it amounts to a clever contradiction of Asclepiades’ claim that Calliope and Apollo are Orpheus’ parents.

52. Linforth (1941: 24). 53. Cf. 1.570, 2.703, 4.905, 4.1193

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What we have here is a competition between the Orpheus of the quoted text the son of Calliope, and the Orpheus of the Argonautica, the son of Polymnia. And since all the subsequent assertions of Oeagrus’ paternity refer intratextually to this one in the Catalogue about Orpheus’ parentage, every time an assertion is made it re-enacts this initial agôn of textual Orpheuses. A.R. 1.26-34 αὐτὰρ τόνγ’ ἐνέπουσιν ἀτειρέας οὔρεσι πέτρας θέλξαι ἀοιδάων ἐνοπῇ ποταμῶν τε ῥέεθρα· φηγοὶ δ’ ἀγριάδες κείνης ἔτι σήματα μολπῆς ἀκτῇ Θρηικίῃ Ζώνης ἔπι τηλεθόωσαι ἑξείης στιχόωσιν ἐπήτριμοι, ἃς ὅγ’ ἐπιπρό θελγομένας φόρμιγγι κατήγαγε Πιερίηθεν. As to [Orpheus] they say that he charmed the rugged rocks in the mountains with the din of his songs, and the streams of the rivers too. But the wild oak trees are still signs of that song-and-dance, flourishing on the Thracian shore at Zone, stand in orderly rows, the ones that he led down from Pieria charmed by his kithara.

As with φατίζεται, ἐνέπουσιν is another Alexandrian footnote that sets up a quotation and draws attention to Apollonius the scholar-poet: They saythathecharmedtheruggedrocksinthemountainswiththedinof hissongs,andthestreamsoftheriverstoo. In this depiction of Orpheus’ music, rocks roll down mountains and rivers leave their beds to follow his songs. Significantly, the use of ἐνοπῇ, din, to describe his voice connotes a disturbing sound. Here Panocles fr. 1.19-22 Powell which describes the effect of Orpheus’ music on rocks and the river Styx seems to be one of Apollonius’ contemporary targets: ἐν δὲ χέλυν τύμβῳ λιγυρὴν θέσαν, ἣ καὶ ἀναύδους πέτρας καὶ Φόρκου στυγνὸν ἔπειθεν ὕδωρ. (20) Ἐκ κείνου μολπαί τε καὶ ἱμερτὴ κιθαριστὺς νῆσον ἔχει, πασέων δ’ ἐστὶν ἀοιδοτάτη. In a tomb they places [Orpheus’] tortoise shell lyre, the one that persuaded the mute rock and the loathsome water of Phorcys. Because of him songand-dance and lovely kitharôidia hold the island [Lesbos], and it is the best of all for singers.

Apollonius’ quotation thus seems to do violence to the traditional presentation of Orpheus the father of kitharôida by interpreting it as discordant. This text, i.e. this Orpheus, is, however, corrected immediately. Apollonius then switches to direct speech at 1.28 and, I would argue, rewrites the text about Orpheus and his music: Orpheus charmed the wild

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oak-trees with his kithara playing and led them down from Pieria to Zone where they stand in orderly arrangement on the shore. The tradition is quoted, but the corroboration offered only supports the text in oratio recta. Significantly, this is also the first statement about Orpheus that the narrator presents in oratiorecta. The materiality of the oak-trees, their persistence through time, their rootedness in the real world are the ‘solid’ proof of Orpheus’ music, σήματα μολπῆς.54 The ancient oak-trees at Zone which are still growing on the shore, and presumably their uncanny arrangement (like a belt?) gave the beach its name. However, there is no material evidence to prove the quoted text, i.e. Orpheus of the tradition. So, there are two Orpheuses in this Catalogue entry, Apollonius’ Orpheus and the Orpheus of his predecessors. In fact at least one of Apollonius’ ancient sources claimed there were two (see Herodorus quoted below). However, what Apollonius has done through the use of quotation is turn the two literal Orpheuses into two texts about Orpheus.

3. Signs of Orpheus’ Performance In the poetry of Apollonius and his contemporaries there is a matrix of poetological ideas around the metaphorical use of ὕλη, forest or woodland, to mean ‘poetic material’ and the literal use of wood for writing tablets. So, for example, Theocritus in Idyll 17.9-12 explicitly compares writing poetry to woodcutting, the poet of the Periodos to Nicomedes 37-44 figures his work of setting history to verse as wood-working, and Callimachus creates a full-blown metapoetic allegory based on treeviolation in the Hymn to Demeter that is influential on the metapoetic dimension of the story of Paraibios at A.R. 2.468-97.55 Add to this the tradition that associated Orpheus with texts. For example, Euripides Alcestis (962-71) mentions Orpheus’ pharmaka in Thracian writing tablets (θρῄσσαις ἐν σανίσιν, 967).56 In Iphigenia in Aulis 1211-1214 Euripides mentions Orpheus charming rocks. Hence, it is tempting to see Apollonius’ wild oak-trees from Pieria as an allusion to the play, specifically to the myths in the writing tablets of the Pierides (ἐν δέλτοις Πιερίσιν / μῦθοι) at 798-99. Accordingly, it is easy to read the statement about the effect of Orpheus’ music on trees, which is made in the 54. Barnes (2003: 97-98). 55. Murray (2002) and (2005a: 63-81). 56. See Faraone (2008) on evidence for Orphic magical texts.

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voxpropria of the narrator, as a metapoetic allegory of Apollonius’ own ‘Orphic’ poetics. Here in the catalogue the emphasis is on Orpheus as the Argonauts’ musician.57 An explanation is hardly needed for why this emphasis of why as a poet himself Apollonius would favor Orpheus above the other heroes and grant him pride of place in his catalogue. Moreover, as I have already suggested above, Orpheus’ fame as a musician no doubt attracted many of the heroes, especially those who still had to earn their own kleos. In this respect, his position at the head of the text of the Catalogue also mirrors his position as chorus leader of the Argonauts. Orpheus leads the heroes in the song-dance as he does in the texts in the Catalogue. So, are τὰ Ἀργοναυτικά δέλτοι Πιερίδων? At 4.1381-2 the narrator all but declares as much: Μουσάων ὅδε μῦθος, ἐγὼ δ’ ὑπακουὸς ἀείδω / Πιερίδων, “this is the Muses’ story, I sing obedient to the Pierides”. Orpheus’ kithara playing charmed the wild oak-trees of Pieria and led them down to the Thracian shore where they are still growing as signs of his song. Similarly, Apollonius’ written mousikê charms the wild Pierian ὕλη (i.e. the cacophony of texts of the poetic tradition) and makes them stand in orderly rows (i.e. the hexameters of the Argonautica).

4. Conclusion A.R. 1.32-34 Ὀρφέα μὲν δὴ τοῖον ἑῶν ἐπαρωγὸν ἀέθλων Αἰσονίδης Χείρωνος ἐφημοσύνῃσι πιθήσας δέξατο, Πιερίῃ Βιστωνίδι κοιρανέοντα· Obedient to Chiron’s commands, as such a helper for his ordeals, Jason welcomed Orpheus, who was ruling in Bistonian Pieria.

On this reading, the narrator concludes the catalogue entry specifying the Orpheus whom Chiron ordered Jason to accept as a helper: the Orpheus of his text not the Orpheus of the texts of his predecessors, i.e. Orpheus the son of Oeagrus and Polymnia (not the son of Apollo and Calliope); the Orpheus who charmed the wild Pierian oaks (not the Orpheus who charmed rocks and rivers).

57. For recent discussion of Orpheus’ religious role see Schaaf (2014).

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However, the two conversations that must have taken place are compressed into three words in succession: ἐφημοσύνῃσι πιθήσας / δέξατο (1.33-34). Neither what Chiron said to Jason nor what Jason said to Orpheus is mentioned. The Catalogue entry for Orpheus thus ends with the narrator deploying another controversy-provoking technique: surprising silence.58 Remaining silent when everyone expects something to be said effectively reverses the earlier strategy of putting an uncontroversial statement in a quotation. Similarly goaded, the scholia cite the Argonautica of the historian Herodorus (5th-4th BCE) for what was said by Chiron to Jason before Apollonius: Scholia Ap.Rhod. ad 1.23 = Herodor. F 39.1-5 Müller FHG II, pp. 28-41 Ἡρόδωρος δύο εἶναι Ὀρφεῖς φησιν· ὧν τὸν ἕτερον συμπεπλευκέναι τοῖς Ἀργοναύταις. Ζητεῖται δὲ διὰ τί Ὀρφεὺς ἀσθενὴς ὢν συνέπλει τοῖς ἥρωσιν· ὅτι μάντις ὢν ὁ Χείρων ἔχρησε μὴ δύνασθαι τὰς Σειρῆνας παρελθεῖν αὐτοὺς Ὀρφέως μὴ συμπλέοντος. Οὕτως Ἡρόδωρος. Herodorus says there are two Orpheuses, one of them sailed with the Argonauts. The question asked is why does Orpheus being weak sail with the heroes? Because being a prophet, Chiron prophesied that it was impossible for them to sail past the Sirens if Orpheus did not sail with them. So says Herodorus.

Leaving unmentioned Orpheus’ famous defeat of the Sirens certainly creates suspense in the readers who expect Apollonius’ Argonautica to follow the major contours of the Argonautic myth. However, given the cunning use of language in both the prelude and this Catalogue entry, Apollonius’ silence about the contents of Chiron and Jason’s conversation draws attention to the suppression of earlier texts. Accordingly, it remains to be read whether Orpheus’ defeat of the Sirens was what earned him the first seat on Apollonius’ Argo. But given that in book 4, unlike in the Odyssey, the danger the Sirens pose is not built-up at all, I suggest we look for some other performance. The tension between Apollonius’ text and Orpheus’ performances that is signaled here in the metapoetic prelude and the catalogue entry for Orpheus continues to resonate in the plentiful descriptions of and allusions to the song-dance culture of the past throughout the poem. Here I have tried to suggest that Apollonius, the scholar-poet, the last in the rhapsodic fictional performance aims to gain absolute control over the reception of Orpheus’ performances. 58. For a fine discussion of this technique in connection with Aithalides see NishimuraJensen (1998).

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Acosta-Hughes, Benjamin. 2007. ‘Lyric Apollonius.’ In L’eposargonautico. Atti del convegno Roma, 13 maggio 2004. Roma: Università degli studi Roma Tre, Dipartimento di studi sul mondo antico. Edited by Antonio Martina & Adele-Teresa Cozzoli. 199-235. Acosta-Hughes, Benjamin. 2010. Arion’s Lyre: Archaic Lyric into Hellenistic Poetry. Princeton. Asper, Markus. 2008. “Apollonius on Poetry.” In Papanghelis, Theodore D., and Rengakos, Antonios.. Brill’s Companion to Apollonius Rhodius. Leiden. 167–197. Barnes, Michael H. 2003. InscribedKleos:AetiologicalContextsinApollonius ofRhodes. Diss. University of Missouri-Columbia. Beye, Charles Rowan. 1982. EpicandRomanceintheArgonauticaofApollonius. Carbondale. Boatwright, Mary Taliaferro. 2000. HadrianandtheCitiesoftheRomanEmpire. Princeton. Bundy, Elroy L. 1972. “The ‘Quarrel between Kallimachos and Apollonios’ Part I: The Epilogue of Kallimachos’s ‘Hymn to Apollo.’” California StudiesinClassicalAntiquity 5: 39–94. Calame, Claude. 2011. “The Homeric Hymns as Poetic Offerings.” In Faulkner, Andrew. TheHomericHymns:InterpretativeEssays. Oxford. 334–358. Campbell, Malcolm. 1983. Studies in the Third Book of Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica. Hildesheim. Clauss, James Joseph. 1993. TheBestoftheArgonauts:theRedefinitionofthe EpicHeroinBook1ofApollonius’Argonautica. Los Angeles. Cuypers, Martijn. 2005. “Interactional Particles and Narrative Voices in Apollonius and Homer.” Caeculus 6: 35–69. Cuypers, M.P. 2004. “Apollonius Of Rhodes.” In de Jong, Irene J. F., Nünlist, Rene and Bowie, Angus M. Narrators,Narratees,andNarrativesinAncient GreekLiterature. Leiden. 43–62. Davies, M. 1988. “Monody, Choral Lyric, and the Tyranny of the Hand-Book.” CQ 38: 52-64. Deas, Henry Thomson. TheScholiaVeteratoPindar. HSCP 42 (1931), pp. 1-78 DeForest, Mary Margdies. 1994. ApolloniusArgonautica:aCallimacheanEpic. Leiden. De Marco, V. 1996. “Osservazioni su Apollio Rodio, I.1-22”, in Miscellaneadi studialessandriniinmemoriadiAugustoRostagni. Torino. Dougherty, Carol, and Leslie Kurke. 1999. CulturalPoeticsinArchaicGreece: Cult,Performance,Politics. Cambridge. Faedo, L. P. 1970. “L’inversione del rapporto poeta-musa nella cutura ellenistica”, Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa, Cl. di Lettere e Filosofia39: 377-386. Fantuzzi, Marco, and R. L. Hunter. 2004. TraditionandInnovationinHellenisticPoetry. Cambridge. Faraone, C. 2008. “Mystery Cults and Incantations: Evidence for Orphic Charms in Euripides’ Cyclops 646-48?” RhM151: 127-142. Faulkner, Andrew. 2012. TheHomericHymns:InterpretativeEssays. Oxford. Flashar, Martin. 1992. ApollonKitharodos:StatuarischeTypenDesMusischen Apollon. Köln.

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Fusillo, Massimo. 1985. IlTempodelleArgonautiche:Un’analisidelRacconto inApollonioRodio. Roma. Goldhill, Simon. 1991. ThePoet’sVoice:EssaysonPoeticsandGreekLiterature. Cambridge. González, José M. 2000. “Musai Hypophetores: Apollonius of Rhodes on Inspiration and Interpretation.” HSCP 100: 268-292. Harder, Annette, and Martine Cuypers. 2005. BeginningfromApollo:Studiesin ApolloniusRhodiusandtheArgonauticTradition. Leuven. Higgs, P. 1994. “The Cyrene Apollo.” HistoryToday, Nov., 50-54. Hinds, Stephen. 1998. Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of Appropriation in RomanPoetry.Cambridge. Hunter, Richard L. 2004. TheArgonauticaofApollonius:LiteraryStudies. Cambridge. Irigoin, Jean. 1952. HistoiredutextedePindare. Paris. Jong, Irene J. F. de., Nünlist, Rene and Bowie, Angus M. 2004. Narrators, NarrateesandNarrativesinAncientGreekLiterature. Leiden. Klooster, Jacqueline. 2011. PoetryasWindowandMirror:PositioningthePoet inHellenisticPoetry. Leiden. Linforth, Ivan Mortimer. 1973. TheArtsofOrpheus. Los Angeles. Malkin, Irad. 1994. Myth and Territory in the Spartan Mediterranean. Cambridge. Murray, Jackie. 2002. “The metamorphoses of Erysichthon. Callimachus, Apollonius, and Ovid.” In M. Annette Harder, Remco F. Regtuit & Gerry C. Wakker. CallimachusII. Leuven – Paris – Dudley MA, 207-241. Murray, Jackie. 2005a. PolyphonicArgo. Diss. University of Washington. Murray, Jackie. 2005b. “The Constructions of the Argo in Apollonius’ Argonautica.” Caeculus 6: 88–106. Nagy, Gregory. 2011. “The Earliest Phases in the Reception of the Homeric Hymns.” In Faulkner, Andrew. TheHomericHymns:InterpretativeEssays. Oxford. 280–333. Nagy, Gregory. 2012. HomertheClassic. Cambridge, Mass. Nagy, Gregory. 2017. HomerthePreclassic. Los Angeles. Nishimura-Jensen, Julie. 1998. “The Poetics of Aethalides: Silence and Poikilia in Apollonius’ Argonautica.” CQ 48: 456–469. Papanghelis, Theodore D., and Rengakos, Antonios. 2011. Brill’sCompanionto ApolloniusRhodius. Leiden. Pfrommer, Michael. 1993. GottlicheFürsteninBoscoreale:derFestsaalinder VilladesP.FanniusSynistor. Mainz am Rhein. Phillips, Tom. 2016. Pindar’sLibrary:PerformancePoetryandMaterialTexts. Oxford. Porter, J. I. 1992. “Hermeneutic Lines and Circles: Aristarchus and Crates on Exegesis of Homer.” In Lamberton, Robert and Keaney, John J. Homer’s Ancient Readers: The Hermeneutics of Greek Epic’s Earliest Exegetes. Princeton. Power, Timothy. 2011. TheCultureofKitharoidia. Cambridge, Mass.. Race, William H. n.d. “How Greek Poems Begin.” In Dunn, Francis M. and Cole, Thomas. BeginningsinClassicalLiterature. Cambridge. 13–38. Race, William H. 1990. StyleandRhetoricinPindar’sOdes. Atlanta, GA. Rengakos, Antonios. 1994. ApolloniosRhodiosunddieAntikeHomererklärung. München.

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Rengakos, Antonios. 2008. “Apollonius Rhodius as a Homeric Scholar.” In Papanghelis, Theodore D., and Rengakos, Antonios. Brill’sCompanionto ApolloniusRhodius, 243–66. Ross, David O. 1975. Backgrounds to Augustan Poetry: Gallus, Elegy, and Rome. Cambridge. Rossi, L. E. 1968. ‘La fine alessandrina dell’ Odissea e lo «zêlos homêrikos» di Apollonio Rodio.’ RFIC96: 151-163. Schaaf, Ingo. 2014. MagieundRitualbeiApolloniosRhodios:Studienzuihrer FormundFunktionindenArgonautika. Berlin. Scherer, Burkhard. 2006. Mythos, Katalog und Prophezeiung: Studien zu den ArgonautikadesApolloniosRhodios. Stuttgart. Sider, David. 2017. HellenisticGreekPoetry:aSelection. Ann Arbor. Theocritus, and A. S. F. Gow. 1950. Theocritus:EditedwithaTranslationand Commentary. Cambridge. Thomas, Richard F. 1982. “Catullus and the Polemics of Poetic Reference (Poem 64.1-18).” AJP 103: 144-164. Vojatzi, Mata. 1982. FrüheArgonautenbilder. K. Triltsch. West, M. L. 1973. “Greek Poetry 2000–700 B.C.” CQ 23: 179-192. ―, 1966. HesiodTheogony. Oxford. Wheeler, G. 2002. “Sing, Muse…: the Introit from Homer to Apollonius.” CQ 52: 33–49.

THE SHADOW OF ARISTOPHANES: HELLENISTIC POETRY’S RECEPTION OF COMIC POETICS* Thomas J. NELSON

The influence of Attic drama on Hellenistic poetry has been a topic of little consistent focus in recent scholarship. Most scholars are content merely to note individual cases of parallels with Attic comedy or tragedy, or lament the loss of many dramas which would doubtless prove illuminating intertexts were they to have survived.1 What emerges is thus a rather piecemeal picture of Hellenistic poetry’s engagement with earlier dramatic texts. There are, of course, some notable exceptions, such as explorations of the underlying tragic elements in Apollonius’ Argonautica and Callimachus’ Hecale,2 as well as the analysis of comedy’s influence on individual Hellenistic poems.3 Yet the full extent of Hellenistic poetry’s debt to Attic drama remains largely unexplored terrain.4 This lack of scholarly attention may in part reflect the common belief that Hellenistic poets display a largely negative attitude to drama,5 but it must also stem from the traditional emphasis on Hellenistic poetry as a written artefact, detached from any immediate context of performance * I would like to thank all those who commented on earlier drafts of this paper: Caitlin Duschenes, Richard Hunter, Rebecca Lees, Max Leventhal, Goran Vidović and Alan Woolley, as well as audiences in Oxford, Cambridge and the Groningen workshop. The revision of this paper was supported by funding from both the Golden Web Foundation and the Arts and Humanities Research Council. Aristophanes’ complete plays are cited from Wilson’s OCT (2007); all comic fragments from Kassel & Austin (19832001); Callimachus from Harder (2012) for the Aetia, Hollis (1990) for the Hecale and Pfeiffer (1949-53) for everything else. All translations are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 1. E.g. Hunter (1989a: 19, 188) on the loss of Sophocles’ Colchian Women and Rhizotomoi, both possible sources for Argonautica 3. 2. Argonautica: Murray (2014: 249 n.10). Hecale: Acosta-Hughes & Stephens (2012: 192-202). 3. E.g. Bettenworth (2002) on Asclepiades 25 HE [920-931] (= AP 5.181); Hunter (1996: 111-13) on Idyll 14 and New Comedy; Hollis (1990: 9, 145, 168, 255, 299-300) on the Hecale’suse of comic language. 4. Though now see Sistakou (2016) for a thorough treatment of Hellenistic poetry’s reception of tragedy. 5. E.g. Thomas (1979: 181-90); Fantuzzi (2007); Belioti (this volume: 5): “theatrical traditions seem to have lost their vitality.” For caution against such pessimistic readings, see Cameron (1995: 60-2), Acosta-Hughes & Stephens (2012: 96-97, 102) and AcostaHughes (2012).

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– apparently a far cry from the socially embedded performance-culture of fifth century Athens. As many contributions to this volume demonstrate, however, this fifththird century dichotomy is too simplistic, and the belief that classical drama was relatively unimportant for Hellenistic poets should be reconsidered given the continuing prominence of drama in the third and second centuries BCE. After all, new dramas were still composed and performed in the Hellenistic period, just as past Attic plays were reperformed by itinerant artists, including the touring technitai of Dionysus. Archaeological evidence, too, highlights the sustained popularity and cultural prestige of the dramatic genre, visible not only in large collections of Hellenistic mask and actor terracottas, but also scenes from tragedy and New Comedy on house mosaics.6 Yet it is in Alexandria, above all, that drama’s continuing significance is most evident, since this literary genre appears to have played a key role in the Ptolemies’ political self-fashioning. Not only did the kings support public performances of drama by exempting the artists of Dionysus from the salt tax,7 but they also invoked its cultural capital in their large public displays of wealth and power: in Ptolemy II Philadelphus’ Grand Procession, a figure of the Year (Ἐνιαυτός) appeared in tragic clothing and a mask (Athenaeus 5.198a) alongside the artists of Dionysus and the tragic poet Philicus of Corcyra (Ath. 5.198c);8 for the same festivities, Philadelphus’ pavilion featured grottoes with characters drawn from tragedy, comedy and satyr-play (Ath. 5.196f); and later in the third century, Ptolemy IV Philopator’s luxurious thalamegos boat included a roofed area which resembled a theatrical stage-building (Ath. 5.205a). Allusion to the myths and trappings of drama, therefore, clearly contributed to the Ptolemies’ display and performance of their Hellenic pedigree. Yet this was not just a case of passive appropriation, for beyond the razzmatazz of such public pageants, key players at the Ptolemaic court are also said to have composed drama themselves: an Adonis tragedy is ascribed to Ptolemy IV 6. For introductions to Hellenistic drama, see e.g. Fantuzzi & Hunter (2004: 404-443), Sens (2010), Acosta-Hughes & Stephens (2012: 90-102) and Kotlińska-Toma (2015); for itinerant poets, see Cinalli (this volume) and Hunter & Rutherford (2009) more generally; for the artists of Dionysus in particular, see Le Guen (2001), Lightfoot (2002) and Aneziri (2003); and for theatrical mosaics, see Nervegna (2013), esp. the lists in Appendixes 2 and 3 (pp.264-70). 7. P.Hal1.260-65. SeeFraser (1972: I.618-9), and Id.17.112-16 for Ptolemy Philadelphus’ patronage of those entering ‘the sacred contests of Dionysus.’ 8. On the confusion over this poet’s name (Φίλικος vs. Φιλίσκος), see Fraser (1972: II.859 n.407), Provenzale (2009: 36-37) and Kotlińska-Toma (2015: 71-2). From the presence of these and other figures in the procession, Rice (1983: 56-8) suggests that the celebrations surrounding it probably included dramatic performances.

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(TrGF 119), while even Callimachus composed tragedies, comedies and satyr-plays, if we can trust the report of the Suda.9 Moreover, court poets and scholars also spent much time delving into dramatic literary history: various epigrammatists wrote poems about past and contemporary dramatists, such as Dioscorides’ series of epigrams which draw a literary genealogy between former Attic greats (Thespis, Aeschylus, Sophocles) and his own contemporaries (Sositheus, Machon);10 while in the Alexandrian Library, Attic drama was subjected to the same intense scholarly study as Homer. In particular, comedy was scrutinised by a succession of prominent scholars, including Lycophron, Euphronius, Dionysiades and Eratosthenes, the last of whom produced twelve or more books entitled Περὶ τῆς ἀρχαίας κωμῳδίας. Comic drama was evidently deemed worthy of such detailed study.11 It is perhaps two separate anecdotes, however, that best exhibit the Ptolemies’ desire to control and possess Athens’ dramatic heritage: first is the claim made by several sources that Ptolemy I Soter repeatedly tried to attract the comic poet Menander to his court;12 and second is Galen’s report that Ptolemy III Euergetes borrowed the official performance texts of the three major tragedians from Athens for a deposit of 15 talents, only to keep the originals and send back new copies, thereby forfeiting his deposit.13 The historicity of these anecdotes is of course questionable, but even if they are ultimately untrue, both reflect a perception of the Ptolemaic kings’ strong ambition to be intimately connected with Attic drama and possess the ‘real thing’, be it dramatist or script. Harnessing the prestige of Athenian drama was clearly a significant part of the Ptolemies’ cultural politics: through it, they could assert their own credentials as cultured, Greek monarchs, the true owners and custodians of the Hellenic past.14 9. Suda s.v. Καλλίμαχος (κ 227): τῶν δὲ αὐτοῦ βιβλίων ἐστὶ καὶ ταῦτα: … σατυρικὰ δράματα, τραγῳδίαι, κωμῳδίαι, κτλ. Many are sceptical of this entry’s accuracy, but see e.g. Cameron (1995: 60), esp. with n.232. 10. Dioscorides 20-24 HE [1585-1622] = AP 7.410; 7.411; 7.37; 7.707; 7.708). For the links (and significant differences) between 22 and 23 HE, see e.g. Bing (1988a: 39-40), Fantuzzi (2007: 490-3) and Klooster (2011: 150-154). For the epigrams as a whole, see Campbell (2013: 86-96). Cf. also SH 985, a third century BCE anthology containing at least nine tetrastichs composed on individual dramatists or tragedies and comedies: see Maltomini (2001). 11. See e.g. Strecker (1884), Pfeiffer (1968: 119-120, 159-162) and Lowe (2013). 12. Pliny NH 7.111 = Men.Test.15; Alciphr.4.18.5-6 = Men.Test.20. The Suda entry for Menander (μ 589 = Men.Test.1) credits the poet not only with comedies, but also ‘letters to King Ptolemy’. 13. Galen, Comm.in Hipp.Epidem.3 (17a.606-7). See Fraser (1972: I.325, II.480-1); Blum (1991: 42, 83 n.155); Hanink (2014: 244-5). 14. Here, as elsewhere, the Ptolemies may have been following in the footsteps of Alexander the Great, who appears to have valued the cultural prestige of drama similarly:

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Drama, therefore, was neither dead nor in decline by the Hellenistic period. By contrast, it continued to be studied, composed and performed, and it appealed to a wide range of Hellenistic society: kings, scholars and ordinary citizens alike. Given this continuing interest in drama both new and old, therefore, it is worth reconsidering the extent and nature of Attic drama’s influence on Hellenistic poetry. In this paper, I shall commence this reassessment by exploring Hellenistic poetry’s relationship with Attic (especially ‘Old’) Comedy.15 Aristophanes and his contemporaries, I argue, were both an important precursor to, and key model for, Hellenistic poetics. We shall begin by exploring how tropes that are often considered distinctively ‘Alexandrian’ in fact have considerable old comic precedent, before turning to Hellenistic poets’ more direct reception of the agonistic and combative personae of Old Comedy, as they adopted and inverted key comic imagery and motifs. Although most scholars focus on the voice of archaic (and especially Pindaric) lyric as a key precedent for the self-presentation of Callimachus and his peers,16 I shall conclude by suggesting that Attic Old Comedy also played a significant role in the formation and development of any such “Hellenistic aesthetic”: when approaching Hellenistic poetry, we cannot escape the lingering shadow of Aristophanes and his fellow old comedians – the AristophanisManes, as it were.17 he supposedly asked for books to be sent to him in Asia, including the works of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides (Plut.Alex.8.3). 15. On issues of periodisation, see e.g. Nesselrath (1990; 2000); Sidwell (2000); Arnott (2010). Aristotle only talks of two kinds of comedy (‘old’ and ‘new’, Arist. Eth.Nic. 1128a.23-5) and the origins of the hazy ‘Middle’ designation are uncertain. Nesselrath (1990: 180-187) attributes the popularisation of the term ‘Middle Comedy’ to Aristophanes of Byzantium, in which case many of our earlier Hellenistic poets might have been working with a simple Old-New opposition. Moreover, many comedians, including Aristophanes himself, straddle the boundary between our traditional chronological divisions. Acknowledging the artificiality of our modern categories, I thus do not shrink from occasionally employing evidence from ‘Middle’ Comedy when relevant. 16. E.g. Newman (1967: 45-8); Poliakoff (1980); Richardson (1985: 391-9); Hopkinson (1988: 88-9); Morrison (2007); West (2011: esp. 66-67); Luz (2012); Steiner (2015). 17. Many of the comic examples discussed below have been analysed by Matthew Wright in his recent study of how Attic comedy foreshadowed trends in later literary criticism (2012). Because of his specific focus, however, Wright overlooked many of Old Comedy’s numerous parallels with Hellenistic poetry, which I aim to highlight here. Talking plainly of ‘Old Comedy’ and ‘Hellenistic poetry’ can, of course, make both corpora of texts seem more cohesive and unified than they may actually be, especially given that in both cases we are heavily reliant on the fragments that have been preserved, either by chance or by the preoccupations of later excerptors (e.g. for comedy, Athenaeus with all his gastronomic interests). Nevertheless, from what does survive, there is a general consistency across each set of texts, and I believe that it is fair to see both Callimachus and Aristophanes as prime exponents of the poetry of their time, rather than radically different from their contemporaries.

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1. The Precedent of Old Comedy: Literate Poetics Between Text and Performance The traditional picture of Hellenistic poetry is one of bookish, exclusive and erudite poets, separated from Classical Greece by a vast chasm of time, space and cultural change. In his classic treatment of the topic, Peter Bing talks of these poets’ “acute sense of discontinuity and isolation”, and their awareness of a “rupture with the literary past.”18 To some extent, such a view of Hellenistic poets’ epigonality is undoubtedly true, but at its extremes it can evoke an image of scholar-poets cloistered away in the ivory tower, detached from any performance context and immersed in a purely bookish world. Although scholars have more recently emphasised Hellenistic poetry’s continuing contexts of performance and broader social, political and cultural engagement beyond the Library,19 emphasis on the pure textuality of Hellenistic poetry and its break with the classical past often persists: old stereotypes die hard.20 Nevertheless, scholars are increasingly aware of the numerous archaic and classical precedents for Hellenistic poetry, acknowledging that it is not an isolated outlier, but rather situated within a continuum of literary development. Indeed, numerous studies now highlight Hellenistic poetry’s debts to earlier literature, especially lyric poetry.21 It is regrettable, however, that Old Comedy is rarely mentioned in this connection, or – if it is – that discussion is largely limited to the famous contest between Euripides and Aeschylus in the Frogs. Yet there is in fact much in Attic comedy beyond the Frogswhich offers parallels for key characteristics and motifs of Hellenistic poetry. Susan Stephens’ recent summary of Callimachus’ defining attributes, for example, could equally well be applied to Aristophanes: he too can be characterised by “his engagement with ideas about poetry, his wide-ranging generic experimentation, and his self-conscious stance as a poet between a performed art and the emerging possibilities of the text.”22 Both Aristophanes and Callimachus, alongside their peers and rivals, participated in a strongly literate poetics, engaging with the literary tradition and poetic history, while also 18. Bing (1988a: 56); cf. e.g. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1924: I.148-151); Pfeiffer (1968: 88); Bulloch (1985: 543). 19. Cameron (1995) remains seminal. For Hellenistic poetry in context, see e.g. Acosta-Hughes & Stephens (2012: esp. 148-203); Harder et al. (2014). 20. E.g. Bing’s response to Cameron (2009: 106-115); Cozzoli’s talk of “the post-oral, bookish environment of Hellenistic Alexandria” (2011: 428); Barbantani’s discussion of “the end of an era” and a “watershed moment” (2015: 288). 21. E.g. Acosta-Hughes (2010). For Pindaric debts, see n.16 above. 22. Stephens (2011: 1).

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acknowledging the new technology of the book, with all its potential tensions.23 In the first half of this paper, I aim to outline the shared features of this literate poetics and consider their significance, especially for our larger narratives of literary history and questions of textuality and/or performance. 1.1 ManoeuvringwithintheLiteraryTradition:Intertextualityand GenericManipulation Old Comedy and Hellenistic poetry display a number of striking similarities at a variety of levels. A useful starting point, however, is their similarly dense intertextuality and generic manipulation. Allusion had, of course, accompanied all Greek literature from the earliest of times, already appearing in archaic epic and lyric poetry. Yet whereas earlier intertextuality tended to be restricted to famous phrases, words, or explicit citation,24 old comedians display a greater sophistication and precision in their textual echoes, employing verbatimquotation of noncontiguous lines and half-lines from numerous diverse sources. A wellknown case of such intricate intertextuality is Aristophanes’ parody of Euripides’ Helen (Thesm.855-919), which we can study in detail thanks to the survival of the Euripidean original.25 The comedian quotes considerable chunks of Euripides’ play (Thesm.855-7 ~ Eur.Hel.1-3; Thesm.906-12 ~ Eur.Hel.558, 561-6), only to deflate the tragic grandeur through bathetic references to the Egyptians’ fondness for taking laxatives (855-7), Euripides’ alleged addiction to ragged heroes (910),26 and the simple metaplasm of ἐς χέρας (‘into my hands’) to the obscene doubleentendre of ἐσχάρας (912).27 Although we should be wary of underestimating the power of memory in classical Athens, it is difficult for us as modern readers to imagine how Aristophanes could have quoted so 23. For Old Comedy and literacy generally, see e.g. Lowe (1993); Slater (1996); Wright (2012: esp. 60-66). 24. Allusion to famous phrases: e.g. the Homeric comparison of men to leaves (Il.6.144-51; cf. too Il.2.467-7, Od.9.51, Od.7.105-6, Il.21.461-7), which is echoed by Mimnermus (fr.2.1-2 W2), Simonides (frr.19-20 W2), and Bacchylides (5.63-7): see Griffith (1975) and Sider (2001). Citation: e.g. Solon’s criticism of Mimnermus (fr.20.3-4 W2) and Simonides’ naming of various predecessors, including Pittacus (542 PMG), Stesichorus and Homer (564 PMG), and Cleoboulus (581 PMG). 25. E.g. Nieddu (2004); Austin & Olson (2004: lx-lxii, 279-292); Wright (2012: 156-162); Farmer (2017: 177-181). 26. Reading Grégoire’s ἀμφίων, with Wilson’s OCT (2007). If we instead read ἰφύων (Σr/Suda), we might detect another reference to Euripides’ mother’s services as a vegetable vendor (cf. Ach.478, Ran.840, Thesm.455-6). 27. Lit. ‘hearths’ but also a slang term for the female genitalia: see Austin & Olson (2004: 291 ad911-12).

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much text without consulting a written edition of Euripides’ tragedy, or indeed how an audience member could spot all the details. Scholars have thus imagined a secondary reading audience for Aristophanes’ comedies beyond the original performance, who had the time, leisure and resources to dissect the comedian’s allusions (cf. Wright 2012; Zogg 2014: 16-23). The extent of Aristophanes’ literariness, however, is even clearer when we note the rogue Sophoclean quotation lurking within this Euripidean parody (μὴ ψεῦσον ὦ Ζεῦ, ‘don’t trick me, o Zeus’, Thesm.870a = Soph.fr.493a), an unobtrusive ‘interpolation’ which would be spotted more easily when reading, not just watching, the drama.28 This Helen parody thus combines extensive quotation, alteration and interpolation of Euripides’ text, a procedure that could be paralleled by numerous other comic parodies.29 Taken together, the precision and frequency of such allusions establish Old Comedy as an important predecessor to the extremely literary intertextual habits of Hellenistic poets. Of course, parody is not as central to most Hellenistic intertextuality as it was to Aristophanes,30 but both corpora’s similar degree of literariness sets them apart from what had come before. The precision of Old Comedy’s intertextual play is even clearer when we note its exploitation of Homeric hapaxlegomena, words which only appear once in the Homeric poems and whose meaning was often unclear already in the classical and Hellenistic periods. The poetic reuse of such hapaxlegomena is considered typical of Hellenistic poetry, a by-product of the Homeric scholarship taking place in the Alexandrian library and elsewhere.31 Yet there is already evidence of interest in obscure Homeric words far earlier, especially in Old Comedy. In Aristophanes’ very first play, a father tests his son on the meaning of Homeric γλῶσσαι, including the Homeric hapax legomenon κόρυμβος (Banqueters, fr.233; cf. 28. Cf. Wright (2012: 148) for similar ‘unflagged’ intrusions, e.g. the snippets from Euripides’ Aeolusand Stheneboea within Peace’s extended parody of Euripides’ Bellerophon (Ar. Pax 58-161). 29. See Rau (1967) for Aristophanic paratragedy and now Farmer (2017) for comedy in general. Titles of other poets’ comedies suggest further extended parodies of famous tragedies (e.g. Strattis’ Orestes the Man and Phoenician Women, as well as Cratinus’ Eumenides). Comedy also parodied texts of numerous other genres: see e.g. Kugelmeier (1996) on comedy’s lyric “reflexes”. 30. Though not entirely absent: note the satirical texts of philosophers such as Timon of Phlius and Crates of Thebes, who both undercut earlier epic and lyric through extensive quotation: e.g. Crates SH 351.1-2 (~ Od.19.172-3); SH 359.1-2 (= Solon fr.13.1-2 W2); Timon SH775 (~ Il.2.484). See e.g. Gutzwiller (2007: 131-144). 31. E.g. Latte (1925: 162-163); Körte (1929: 168-169); Bing (1988a: 54): “so characteristic of the Hellenistic avant garde.” For helpful lists of Homeric hapaxlegomena, see Kumpf (1984); for their use in Hellenistic poetry and the influence of Homeric scholarship on Hellenistic poetry more generally, see e.g. Rengakos (1992, 1993, 1994a, 1994b, 2008); Kyriakou (1995); Sens (2002: 205-206); Sistakou (2007).

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Il.9.241);32 and throughout Old Comedy, numerous Homeric hapax legomena are allusively redeployed: Lampsacus’ ankle is twisted ‘backwards’ in the Acharnians (παλίνορρον, Ach.1179), undercutting the general’s mock-heroism by evoking the Homeric simile in which Paris retreats from Menelaus like a man at the sight of a snake (παλίνορσος Il.3.33); the chorus of Birds calls mankind ‘wingless’ ephemerals (ἀπτῆνες, Av.687), as helpless as the fledgling chicks from Achilles’ famous bird simile (ἀπτῆσι Il.9.323); the Aristophanic Aeschylus is a ‘mighty roarer’ (ἐριβρεμέτας Ran.814), equated with the Homeric Zeus as the prime archetype of elemental power (ἐριβρεμέτεω, Il.13.264);33 a Thracian swallow ‘roars’ on Cleophon’s lips (ἐπιβρέμεται, Ran.680) like an Iliadic blast of wind (ἐπιβρέμει, Il.17.739); the Muse is warned of being Carcinus’ ‘attendant’ (συνέριθος, Pax 786), playing the role that Athena claimed to perform for Nausicaa (συνέριθος Od.6.32); and Cratinus’ fountains of speech ‘ring aloud’ (καναχοῦσι, Cratinus fr.198.2) like Odysseus’ leg as it is dropped by Eurycleia on her recognition of his scar (κανάχησε, Od.19.469).34 One cannot deny the possibility that some of these words might have entered common parlance by the fifth century, but their largely sparse attestations elsewhere, alongside the fact that they primarily derive from ‘purple passages’ (similes and famous scenes) suggest that most were among the obscure Homeric γλῶσσαι studied in Classical Athens. Their reuse here would thus have been packed with significant allusive force for any elite literati capable of spotting the allusion, just as when they recur later in Hellenistic poetry.35 Once more, therefore, Hellenistic literariness finds significant precedent in Old Comedy: old comedians too could engage precisely and pointedly with the specific details of another text.

32. SeeKyriakou (1995: 3). We might compare the later comic Strato’s Phoenicides, which depicted a cook who spoke in archaising Homeric language and could only be understood through recourse to Philetas’ glossaries (fr.1.42-4): see Fantuzzi & Hunter (2004: 246-7); Bing (2009: 28-32). 33. If Aristophanes were a Hellenistic poet, scholars would also surely note the variatio at play in the transformation of the Homeric χαλεπὴν … μῆνιν (Il.13.624) into δεινὸν … χόλον (Ran.814), perhaps with a further nod to the etymologically cognate ἐδείσατε in the same Iliadic line; see Beekes (2010: I.310) on δεινός: “From *δϜει-νός, related to δείδω”, both connected to the Indo-European *duei-, ‘fear’. 34. Cf. also Cratinus fr.279, a one-line fragment about a Persian rooster crowing loudly (καναχῶν). Cf. too e.g. Silk (2000b: 308) on Hermippus’ evocation of the Homeric hapax legomenon ἀχυρμιαί (Il.5.502 – again in a simile) with ἀχύροισι in fr.48.6. 35. E.g.: ἀπτήν: Ap. Rhod. Arg.4.1299; Lycoph. Alex.750. παλίνορσος: Callim. Hecale fr.94; Aratus Phaen.54; Arg.1.416, 2.576. συνέριθος: Callim. 37.3 HE [1217] (= AP7.459 = 16 Pf.); Arg.3.942. καναχέω: Arg.4.907.

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We reach a similar conclusion when we consider both sets of poetry’s generic interactions. Although Kroll’s famous KreuzungderGattungen (1924) is too blunt and singular a concept to account for the complexity and range of generic manipulation in Hellenistic poetry, genre mixing still remains a defining feature of the period. Indeed, Callimachus’ “wide-ranging generic experimentation” is one of his principal characteristics mentioned by Stephens above. Precedent for such generic manipulation is usually identified in lyric poetry, especially the epic features of the choral Pythian4, or the combination of rhapsodic hymn and epic in Simonides’ Plataeaelegy.36 Yet few scholars, if any, include Old Comedy in their list of predecessors, despite this drama’s similarly intense manipulation of generic norms. Attic comedy’s concern with genre is clear from its pointed self-definition against its rival dramatic form, tragedy,37 but as Wright has recently suggested, it is also likely that “many lost comedies took the form of cross-generic experiments.”38 This is apparent not only from the titles of several comedies which suggest some kind of ‘generic mixing,’ such as Alcaeus’ Comitragedy (Κωμῳδοτραγῳδία, frr.19-21) and Callias’ Alphabetic Tragedy (Γραμματικὴ τραγῳδία, test.7),39 but also from various comedies’ close relationship with satyr-play, including the Satyrs of Cratinus, Ecphantides, Callias, Phrynichus and Timocles, as well as Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros, with its chorus of satyrs.40 Although we are admittedly basing much on the evidence of titles alone, these hints of generic ‘infringement’ offer a ready parallel for cases of ‘generic mixing’ in Hellenistic poetry, such as Callimachus’ iambic epinician (Callim. Ia.8, fr.198 Pf.). Beyond such large-scale generic interactions, however, numerous individual comedies also contain passages which evoke distinctive and stereotypical elements of other genres, foreshadowing Hellenistic poetry’s own obsession with distinctive generic topoi. An especially arresting example is Hermippus’ engagement with epic-style catalogues and invocations in fr.63, which begins by quoting the famous introduction to the Iliadic Catalogue of Ships (ἔσπετε νῦν μοι Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια 36. E.g. Morrison (2007: 18-21) and Hutchinson (1988: 16): “The evidence from the earlier period suggests that the newness and the force of apparently mixing genres may easily be misjudged.” 37. See e.g. Silk (2000a: esp. 42-97). For the various distinctions between comedy and tragedy, see Taplin (1986, 1996). 38. Wright (2012: 163). 39. On this drama, see Gagné (2013), with n.20 for discussion of the different titles attributed to it. 40. See Bakola (2005) and (2010: 81-117) on comedy’s engagement with satyr-play. For a more sceptical view, see Dobrov (2007).

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δώματ’ ἔχουσαι, Il.2.484), and continues with a catalogue of goods and materials which Dionysus has brought as a trader from various locations. The fragment itself is composed in dactylic hexameters,41 a metre intrinsically associated with the elevated ethos of epic,42 and the whole fragment clearly evokes epic grandeur, echoing various Homeric phrases, such as τὰ γάρ ἀναθήματα δαιτός (fr.63.21 = Od.1.152, 21.430). Yet this grandeur is simultaneously undercut with the lowlier subject matter of luxuries and imported food, a favourite subject of comedy,43 reducing, for example, the epic βόας καὶ ἴφια μῆλα (‘cows and goodly sheep’, Il.5.556) to ἀπίους καὶ ἴφια μῆλα (‘pears and goodly apples’, fr.63.17). This comic evocation of familiar epic topoi closely foreshadows Hellenistic poetry’s own manipulation of the epic catalogue form, such as Timon of Phlius’ similar evocation of the Catalogue of Ships’ opening (ἔσπετε νῦν μοι ὅσοι πολυπράγμονές ἐστε σοφισταί, SH 775) and Simaetha’s quasi-epic narrative in Idyll 2, which begins with a series of questions like a Homeric Muse-invocation:44 in this case, as with Hermippus fr.63, a discrepancy ensues between the epic phraseology and the quotidian subject matter, involving a humble girl’s seduction. Moreover, Callimachus’ long list of Sicilian cities in the Aetia(fr.43.2855) also appears to evoke the epic catalogue motif through its series of stereotyped introductions (43.42 φήσω; 46 and 50 οἶδα; 52 ἔχω … ἐνισπε[ῖν), while playfully manipulating the generic norms in presenting Callimachus – rather than the Muses – as the source of knowledge.45 Hermippus’ evocation of epic trappings thus closely resembles the generic experimentation of his later Hellenistic successors: Old Comedy, like Hellenistic poetry, latches onto and exploits the defining characteristics of each genre. 41. This fact has led some to suggest that the fragment (alongside the similar fr.77) might actually come from a paroidia written by Hermippus, rather than a comedy (e.g. Gilula 2000). Nevertheless, as Storey (2011: II.307) notes “the personal mention of Sitalces and Perdiccas (F 63.7-8) and the possibility that a second speaker interjects at lines 7-8 (or just 8) and 10-11 do suggest the mood and the form of comedy.” See, further, Olson (2007: 158-163). 42. Ps.-Demetrius calls the dactylic hexameter τὸ ἡρωικόν ‘because of its length and appropriateness for heroes’ (OnStyle 5); cf. too Arist. Poetics 1449a27-8, 1459b34-7. 43. For food and comedy generally, see Wilkins (2000). For such a culinary reapplication of epic, cf. Plato Comicus Phaonfr.189, which includes a hexameter parody of Homer in the form of a cookery book: note especially fr.189.6 ἄρξομαι ἐκ βολβοῖο, which combines a verb common in epic proems with an everyday item of food (a bulb), alongside the parodic use of the archaic epic genitive ending –οῖο. 44. E.g. πόθεν … δακρύσω (Id.2.64); ἐκ τίνος ἄρξωμαι; (Id.2.65); τίς μοι κακὸν ἄγαγε τοῦτο; (Id.2.65). Cf. ἔνθεν (Od.8.500); ἁμόθεν (Od.1.10-11); ἐξ οὗ (Il.1.6); τίς τ᾿ἄρ σφωε θεῶν ἔριδι ξυνέηκε μάχεσθαι (Il.1.8). See Andrews (1996) and Hunter (2014b: 141-144). 45. Thus Harder (1998: 102), (2012: I.35).

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It is worth stressing, however, that comedy’s engagement with characteristic elements of other genres is hardly limited to epic. Unsurprisingly, tragedy also receives a great deal of attention; besides extensive parodies like that of Helen above, comedy also exploits tragic set-pieces, such as expository prologues (e.g. Ar.Aeolosicon fr.1, cf. Eur.Hecuba 1-2, and Frogs 1119-1250) and messenger speeches (Ar.Ach.1174-89). Yet we also find the self-referential openings of epinician poetry echoed in the Knights (Eq.1264-73), with a distinctive dactylo-epitrite rhythm and quotation of Pindar (fr.89a), while Dicaeopolis’ defence speech in the Acharnians appears to evoke Herodotus’ historiographical emphasis on causation and origins (Ach.497-556).46 Old Comedy thus frequently experiments with generic boundaries, as Wright has stressed, “marking out (or testing out) the normal limits of the respective genres in question”,47 and such explorations of generic distinctions offer ready parallels for later Hellenistic poetry, such as Apollonius’ deployment of tragic and historiographical elements in the Argonautica, or Callimachus’ incorporation of various distinct genres into the Aetia, including epinician (Victoria Berenices, frr.54-60j), sepulchral epigram (SepulchrumSimonidis,fr.64), historiography (De Siciliae urbibus, fr.43-43a) and dedicatory epigram (Coma Berenices,fr.110-110f).48 Given such similarities, we should thus not exaggerate the novelty of Hellenistic generic manipulations. Of course, the two corpora are not identical: comedy tends to evoke other genres by deploying their trademark metres (e.g. Hermippus’ dactylic hexameters, fr.63; Aristophanes’ dactylo-epitrites, Ar.Eq.1264-73), whereas Hellenistic poetry has greater freedom to transform stock elements of certain genres into new, unconventional metres (e.g. Callimachus’ elegiac and iambic epinicians and elegiac epic-catalogue, Aet.fr.43); but this seems to reflect comedy’s own generic constraints more than any radical shift in Hellenistic poetry. However, some might still claim that Hellenistic poetry is more selfconscious in its generic interactions, often deploying explicit markers of generic affiliation, such as the Victoria Berenices’ overt reference to itself as an ἐπινίκιον (Aet.fr.54.3)andHipponax’s claim that he returns ‘bringing an iambus’ (φέρων ἴαμβον, Callim.Ia.1, fr.191.3). Yet even in 46. See e.g. Wells (1923: 169-182), Forrest (1963: 8); Rau (1967: 40); Dover (1972: 87); Newiger (1980: 222); Edmunds (1980: 13 – “quite certain”); and Nesselrath (2014). More sceptical are MacDowell (1983: 151); and Fornara (1971: 25-29), who rather focuses on the “more obvious” parody of Hdt.1.178.3-179.3 in Ar.Av.1125-31. Olson offers a balanced assessment (2002: liii-liv). 47. Wright (2012: 13). For more on Old Comedy and genre, see Wright (2012: 162-164); Bakola et al. (2013). 48. On the Aetia’s generic polyphony, see Harder (1998).

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this case, we can find a comparable concern with generic self-definition in Aristophanes’ coinage of ‘trugedy’ (τρυγῳδία) to situate his own comedies in pointed opposition to tragedy (τραγῳδία).49 Old Comedy, therefore, clearly deserves a place alongside the likes of Pindar and Simonides as precursors of the Hellenistic fascination with genre and intertextuality. Although scholars of Hellenistic poetry often attribute such self-conscious engagement with the literary tradition to the cataloguing and canonisation of the literary past in the Alexandrian Library,50 Attic Old Comedy already offers precedent for many of these literary habits over a century earlier. 1.2 TheLiteraryPastandPresent:Canons,LiteraryHistoryand Innovation Another trademark aspect of Hellenistic poetry is its obsession with canon formation and literary history, a feature which is similarly associated with the systematic cataloguing of older literature in the great libraries of the era. Peter Bing, for example, has demonstrated how Hellenistic poetry’s ‘memorializing impulse’ bears “a strong resemblance to elements in some of the great contemporary projects of Hellenistic scholarship”, including the “bio-bibliography” of Callimachus’ Pinakes.51 The most famous poetic example of such literary retrospection is a fragment from the third book of Hermesianax’s Leontion which offers a creative historical survey of earlier poets and philosophers, from the mythical Orpheus and Musaeus to the near contemporary Philetas (fr.7, pp.98-105 Powell = fr.3 Lightfoot). Yet earlier poets feature repeatedly throughout Hellenistic literature, including Callimachus’ praise of Aratus in Against Praxiphanes (fr.460 Pf.), his discussion of Archilochus’ style in the Grapheion (fr.380 Pf.), his quasi-resurrection of both Hipponax and Simonides (Callim. Ia.1, fr. 191; Aet.fr.64), and his citation of Ion of Chios as precedent in Iambus 13 (Diegesis, IX. 33-36). Beyond Callimachus, moreover, fragments of Alexander of Aetolia’s Musaeprovide details of different poets’ lives (frr.4-5, pp.124-126 Powell = frr.6, 8 Lightfoot); Euphorion’s Hesiod seems to have recounted Hesiod’s life 49. See e.g. Silk (2000a: esp. 42-97). 50. E.g. Harder (2013: 100) talks of “a broad familiarity with the literary tradition and an awareness of literary genres that may be hard to imagine without the help of the library.” 51. Bing (1993: 621), citing Blum (1991: 1-2) for “bio-bibliography.” Cf. Lightfoot (2009: xi) who calls this interest in literary history one of the “favourite subjects of Hellenistic poetry”, and d’Alessio (2000: 428) on “questo nuovo ‘genere’” of “esercizio poetico in campo storico-letterario.”

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and death in verse (frr. 22, 22b, p.34 Powell = fr.23 Lightfoot); Timon of Phlius’ Silloi provide a catalogue of past and contemporary philosophers (SH 775-840); and Hellenistic epigrammatists often memorialise past poets with numerous fictional epitaphs and encomia.52 As Bing has stressed, however, this literary retrospection was not limited to the royal libraries and courts: the Hellenistic era as a whole witnessed a flourishing of interest in the literary past, manifested in poetic hero cult,53 as well as local cities’ own lists of celebrated native authors: our most famous example of the latter is the Salmakis inscription at Halicarnassus, dated to the late second or early first century BCE, which includes a literary catalogue organised along chronological and generic lines.54 At all levels of society, therefore, Hellenistic poets (both civic and scholarly) were fixated on the past greats of their tradition. Nevertheless, however ‘Hellenistic’ this interest in literary history appears, Old Comedy demonstrates that a concern with literary canons existed well before the Library of Alexandria: already in Attic comedy, we encounter numerous catalogues of older and contemporary poets.55 In the Knights, for example, Aristophanes lists a number of comic predecessors and the treatment they have received from the public (Magnes, Cratinus and Crates: Eq. 507-46), while in Pherecrates’ Cheiron, the character Μουσική provides an unflattering catalogue of the New Poets, including Melanippides, Cinesias, Phrynis and Timotheus (fr.155). Especially noticeable is the erotic flavour of this fragment, with a series of doubleentendres that cast each poet as a lover (and abuser) of Μουσική, a close parallel to Hermesianax’s Leontion, where each poet or philosopher is associated (often humorously) with a specific lover. 56 In the 52. On Hellenistic epigram and the poetic past, see e.g. Bing (1988a: 58-64; 1988b); Barbantani (1993); Acosta-Hughes & Barbantani (2007: 429-445); Rosen (2007); Klooster (2011: 15-42). 53. Bing (1993: 619-620, with n.5), including the Archilocheion at Paros; the Homereia at Alexandria, Delos, Smyrna and Chios; and the Mimnermeion at Smyrna. Cf. Clay (2004). 54. See Isager (1998); Isager & Pedersen (2004); Gagné (2006). The literary catalogue occurs in lines 43-54 of the inscription: Herodotus, Andron, Panyassis, Cyprias, Menestheus, Theaetetus, Dionysius, Zenodotus, Phanostratus, Nossus and Timocrates. Cf. Isager (1998: 15): “the list is fairly chronological and within the chronological frame determined by genre.” The first three writers of the catalogue, Herodotus, Panyassis and Andron, also appear together in another Hellenistic eulogy of Halicarnassus (SEG 36.975): cf. Isager (1998: 16 n.40); such listing of famous poets was becoming an increasingly regular feature of the Hellenistic world. 55. Bing (1993: 623 n.15) acknowledges, without providing any details, that comic precedent exists, but unfairly dismisses its significance on the grounds that “the textual evidence … though tantalizing, is slim.” 56. On Pherecrates fr.155, see Dobrov & Urios-Aparisi (1995). For this amatory poetological metaphor, cf. Aristophanes’ depiction of himself as a lover of ‘Comedy’ (Eq.515-7) and Cratinus’ as her husband (Pytine), with Sommerstein (2005).

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Frogs, moreover, Aeschylus offers a similar catalogue of predecessors when listing Orpheus, Musaeus, Hesiod and Homer as examples of earlier poet-teachers (Ran.1030-6), the very same four poets who appear at the start of Hermesianax’s Leontionfragment (fr.7.1-32, p.98 Powell = fr.3.132 Lightfoot), which suggests that both lists were organised within similarly-conceived chronological frameworks.57 Such explicit and selfconscious cataloguing of poetic forbears is thus a clear part of the old comedians’ retrospective concern with the literary past. Indeed, in some cases it seems that even entire plays were devoted to individual literary ‘greats’, as in Teleclides’ Hesiodoi or Cratinus’ Archilochoi. What is especially striking, however, is that this concern with literary history cannot easily be paralleled in earlier archaic or classical literature.58 Again, for a parallel with Hellenistic poetry, we have to look to Old Comedy. In one particular case, this similarity has even resulted in a textualcritical crux. A fragment about Euripides reminiscent of comic criticism is attributed to Alexander of Aetolia by Aulus Gellius (fr. 7 Powell, p.126 = fr.7 Magnelli = fr.19 Lightfoot), but half a line of the same fragment is also independently attributed to Aristophanes in a Euripidean Vita.59 This inconsistent attribution has prompted scholarly dispute over the true authorship of the fragment, although an increasing number of scholars favour attribution to the Hellenistic poet.60 If Alexander is indeed its author, we would have another clear case of Old Comedy foreshadowing the work of a later Hellenistic poet. Yet even if not, the very difficulties of ascription here are a prime indication that Old Comedy and Hellenistic poetry share a similar outlook. The focus on, and cataloguing of, poetic forebears is common to both corpora of poetry: ‘belatedness’ is not an exclusively Hellenistic sensation. Such a strong awareness of the poetic past, however, inevitably raises issues surrounding one’s own place and significance within the literary tradition, and both old comedians and Hellenistic poets often appear to have dealt with this challenge in the same manner: by emphasising their 57. The same four poets are also listed in this order in Hippias (86 B 6 DK), in relation to his anthology of works of earlier Greek poets. This would seem to suggest some uniformity in ancient views of early poets’ chronology. 58. The closest parallel is Timotheus’ listing of Orpheus and Terpander as his predecessors in Persae (PMG 791. 221-228); however, I would suggest that New Music’s poetic self-presentation also owes much to that of Old Comedy. 59. Aulus Gellius 15.20.8; Vit.Eur. I, p. 5. 2-4 Schwartz = I, p.3.65-68 Méridier. 60. Lloyd-Jones (1994) is the strongest advocate of Aristophanic authorship; Magnelli (1999: 223-7) remains cautiously in favour of assigning the fragment to Alexander, a case for which d’Alessio (2000: 428-9) and Di Marco (2003: 67-69) add further support. Lightfoot (2009: 139) still prints the fragment in her ‘Dubie Tributa’ (‘Dubiously Attributed’).

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own originality. The ancient Greeks had long shown a keen interest in innovation in all aspects of life,61 and originality had been a core aspect of Greek poetics from Telemachus’ claims in Odyssey 1 onwards (Od.1.351-2), yet proclamations of novelty are particularly conspicuous in both Old Comedy and Hellenistic literature. In the former, Aristophanes’ assertions of innovation are a key aspect of his constructed persona, especially in the parabases of Wasps and Clouds, yet he was far from alone in stressing such originality.62 Metagenes, for example, claims that he feasts his audience on many ‘novel’ appetisers (καιναῖσι παροψίσι καὶ πολλαῖς, fr.15), while Cratinus’ reference to a ‘new plaything’ in Odysseus and Company (νεοχμόν 〈τι〉… ἄθυρμα, fr.152) has been regarded as a selfconscious reference to that very play or to his own innovations in staging.63 The comic Plato, moreover, boldly claims to have been ‘the first to declare war on Cleon’ (fr.115), while fr.60 of Eupolis’ Autolycus depicts a contest between a man of novel ideas (καινοτέρας ἰδέας) and another who has merely ‘licked the lips’ of other poets’ dishes, deploying a culinary metaphor which betrays a clear preference for innovation over slavish imitation.64 A considerable number of old comedians thus demonstrate a recurring interest in celebrating and trumpeting their own originality, a clear attempt to win the support of the festival audience and judges. Once again, this emphasis on literary novelty is reminiscent of what we find in Hellenistic poetry.65 Most famous, perhaps, is Callimachus’ pursuit of untrodden paths in the Aetiaprologue (Aet.fr.1.25-28), but we could also add the repeated programmatic advice to ‘go your own way’ in his first Epigram,66 the νεοτευχές cup as an emblem of a new genre in Theocritus’ first Idyll (Id.1.28),67 as well as Hedylus’ proclamation of new aesthetic values in 5 HE [1853-6], heralding poetry which is νέον, λεπτόν and μελιχρόν. Elsewhere, meanwhile, Meleager opens his 61. See D’Angour (2011). 62. On novelty in Old Comedy, see further Sommerstein (2009: 120-121); Wright (2012: 70-102). 63. Storey (2011: I.341). 64. A contest which Storey (2003: 87-8), following Kaibel, suggests is between two comic playwrights, perhaps Eupolis and Aristophanes. 65. See now the collection of articles in aitia 7.1 (2017): “Tradition et nouveauté à l’époque hellénistique” [http://aitia.revues.org/1669]. 66. τὴν κατὰ σαυτὸν ἔλα, 54.12, 16 HE [1288, 1292] (= AP7.89 = 1 Pf.) 67. This Theocritean example is especially interesting, in that it inverts the usual Homeric evaluation of guest-gifts; the value of traditional Homeric ξείνια was enhanced by their previous ownership (cf. Grethlein (2008: 35-43) on Homeric ‘biographies of things’), whereas this Theocritean cup is valued precisely for its lack of such a history, for being ‘untouched’ (ἄχραντον, Id.1.60) and freshly-made (νεοτευχές, Id.1.28), reflecting the novelty of the bucolic genre itself.

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Garland by gathering poems that are ἔρνεα πολλὰ νεόγραφα (‘many newly-written shoots’, 1.55 HE[3980] = AP4.1), while Philip similarly begins his own Garland by ‘reaping the sheaf of a recent column’ (καὶ σελίδος νεαρῆς θερίσας στάχυν, Philip 1.3 GPh[2630] = AP4.2). Just like in Old Comedy, therefore, poetic novelty seems to have been a positive concept to both pursue and celebrate in the Hellenistic age – a means to escape the burdensome shadows of the earlier literary tradition. Amid such proclamations of novelty, however, an especially significant – and perhaps unexpected – similarity is a shared interest in metrical innovation. Peter Bing and others have often cited boasts of metrical originality as evidence for Hellenistic poetry’s bookishness and textuality:68 Philicus of Corcyra, for example, the head of the artists of Dionysus mentioned earlier, offers his novel stichic choriambic hexameters as ‘gifts of a newly-written composition’ to γραμματικοί, ‘men of letters’ (καινογράφου συνθέσεως…δῶρα, SH 677), while Boiscus of Cyzicus similarly claims that he has ‘discovered an eight-foot line of a newly-written poem’ to describe his catalectic iambic octameters (SH 233: καινοῦ γραφεὺς ποιήματος | τὸν ὀκτάπουν εὑρὼν στίχον).69 Such fragments conjure up a world of scholar-poets with pens in hand, experimenting with the limits of conventional metres. What has not been noted, however, is that we can find a close parallel for such boasts already in the old comic Pherecrates, who makes similarly proud claims about his own metrical innovation (fr.84): ἄνδρες, πρόσχετε τὸν νοῦν ἐξευρήματι καινῷ, συμπτύκτοις ἀναπαίστοις.

‘Spectators, give your attention to my new invention, folded anapaests.’ (trans. Storey)

Like both Hellenistic poets, Pherecrates celebrates his metrical invention through an unabashed reference to the buzzword καινότης (‘novelty’), while also sharing the language of discovery with Boiscus (ἐξευρήματι fr.84.2; εὑρών, SH 233.2). Admittedly, both Philicus and Boiscus explicitly associate their innovations with the act of writing (καινογράφου, SH 677; γραφεύς, SH 233), whereas Pherecrates merely addresses his spectators (ἄνδρες, fr.84.1), yet this display of metrical originality still presupposes a self-consciously literary poet, far closer in spirit to his Hellenistic successors than the performative world of fifth century Athens might lead us to expect. As with the numerous parallels already adduced, 68. E.g. Bing (1988a: 22-23; 2009: 109-110); Hunter and Fantuzzi (2004: 37) on “the figure of the man of letters who delighted in experimentalism”. 69. Cf. Castorion of Soloi’s boasts in his HymntoPan: an implied, rather than explicit, assertion of novelty (SH 310.3-4).

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these connections should encourage us to reconsider the boundaries of the bookish and the performative in both Old Comedy and Hellenistic Poetry. 1.3 TextandPerformance:AFalseDichotomy? From this brief survey, it is clear that Attic Old Comedy displays a number of close similarities with later Hellenistic poetry, including a number of elements and features that are usually regarded as distinctively ‘Alexandrian.’ Indeed, Matthew Wright’s recent summary of comedy’s ‘literariness’ could almost be repeated verbatim as a description of Hellenistic poetry’s defining features: “[T]hese comedies are shaped by their relationship to other literary works; the huge and detailed knowledge of poetry which they display; the extent of their self-consciousness and their intertextual complexity; the sheer number of quotations and adaptations that they incorporate; the relative obscurity of many of their allusions; their intricate, ‘scholarly’ attention to detail, including matters of style; their explicit interest in literary history; the fact that many scenes consist of a patchwork of excerpts from numerous disparate works of different types and dates; the prevalence of parody and pastiche – all of these features seem to point towards a new sort of conception of literature.”70

Besides the final reference to parody and pastiche, every one of these details could easily be mistaken as a reference to any Hellenistic poet. There is, ultimately, little in Hellenistic poetry that cannot be found in some similar, if perhaps less developed, form in the Attic comedians of the late fifth century – a striking realisation, especially given how differentthe poetic environments of fifth century Athens and third century Alexandria are usually considered to be. 71 There is, however, already considerable evidence for a blossoming book culture and increasing

70. Wright (2012: 143-4). 71. One potential exception is the acrostic, which recurs in a number of Hellenistic authors and is often considered a tell-tale sign of bookish poetics: Gutzwiller (2007: 180181); Bing (2009: 110); Wilson (this volume: 320): acrostics can “only work when visualized on the page”). For Hellenistic examples, see Danielewicz (2005); Stewart (2010); Cheshire (2010); Hanses (2014). I do not know of any acrostics in Old Comedy, yet the fact that we already find an acrostic in the fourth century tragedian Chaeremon (ΧΑΙΡΗΜ-, TrGF I, 71 F14b) suggests that it would not be totally inconceivable for a comic acrostic to be discovered in the future. One should also not forget the ΛΕΥΚΗ acrostic at Il.24.1-5; this is usually dismissed as purely coincidental, though see Korenjak (2009). On acrostics in general, see Luz (2010: 1-77).

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literacy levels in Athens by the late fifth/early fourth century,72 which might encourage us to reconsider the distinction between these two corpora of texts: the environments in which they were produced are not worlds apart. After all, old comedians, just like Hellenistic poets, make numerous references to books and the materiality of poetry,73 and we even have at least one case of a comic poet ‘writing’, not just ‘making’ or ‘singing’, his work: in Cratinus’ Pytine, the poet presented himself on-stage in the process of ‘writing’ (γράφ’, fr.208; γράψον, fr.209), presumably on a wax tablet (μάλθην, fr.217), an example which clearly contradicts Peter Bing’s claim that “archaic and classical poets do not refer to themselves as “writing” their songs.”74 In reality, this case is no different from those of Callimachus with his writing-tablet in the Aetia prologue (δέλτον, fr.1.21-2) or the poet of the Batrachomyomachia commencing on the first column of his own tablets (πρώτης σελίδος, … δέλτοισιν, Batrach.1-3). Both old comic and Hellenistic poets could, in short, be conceived as writers of verse. Perhaps the most famous old comic reference to a contemporary book culture, however, occurs in the Frogs, when the chorus reassure the competing Aeschylus and Euripides that the audience are not ignorant, but are rather ‘seasoned-campaigners’ (ἐστρατευμένοι), each of whom has their own book and understands ‘the clever stuff’ (βιβλίον τ᾽ ἔχων ἕκαστος μανθάνει τὰ δεξιά, Ran.1109-1118). Although the historicity and seriousness of this claim has been questioned,75 one cannot deny that Aristophanes constructs a world of books and learned readers, implying that possession – and knowledge – of books is a prerequisite for full appreciation of his subtleties. Indeed, building on such hints as these, Matthew Wright has renewed the suggestion that an elite, privileged community of discerning readers existed to appreciate Aristophanes’ dense allusions already in the fifth century.76 Although he too readily 72. Pébarthe (2006) and Missiou (2011) have recently argued, contra e.g. Harris (1989), that reading and literacy were far more extensive in Classical Athens than is often assumed. Older bibliography is listed in Lowe (1993: 80 n.3) and Wright (2012: 204 n.7), to which add e.g. Steiner (1994) and, for the fourth century, Pinto (2013). 73. References to books, readers, book-stalls and booksellers in Old Comedy include Aristomenes fr. 9; Aristophanes Av. 1288, Ran. 52-4, frr. 506, 795; Cratinus fr. 128; Eupolis fr. 327; Nicophon fr. 10; Plato Comicus frr. 122, 189; Theopompus fr. 79. For Hellenistic poetry, see Bing (1988a: 15-20). The later middle comic Alexis also appears to have depicted an extensive library on stage (Linos,fr. 140). 74. Bing (2009: 112). 75. See e.g. Woodbury (1976: 351-357); Dover (1993: 34); Lowe (1993: 60): “absurd”; Wright (2012: 65): “ironic”. 76. Wright (2012: esp. 141-50), e.g. p.141: “Many of our comedians, I believe, saw themselves as producing works that could be enjoyed not just as one-off performances in

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dismisses the significance of the dramatic competitions, the idea of a literate group capable of appreciating Aristophanes’ literary nuances seems very plausible. Comedies could, of course, be enjoyed and appreciated on multiple different levels, as Aristophanes acknowledges (Eccl.1155-57): there was something in them for everyone. Yet this image of an ideal community of readers is remarkably similar to that often posited for Hellenistic poetry,77 and encourages the conclusion that the literature of the Hellenistic age does not mark as radical a change as is often made out, but rather a mere intensification of pre-existing tendencies: the bookishness of Callimachus and co. finds strong precedent already in the fifth century. Equally, however, the presence of such literary and textual elements in a dramatic and performed genre should make us rethink our assumptions when encountering these very same elements, though in intensified form, in Hellenistic poetry: even extremely literary texts could be, and indeed were, performed, an important consideration to bear in mind for those who debate the various performance possibilities of Hellenistic literature. Indeed, this very tension between text and performance can itself be traced back to Attic comedy. We know of a small number of comedies that never appear to have been performed, including Metagenes’ Thourio- Persians, Nicophon’s Sirens, and Aristophanes’ revised Clouds,78 and it is debated whether such plays were ever ‘intended’ for the stage. The revised Clouds, at least, has traditionally been read as specifically designed for book circulation,79 although recent scholars have plausibly restated the case for reperformance.80 Nevertheless, as Martin Revermann (2006: 332) has noted, “re-performance culture” does not “preclude a conceptualization of the revision as a text” and in fact “presupposes a strong notion on part of the playwrights of the very textuality of those mobile scripts which would be reinstantiated and reach diverse audiences”; and indeed, Ralph the theatre, but also as texts, to be read, consulted and dipped into at leisure long into the future (albeit by a relatively small circle of well-educated bibliophiles).” Cf. e.g. Lowe (1993); Zogg (2014: 16-23); and Silk (2000a: 4-6), esp. n.9 on Aristophanes’ avoidance of producing/directing and his “orientation towards the written word.” 77. Cf. e.g. Wilamowitz’s “gebildeten Leserkreis” (1924: I.151) and Bing’s “elite group of insiders” (2009: 109). 78. For the first two, see Athenaeus 6.270a; for the Clouds, see esp. hyp. 1 (Dover) = 6 (Wilson); hyp. 2 (Dover) = 5 (Wilson), with Dover (1968: lxxx-xcviii). 79. E.g. Dover (1968: xcviii): “intended for readers”; Lowe (1993: 82 n.14): “book circulation as the deliberate and specific goal of the rewritten version”. 80. E.g. Revermann (2006: 326-32) and Biles (2011: 167-210). Revermann sensibly notes that “‘never performed’ (ἀδίδακτος) need not imply ‘never meant to be performed’” (2006: 327) and that “‘unperformed’ may [simply] mean ‘unperformed in Athens’” (2006: 330).

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Rosen (1997: 411) has explored how the revised Clouds actively interrogates and destabilises the opposition between performance and text, seeing in the revised parabasis in particular “a unique view of the tension between the play as a single performance and as a fixed text.” In addition to these readings, however, I would add that if the play was never performed, the script we have is nevertheless inscribed with the (ultimately unrealised) potential for performance, envisaging and evoking a performance context that was never to be (e.g. the addresses to the audience as ‘spectators’, θεώμενοι, Nub.518; θεαταί, Nub. 575). In that case, the play could be read as precedent for the strongly ‘mimetic’ character of much Hellenistic poetry, which has often been read as a compensation for the lack of actual performance.81 In a later Attic comedy, meanwhile, these tensions between textuality and performance are explicitly addressed through the motif of ‘speaking poetry books’ (again familiar from Hellenistic poetics).82 In the play Sappho by the middle comedian Antiphanes, the Lesbian poetess propounds a riddle of ‘something feminine, that protects its children who, though mute, can be heard by some people but not others.’ The solution turns out to be a letter (ἐπιστολή) whose ‘children’ are the words inscribed on it (fr.194). Antiphanes’ use of the ‘speaking book’ image here, however, is even more pointedly paradoxical than later Hellenistic examples. Far from simply ‘speaking’ like the papyrus columns of Sappho in Posidippus (φθεγγόμεναι σελίδες, 17.6 HE [3147] = 122.6 A-B), Antiphanes’ written word is explicitly mute (ἄφωνα), despite also being able to ‘send forth a loud-sounding shout’ (βοὴν ἵστησι γεγωνόν) – a startling paradox, which demonstrates Attic comedy’s own mediation between its performative status and simultaneous existence as text. Although Antiphanes is slightly later than most poets considered in this study, his exploitation of this image nevertheless demonstrates – as we have repeatedly seen in this section – the great similarity between Attic comedy and Hellenistic poetry. Both employ a literate poetics on the cusp between textuality and performance, engaging strongly with the literary past and present, and all too keenly aware of their need to mark out their own place within the literary tradition. Viewed from this perspective, 81. Discussions of ‘mimetic’ poetry must of course now take into account the criticisms of Gramps (this volume). Callimachus appears to have missed this precedent, however: according to a scholion, he mistook the entry for the original Clouds in the didaskaliai (a dated list of dramatic productions) as a reference to the surviving, revised version, and thus could not understand why Clouds was listed two years before Eupolis’ Maricas, even though Eupolis’ play is referred to in the revised version at Nub.553 (see ΣE Nub.553). 82. On ‘speaking books’, see e.g. Bing (1988a: 29) who also notes tragic precedent.

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Hellenistic poetry is not anything drastically new, but rather the crystallisation of pre-existing trends that can be traced a long way back into the literary past. As ever, when dealing with Hellenistic poetry, continuity and evolution – rather than rupture and revolution – should be the key words.

2. The Model of Old Comedy: Conflict and Criticism Given these numerous similarities between Hellenistic poetry and Attic comedy, it would be unsurprising to find Hellenistic poets employing Old Comedy as a model to articulate their own poetic programme; the old comedians’ similar literary spirit would render them an attractive target for emulation. The argument of the second half of my paper is that this was indeed the case: Old Comedy played a more important role in the formation of Hellenistic literary programmatics than is usually recognised. Scholars have occasionally noted stylistic similarities between Old Comedy and Hellenistic poetry, especially centred on the relationship between Aristophanes’ Frogs and Callimachus’ Aetia prologue (see below). Yet Hellenistic poetry’s systematic engagement with Old Comedy’s agonistic poetics and literary criticism is still underappreciated. A closer examination demonstrates the extent of Old Comedy’s influence, as a key model to be parroted, appropriated and inverted. We shall begin here by analysing the familiar relationship between the Frogs and Aetia prologue, before turning to broader areas of contact. 2.1 RetracingtheWell-TroddenPath:Callimachus’AetiaPrologue andtheFrogs Scholars have long recognised the numerous parallels between the Aetia prologue and Aristophanes’ Frogs.83 At the most basic level, the opposition between Callimachus’ original, small-scale poetry and the bombastic work praised by his detractors, the ‘Telchines’, closely maps onto that between Euripides as an innovative verbal technician and Aeschylus as an old-fashioned, inspired poet. Yet there are also a significant number of closer verbal and thematic parallels between the two texts: the contest in Aristophanes’ play is on the topic of τέχνη and σοφία, the very same 83. E.g. Wimmel (1960: 115 with n.1); Pfeiffer (1968: 137-8); Cairns (1979: 8-10); Hopkinson (1988: 89-91); Cameron (1995: 328-330); Harder (2002: 208-9; 2012: II.9); Acosta-Hughes & Stephens (2002: 246-7); Acosta-Hughes (2010: 87-90).

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subject at issue in Callimachus’ prologue,84 and the means of judging these attributes is the same – Dionysus weighs both tragedians’ verses with scales, just as Callimachus judges the ‘weight’ of (at least) two poetic predecessors (Ran.1365-1410, esp. 1397 καθέλξει; Aet.fr.1.9-10, esp. 1.9 καθέλκει).85 The poetic dichotomy in both texts is also extremely similar: the tragedy of Aeschylus seems an archetype of that endorsed by the Telchines – thundering, martial, and overweight. His poetry is built up like fortified towers (πυργώσας ῥήματα σεμνά, Ran.1004) and ‘swollen with bombast and overweight vocabulary’ (οἰδοῦσαν ὑπὸ κομπασμάτων καὶ ῥημάτων ἐπαχθῶν, Ran.940), just like the μεγάλη γυνή which Callimachus rejects (Aet.fr.1.12). His plays centre around the grandiose tales of kings and heroes that Callimachus spurns (Aet.fr.1.3-5), including thePersians (Ran.1026) and the SevenAgainstThebes,a ‘play full of war’ (δρᾶμα Ἄρεως μεστόν, Ran.1021); and he is described as a ‘mighty thunderer’ (ἐριβρεμέτας, Ran.814), engaging in the very ‘thundering’ which Callimachus leaves to Zeus (Aet.fr.1.20, βροντᾶν οὐκ ἐμόν, ἀλλὰ Διός). Euripides, by contrast, proves to be a close forerunner of Callimachus’ own literary aesthetic: he is an advocate of refined λεπτότης (καταλεπτολογήσει, Ran.828; λεπτολόγους ξυνετὰς φρένας, Ran.876;86 λεπτῶν … κανόνων, Ran.956), who has ‘slimmed down’ the tragic τέχνη which he received from Aeschylus (Ran.939-44),87 and is described as ‘shaking the bridle of envy’ (φθονεροὺς κινοῦσα χαλινούς, Ran.827), seeking to free himself from jealous censure like Callimachus.88 Both poet’s ethereal diets, moreover, parallel their ‘lightweight’ 84. κρίσις … τῆς τέχνης (Ran.785-6), ἀγών σοφίας (Ran.882); cf. Aet.fr.1.17-18, τέχνῃ | [κρίνετε,] … τὴν σοφίην. 85. Cf. too the idea of measuring poetry in Ran.799, with its ‘rulers and measuringtapes for phrases’ (κανόνας … καὶ πήχεις ἐπῶν), and Callimachus’dismissal of the Persian σχοίνος, an Egyptian land-measurement (Aet.fr.1.17-18). 86. Hopkinson (1988: 90), O’Sullivan (1992: 9) and Wright (2012: 199 n.41) all connect this phrase directly with Euripides without further comment, despite the fact that it is used in the plural in a context possibly referring to both tragedians. Nevertheless, considering the use of ξυνετός, a favourite Euripidean word (Sommerstein 1996: 233), and the craftsman metaphor of ‘minting new ideas’ in γνωμοτύπων (877), this phrase does seem better suited to Euripides than Aeschylus. The same could also be said of 1108’s λεπτόν τι καὶ σοφόν and 1110-1’s τὰ λεπτά. 87. Cf. Callimachus keeping his Muse ‘lean’ (τὴν Μοῦσαν … λεπταλέην, fr.1.23-4) and the programmatic significance of ‘dieting’ in Hellenistic poetry more generally, e.g. AP 6.300-302 (Leonidas of Tarentum 36, 37 HE[2183-2198]; Callimachus 28 HE[11751178] = 47 Pf.) and Theseus’ humble reception in the Hecale:see Ambühl (2004: 40-1), (2005: 87-92). Cf. too Aet.fr.1b.8-9 (τὸ κάτισχνον) and 3 HE[1047-1056] (= AP12.150 = 46 Pf.), of the Muses ‘reducing’ the wound of love (κατισχναίνοντι). 88. Cf. Aet.fr.1.17 and 29.4 HE [1182] (= AP 7.525 = 21 Pf.) (βασκανίη); Hymn 2.105-113 (Μῶμος and Φθόνος).

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poetic outputs,89 while Euripides’ humble female subject matter matches Callimachus’ own focus on elegiac poetry named after women in the prologue, rather than tales of kings and heroes (Ran.1039-1098).90 In both texts, there is thus a clear contrast between bombastic noise and harmonious song, reinforced further by the very rhythms of each passage.91 Despite these numerous similarities, however, some scholars are sceptical of any direct relationship between the two texts. Dover, for example, claims that “it is not surprising if two people talking about similar things use similar words”,92 but such an argument would have greater validity if it were made of two poets writing in thesamemetre, which is not the case here. More significant, however, are the arguments of those who would see both Aristophanes and Callimachus independently drawing on contemporary literary-critical terminology and debates. Ferriss-Hill, for example, claims that this language in the Frogs “which we think of as so Aristophanic … is more a symptom of the age” rather than anything distinctively comic.93 According to Hunter, meanwhile, the Aetia prologue “plays provocatively with familiar terms of literary discussion” (2004: 72). It is of course true that both texts include many foreshadowings of, or allusions to, literary-critical terminology: the thundering of Aeschylus which Callimachus avoids recalls the ‘thunder’ that Pseudo-Demetrius offers as an example of the ‘weighty’ style (Ps-Dem., On Style 177), while Euripides’ slimming of Tragedy (ἴσχνανα, Ran. 939-944) and its Callimachean echoes evoke the ἰσχνὸς χαρακτήρ, ‘unadorned style’ (Ps-Dem., On Style 190-239).94 Yet both texts’ interactions with wider 89. αἰθήρ, ἐμὸν βόσκημα (‘Sky, my nourisher’, Ran.892); cf. προίκιον ἐκ δίης ἠέρος εἶδαρ ἔδων (‘eating the free food from the divine sky’, Aet.fr.1.34). 90. Cf. Ran.1382-3, where the first line of Euripides’ Medea, about the winged Argo, evoking the love story of Medea and Jason, opposes Aeschylus’ line about the river Spercheius, recalling the grandeur and martial associations of the Trojan war. 91. See Scharffenberger (2007), esp. 235 n.16 on the contrast in Frogs between Aeschylus’ opening concentration of long syllables and Euripides’ numerous resolutions and short syllables. Similarly, the prologue’s sole spondeiazon, ὀγκήσαιτο (fr.1.31), “creates a dragging effect, reproducing the ass’ clumsy bray”: Hopkinson (1988: 96). For sound in the prologuemore generally, see e.g. Andrews (1998: 4-7) and Romano (2011: 318-322). 92. Dover (1993: 33 n.65). 93. Ferriss-Hill (2015: 191), with further bibliography in n.8. For Aristophanes’ potential debts to rhetorical theory and literary criticism more generally: see e.g. Denniston (1927), Reitzenstein (1931), O’Sullivan (1992: 7-22, 106-150) and Hunter (2009). For Callimachus and Hellenistic poetry, see e.g. Fantuzzi & Hunter (2004: 71-2, 444-461), Gutzwiller (2007: 202-213), Romano (2011), and Barbantani (2015). 94. Note also the repetition of Aristophanes’ δρᾶμα Ἄρεως μεστόν (Ran.1021) in Gorgias (82 B 24 DK). Most scholars are inclined to believe that Aristophanes borrowed the expression from Gorgias, suggesting Aristophanes’ debts to broader contemporary

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literary critical discourse hardly precludes a direct connection between the two, and given the number of often rather precise parallels they share (esp. e.g. καθέλξει / καθέλκει), it seems sensible to regard the Frogsas one of Callimachus’ key intertexts for the Aetia prologue. Indeed, the argument for the Frogs’ central role behind the prologue is strengthened when we note its influence elsewhere in Hellenistic poetry, both in and beyond Callimachus: the contest between the laurel and the olive in Iambus 4, for example, may well draw its wrestling ‘triple strike’ motif from the use of the same figure in the Frogs,95 while Callimachus’ pejorative characterisation of Euhemerus and others elsewhere in the Iambi as ‘chatterers’ (λαλάζων, Ia.1, fr.191.11; λάλοι, Ia.2, fr.192.14) parallels Aristophanes’ criticisms of Euripides (λαλίστερα, Ran.91; λαλεῖν, 954). Callimachus’ praise of Aratus as ‘taking an impression’ of Hesiod’s best verses, moreover, may well be indebted to the same metaphor used of Aeschylus’ Homeric imitations,96 while Dionysus’ mission to resurrect a dead poet to restore the ills of a degenerate present is an important precedent for Hipponax’s own anabasis and ethical advice in Iambus 1.97 Beyond Callimachus, Dioscorides praises Aeschylus in terms strongly reminiscent of the Frogs’ central dichotomy, as somebody who has ‘carved letters not neatly chiselled, but as if water-worn by a torrent.’98 Yet perhaps the most significant parallel is with Herodas’ 8th Mimiambos, where we have another contest between two poets (Herodas and Hipponax?), again arbitrated by Dionysus (Herod.8.63) and articulated in part by a strong contrast between youth and age.99 Given this broader influence of the Frogs on other Hellenistic literature, we thus have every reason to accept the scholarly consensus that Aristophanes’ play was also a crucial model behind the Aetia’s programmatic opening. discussions of literature: e.g. Pfeiffer (1968: 46-48, 281); O’Sullivan (1992: 16); Dover (1993: 31). 95. Thus Clayman (1980: 25 n.38): τὰ τρί’ ἡ δάφνη κεῖται (Ia.4, fr.194.80); cf. Ar.Ran.1268 (δύο σοι κόπω…τούτω) and 1272 (τρίτος … σοι κόπος οὗτος). Though the metaphor does seem to have a wider currency (e.g. Aesch.Ag.171-2, Eum.589, Soph. fr.941.13). 96. Thus Cameron (1995: 330): ἀπομαξαμένη, Ran.1040; ἀπεμάξατο, 56.3 HE [1299] (= AP9.507 = 27 Pf.). 97. See Kerkhecker (1999: 15-17). Encounters with dead poets were a common motif of comedy: e.g. Aristophanes’ Gerytadesand Eupolis’ Demoi. For further debts to comedy in Iambus I, see Hunter (1997: 50-1). Cf. also Schmitt (1970: 76), who suggests that Iambi fr.215’s ληκυθίζουσα might be an allusion to the ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν motif of Ar.Ran.1208-1241. 98. Dioscorides 21.3-4 HE[1593-4](=AP 7.411): ὁ μὴ σμιλευτὰ χαράξας | γράμματα, χειμάρρῳ δ’οἷα καταρδόμενα; cf. Euripides’ σμιλεύματα ἔργων (Ran.819) and Aeschylus’ κρουνόν (Ran.1004-5). 99. Cf. Chesterton (this volume, esp. 23-31).

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Returning to the prologue itself, however, it is worth noting, as many critics have, that Callimachus has not just faithfully transplanted elements from the Frogs in outlining his central opposition, but also adapted and inverted them, reversing the play’s evaluative criticism. In Aristophanes’ comedy, it is Aeschylus, not Euripides, who finally comes out on top (Ran.1471), a result already prepared for before the contest starts when we are told that criminals support Euripides, whereas τὸ χρηστόν (‘the decent sort’) are fans of Aeschylus (Ran.771-83).100 Callimachus, however, implicitly rejects this evaluation by presenting his own slender ‘Euripidean’ Muse as superior to the Telchines’ ‘Aeschylean’ preferences, thereby appropriating and reclaiming terminology originally used to satirise Euripides: for him, λεπτότης is not a negative characteristic, but a positive ideal. Such a reversal is also apparent in the metaphor of weighing poetry: in the Frogs, Aeschylus’ heavier words outdid Euripides’ lightweight ones, but here Callimachus reverses the criteria for success; in the Aetia, the apparently short-scale Θεσμοφόρος defeats its long-winded rival (τὴν μακρήν, Aet.fr.1.9-10). Moreover, if the Contest of Homer and Hesiod is an intertext which underlies the Frogs, as Ralph Rosen has argued,101 Callimachus’ posturing can also be seen as a corrective of Aristophanes’ ‘misreading’ of that tale. For while Hesiod was the victor of the original contest, it is the ‘Homeric’ Aeschylus in the Frogs who defeats the ‘Hesiodic’ Euripides.102 In the Aetiaprologue, by contrast, Callimachus realigns the balance to once more favour a ‘Euripidean’ and thus ‘Hesiodic’ brand of poetry, a realignment which fits with the programmatic assertions of allegiance to Hesiod elsewhere in Hellenistic poetry.103 When Callimachus alludes to the second stasimon of Euripides’ Heracles Furens later in the prologue, therefore, it can be read as an implicit assertion of his preference for this ‘Euripidean’ (and implicitly ‘Hesiodic’) poetics.104 100. Dionysus’ final verdict is, admittedly, sudden and arbitrary and it is questionable whether he has really shed his identity as a βωμολόχος by the play’s end. The degree to which we are supposed to endorse his decision is hotly debated: see e.g. Dover (1993: 19-20) and Von Möllendorff (1996/7: 135-6 n.20). 101. Rosen (2004), arguing for a fifth century tradition of the contest underlying our version of the text (which dates to the second century CE). See Bassino (2013: 118-19) for further reasons to think that the story dates back to the fifth century. 102. Thus Rosen (2004: 306). For Euripides’ connection with Hesiod and Aeschylus’ with Homer, see Hunter (2014a: 305-306). For evidence that Homer and Hesiod were already viewed as representatives of rival literary styles and competing world-views in the fifth and fourth centuries, see O’Sullivan (1992: 66-79). 103. See e.g. Reinsch-Werner (1976); Hunter (2005); Sistakou (2009). 104. Thus Harder (2012: II.73-4). The implicit programmatic connection between Euripides and Hesiod here is strengthened by the suggestion of Scodel (1980: 318-9) that

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In reversing the final evaluation of the Frogs, Callimachus appears to side himself with the technical, theory-laden Euripides, rather than the old-fashioned, inspired Aeschylus. However, Callimachus goes one step further than simply inverting the outcome of the Frogs’ contest. For while Aristophanes presented a binary opposition between inspired and technical poetry, Callimachus subtly deconstructs this absolute dichotomy by co-opting long-standing images of poetic inspiration alongside his proclamations of ‘Euripidean’ leptotes:105 the poet receives instruction from the divine source of Apollo, converses directly with the Muses, and undergoes an ‘initiation’ similar to Hesiod in the following dream scene (Aet.fr.2). His wish to become a cicada (τέττιγος, Aet.fr.1.30), moreover, equates the poet with an animal which was closely connected to the Muses and which was also a source of inspiration in its own right,106 while the words ὁ ἐλαχύς, ὁ πτερόεις (‘the light one, the winged one’, Aet.fr.1.32) also appear to recall Socrates’ characterisation of the manic, inspired poet in Plato’s Ion: κοῦφον γὰρ χρῆμα ποιητής ἐστιν καὶ πτηνὸν καὶ ἱερόν (‘for the poet is a lightweight thing, winged and sacred’, Ion 534b).107 Far from simply taking the side of ‘Euripidean’ techne, therefore, Callimachus also appropriates the ‘Aeschylean’ poetics of inspiration.108 While evoking the stark dichotomies of Old Comedy, he has manipulated tradition to cast himself as a figure of bothpoetic craftsmanship and supernatural inspiration, the heir of both the written and the oral worlds.109 Callimachus’ engagement with Aristophanes’ Frogs thus demonstrates Old Comedy’s potential as a model for Hellenistic poets: this is a case not just of superficial contact, but of detailed and precise appropriation, in which Aristophanes’ central opposition is inverted and even destabilised. Most modern scholars, however, do not look beyond this single Callimachus’ wish for rejuvenation alludes, via the Euripidean passage, to the tradition that Hesiod enjoyed a second life and youth. 105. Cf. La Penna (1971); Hunter (1989b); Acosta-Hughes & Stephens (2012: 43-6). 106. Cf. Plato Phdr.258e6-259d8, where we are told the origin of the cicadas and how they became ‘the prophets of the Muses’; cf. too Phdr.262d2-6, where the cicadas are included in a list of local divinities and sources of inspiration. 107. As Hunter (1989b: 2) has suggested, the problematic syntax of verses 33-5 could be regarded in this light as “amusingly suggestive of the ecstatic, ‘possessed’, mode which Socrates ascribes to poets and into which Callimachus suddenly changes.” 108. One could equally ask how precisely Callimachus maps onto the Aristophanic Euripides: for Euripides’ οἰκεῖα πράγματα sit ill with Callimachus’ rejection of πάντα τὰ δημόσια (2.4 HE[1044] = AP12.43 = 28 Pf.), just as Euripides’ characteristic ‘chattiness’ (λαλίστερα, Ran.91; λαλεῖν, 954) is something which Callimachus distances himself from elsewhere (λαλάζων, Ia.1, fr.191.11; λάλοι, Ia.2, fr.192.14). 109. Cf. Bruss (2004) on the interplay of literacy and orality in Callimachus’ œuvre.

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instance of Callimachean comic reception; after all, the prologue in which it occurs is packed with so many other intertextual echoes.110 Consequently, it seems an isolated and unique exception. In the remainder of this paper, however, I shall argue that this example in fact fits into a broader pattern, in which Hellenistic poets appropriated the agonistic nature of Old Comedy as a whole (2.2) and systematically inverted its evaluative criticism (2.3). 2.2 BeyondtheFrogs:AgonisticPoeticsandtheLiteraryApologia The close connection between the Frogs and Aetia prologue rests not only on their shared language and terms of debate, but also on the very presence of debateitself: the agonistic quality of the Frogs episode is one of the key features which made it so suitable for Callimachus to employ in his own ‘response to the Telchines’. When turning to Attic Old Comedy as a whole, however, it becomes readily apparent that the Aristophanic dispute between Aeschylus and Euripides is only one of many comic literary debates. Such quarrels are, of course, part of a broader agonistic tradition, including the Certaminaof Homer and Hesiod, the Thracian Thamyris and the Muses, the prophets Mopsus and Calchas, and the poets Lesches and Arctinus.111 And indeed, much early Greek poetry was already itself characterised by an inherently agonistic outlook.112 Yet what sets Old Comedy apart is the genre’s consistent and intensified interest in such debate, doubtless a reflection of the agonistic context of the dramatic competitions at the Lenaea and Greater Dionysia themselves. Cratinus’ Archilochoi(frr.1-16), for example, involved a contest between the proponents of blame poetry, including Archilochus (Θασίαν ἅλμην, fr.6.1), and those of heroic epic, including Homer (ὁ τυφλός, fr.6.3) and Hesiod (Diog.Laert.1.12),113 while the comic Plato’s Skeuai seems to have contained some kind of dramatic contest between two rival producers squabbling over the respective merits of each 110. For the Aetia prologue’s incessant intertextuality, see e.g. Acosta-Hughes & Stephens (2002); Harder (2002: 206-211; 2012: II.9). 111. For Thamyris and the Muses, see Il.2.594-600 and Eur. Rhesus 915-25; for Calchas and Mopsus, see Hes. Melampodia frr.278, 279 M-W; for Mopsus’ similar quarrel with Amphilochus, see references at Harder (2012: II.294); and for Lesches (author of the LittleIliad) and Arctinus (author of the IliouPersis), see Phaenias (fr.33 Wehrli). 112. See e.g. Griffith (1990); Collins (2004); Barker (2009); Klooster (2011: 117-119). The locusclassicusis Hesiod’s ‘good strife’ which sets poet against poet (Hes. Op.26-8). 113. Bakola (2010: 70-79), Storey (2011: I. 268-9). Little of the play survives, but fr.7’s Διὸς μεγάλου θᾶκοι πεσσοί τε appears to evoke the contest between Athena and Poseidon for the patronage of Athens, suggesting an agonistic environment (cf. Photius δ 659; Hsch. δ 1925).

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other’s plays (fr.136). Fragments of Phrynichus’ Musae, which competed directly against Aristophanes’ Frogs in 405 BCE, also offer us tantalising hints of a poet standing trial,114 as does Cratinus’ Pytinewith its mention of counting votes (fr.207). Moreover, even when poets themselves were not pictured in competition, their works were still often compared: an unassigned fragment of Eupolis suggests that his characters undertook a synkrisis of the ‘modern’ and ‘old’ styles of song (fr.326), while Aristophanes’ Clouds included a dispute between father and son over the respective merits of Simonides/Aeschylus and Euripides (Nub.1353-1376). Such debates appear to have been a common feature of the comic genre, offering miniature re-enactments of the larger festival competition – a mise-en-abyme of the very contest in which the old comedians were engaged. Yet comic poets did not just present scenes of literary criticism on stage as self-contained spectacles for the audience to enjoy. They also actively engaged in critical debate themselves, fashioning their own distinctive personaeand responding to each other’s criticism and caricatures.115 This overt antagonism is especially, but not wholly, connected to the parabasis, the moment in Old Comedy when the chorus would step forward and speak on behalf of their poet, defending him against alleged slights from the Athenian public, politicians and rival poets. In the parabases of Wasps and Clouds, for example, Aristophanes directly blames his unreceptive audience for the failure of the first version of Clouds (Vesp.1009-1050; Nub.518-562),116 while elsewhere he repeatedly refers to his feud with the demagogic politician Cleon.117 In the poetic realm, meanwhile, he appears to have engaged in an ongoing plagiarism dispute about the authorship of the Knights with Eupolis, as well as a contest over poetic style with Cratinus.118 Indeed, Cratinus’ Pytineis perhaps the most elaborate example of this agonistic self-defence, effectively a playlength parabasis designed to counter Aristophanes’ criticisms of drunkenness and old age in the Knights (Eq.523-34).119 In the past, scholars 114. Note especially the encomium of Sophocles (fr.32) and the mention of a votingpebble (τὴν ψῆφον, fr.33). 115. See e.g. Sidwell (1995); Biles (2002; 2011; 2014); Ruffell (2002); Bakola (2008; 2010: 13-80); and Telò (2014) for the poets’ intertextual rivalries; and Hubbard (1991) on Aristophanes’ evolving ‘autobiography’. 116. For fragmentary hints of audience-criticism by other poets, see e.g. Eupolis fr.392; Cratinus fr.211, fr.360; Plato fr.99. 117. See e.g. McGlew (1996); Pelling (2000: 123-164); Sommerstein (2004). 118. Nub. 553-6; Eupolis fr.89; Cratinus fr.213. See e.g. Storey (2003: 278-303); Kyriakidi (2007); Ferriss-Hill (2015: 175-178). 119. See e.g. Rosen (2000); Luppe (2000); Biles (2002; 2011: 134-166); Bakola (2008: 11-20; 2010: 13-80).

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were intent on reconstructing the original historical context for these ‘feuds’, but more recent critics have emphasised the programmatic literary self-fashioning at play. Rosen, in particular, has linked this creation of rivalries to the tradition of iambus and blame poetry, where conflict with an ‘enemy’ was a core part of the poet’s self-presentation (Lycambes for Archilochus; Bupalus for Hipponax).120 Regardless of the historical underpinnings of these parabatic moments, what is important is the opportunity they presented for comedians to outline and ‘defend’ their own poetics; in the words of Jennifer Ferriss-Hill, “the poet alludes to an earlier injury, emphasizing that he does not deserve such misfortune and casting himself in the role of the wounded party; he identifies a group of critics … who are, as is almost universally the case, anonymous; and, together with an exposition of his poetic program, he offers the present reader-spectator the opportunity for redemption, attainable only through proper appreciation of the poet.”121 This parabatic posturing, I would argue, is the central model underlying Hellenistic poetry’s own similarly abrasive and agonistic self-fashioning.122 Callimachus, above all, repeatedly presents himself as the subject of criticism, defending his literary aesthetics against the reproaches of the malignant ‘Telchines’ in the Aetia prologue, his anonymous detractors in Iambus13, and the baneful presence of Phthonos(‘Envy’) in the Hymn toApollo. Each of these passages fits Ferriss-Hill’s summary of the key elements of ‘defensive poetics’, as she herself has acknowledged, 123 yet we can also find cases beyond Callimachus, such as the Theocritean Lycidas’ dismissal of the Μοισᾶν ὄρνιχες who strive against Homer (Id.7.47-8). As with Old Comedy, all these passages were once regarded as key evidence for historical feuds of the Hellenistic era, especially the problematic ‘Telchines’ of the prologue: ancient scholars already attempted to reconstruct historical lists of the real-life ‘Telchines’,124 and 120. Rosen (1988), especially pp. 59-82 on the Aristophanes-Cleon feud; cf. Rosen (2013). 121. Ferriss-Hill (2015: 122-123). 122. For even earlier precedent, some might point to Pindar Ol.2.86-88, following the scholia in reading the ‘boisterous crows’ as rival poets set against Pindar as the ‘divine bird of Zeus’: see e.g. Willcock (1995: 162-3); Kyriakou (1995: 218-219). Even if it is right to interpret these lines as a case of literary polemic, however, their implicit and allegorical nature renders them less significant parallels than Old Comedy’s explicitly agonistic posturing. 123. See Ferriss-Hill (2015: 134-138). 124. One ancient list of Telchines survives in the Florentine scholia (PSI 1219 = Aet. fr.1b), which includes Asclepiades, Posidippus and the peripatetic Praxiphanes of Mytilene (cf. Callim. fr.460 Pf.); yet it is unclear whether this is mere guesswork or a reflection of secure knowledge.

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a number of their modern counterparts have also sought a historical explanation for these hazy figures.125 Yet the precedent of Old Comedy strengthens the case of those who prefer to see the ‘Telchines’ as a primarily literary device, regardless of the historical reality. What is important is that the ‘Telchines’ are constructed as an outer group, a rhetorical foil against which Callimachus can define his own poetry and audience.126 After all, the ‘Telchines’ here are particularly textual and literary figures, recurring later in the very same poem as the hubristic sorcerers mentioned in Xenomedes’ Coan history (Aet.fr.75.65). They can also, moreover, be read as a parodic inversion of the ideal poet:127 not only do they contrast with the φῦλον ἀοιδῶν loved by the Muses and praised by Odysseus in Od.8.481 (cf. φῦλον α[, Aet.fr.1.7), but they are also described with the participle ἐπιστάμενον (fr.1.8), a common term to designate a poet’s special knowledge and skill;128 here, however, their ‘skill’ ironically lies in their ability to eat away their very own livers, and we in fact know from the second verse that they are fully ‘ignorant’ of the Muses (νήιδες, Aet.fr.1.2). The ‘Telchines’ are thus rhetorically constructed as the precise opposite of – and a negative foil to – Callimachus and his ideal audience, playing the role of both Aristophanes’ unreceptive audience and his critical rivals. The same could also be said of Iambus 13, where the anonymous critic seems even more of a rhetorical construct, a mere unnamed voice whose critique is reported by the poet himself.129 Yet it is perhaps the HymntoApollo that is the most parabatic of Callimachus’ programmatic passages, containing as it does a miniature dialogue ‘on stage’ between Phthonos and Apollo, the mouthpiece of the poet, alongside the clear construction of an inner, privileged group.130 The old comic parabasis thus offered Callimachus the ideal vehicle to express his own aesthetics as a ‘literary response’ to vague, anonymous critics. In this light, it would be attractive to read the allusion to the Frogs in the Aetia prologue not just as an end in itself, but rather an implicit acknowledgement of the more fundamental role of Old Comedy’s agonistic and defensive poetics in Callimachus’ larger literary programme.

125. E.g. Klooster (2011: 127-137); Harder (2012: II.14). 126. Cf. e.g. Schmitz (1999: 151-178); Asper (1997: 246-7; 2001). 127. Cf. Dubielzig (1995: 343-4). 128. E.g. Od.11.368, 21.406; Hes.Op.107; Hymn.Hom.Merc.479; Archil.fr.1.2 W2; Solon fr.13.52 W2. 129. Cf. Acosta-Hughes (2002: 76): “The critic of Iambus 13 is rather a foil, a voice to whom the poet may respond in outlining his own compositional ideals.” 130. Cf. Bassi (1989); Gramps (this volume: 136-141: ‘The space of inclusion’).

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2.3 MetaphorsofCriticism:EvaluatingLiterature Hellenistic poetry’s broader debts to Old Comedy also extend to their shared repertoire of literary-critical terminology. Although scholars frequently restrict their focus to the influence of the Frogs,most Hellenistic literary-critical metaphors in fact find parallels throughout Old Comedy.131 We have already noted the amatory metaphor shared by Pherecrates and Hermesianax, to which we could add numerous other common tropes, including those of giving birth to literature,132 trampling literary paths,133 and poetic sweetness.134 Yet what is striking is how many of Callimachus’ and other Hellenistic poets’ programmatic metaphors draw upon a pre-existing comic vocabulary: the thundering that Callimachus shuns in the Aetiaprologue, for example, is also exhibited by Pericles’ oratory in the Acharnians, while Aristophanes’ Aeschylus and Aeacus both produce the cacophony of noise that Callimachus avoids.135 Callimachus’ poetic water analogies are also foreshadowed by Old Comedy’s recurring emphasis on characters’ uncontrollable torrents of words,136 and – in particular – by Aristophanes’ apparently metapoetic ‘river of diarrhoea’ in the Underworld (Gerytades, fr.156), which offers precedent for the pejorative associations of Callimachus’ muddy ‘Assyrian river’ (Hymn 2.108-9). Callimachus’ dismissal of the braying din of asses, moreover, is paralleled by Old Comedy’s mocking association of Philonides of Melite with the donkey: Theopompus calls him a ‘brayer’, the result of his mother’s illegitimate union with a donkey, just as the comic Plato

131. On Aristophanes’ literary criticism and use of metaphor, see now Worman (2015: 104-145). 132. Aet.fr.1.20 τίκτεσθαι, Ia.13.14 τίκτειν; cf. Ar.Ran.1059 τίκτειν, Cratinus fr.203 τέκοι. 133. Aet.fr.1.25 πατέουσιν; cf. Ar.Av.471: οὐδ᾽ Αἴσωπον πεπάτηκας (‘your copy of Aesop is not well-trampled’). 134. Old Comedy: e.g. Vesp.219-20, Av.748-51, Chionides fr.4, Cratinus fr.256, Phrynichus fr.68. In Hellenistic poetry, sweetness is a key programmatic term (e.g. Id.1.1-4; Nossis 1 HE [2791-4] (= AP5.170); Asclepiades 1 HE[812-5] (= AP5.169), Hedylus 5 HE [1853-6]: cf. Sens (2015)), and frequently used to praise past and present poets, including Erinna (Asclepiades 28.1 HE [942] = AP 7.11), Mimnermus (Aet.fr.1.11; ἡδύν, Hermesianax fr.7.35, p.99 Powell = fr.3.35 Lightfoot), Callimachus (Meleager 1.21-2 HE [3946-7] = AP 4.1), Homer (Hermesianax fr.7.28, p.98 Powell = fr.3.28 Lightfoot), and Aratus (Callim. 56 HE[1297-1300] = AP9.507 = 27 Pf.). 135. Pericles: ἐβρόντα, Ar. Ach.530-1; cf. Aet.fr.1.20, βροντᾶν οὐκ ἐμόν. Aeschylus: ψόφου πλέων, Nub.1367; Aeacus: τὸν ψόφον τῶν ῥημάτων, Ran.492; cf. Aet.fr.1.19, μέγα ψοφέουσαν ἀοιδήν. 136. Eq.526-8 and Cratinus fr.198 on Cratinus’ poetry; Pherecrates fr.56 and Ar.Ran.1005 more generally. For Callimachean water metaphors, see Hy.2.105-113 and the κρήνη of Epigr.28 Pf. (= 2 HE[1041-6] = AP12.43).

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explicitly calls him an ‘ass’.137 On the other side of the opposition, meanwhile, Callimachus’ child-like poetics (παῖς ἅτε, Aet.fr.1.6) could in part be indebted to comic criticism of jokes as only fit for children,138 while Campbell (1974: 44-46) has suggested that the prologue’s “discussion of the intellectual aspects of λεπτότης” is indebted to Aristophanes’ λεπτὴ φροντίς in the Clouds (Nub.227-32). On a larger scale, comedy’s frequent use of female figures in metapoetic roles might also have influenced Hellenistic poetry’s strong emphasis on poetic females, including the comparisons of female poetry in the Aetia prologue (Aet.fr.1.9-12) and conflicting discussions of Antimachus’ Lyde (Asclepiades 32 HE [958-961] = AP9.63; Callim. fr.398 Pf.).139 Yet perhaps most significant is the apparent foreshadowing of the Frogs’ central opposition already in Aristophanes’ and Cratinus’ personae-construction of the 420s: while Aristophanes presented himself as a clever, innovative youngster similar to the Frogs’ Euripides, Cratinus took the pose of an old inspired genius, reminiscent of the Frogs’ Aeschylus.140 The oppositions that Callimachus is often thought to have adopted solely from Aristophanes’ Frogs, therefore, in fact permeated Old Comedy as a whole: the poetics he co-opts are not simply ‘ranine’, but authentically ‘old comic’.141 Of course, the use of metaphors to represent poetry and poetic production had long been a prominent feature of the literary tradition, especially in lyric and epinician poetry.142 Yet as Wright has recently argued, “whereas the early poets’ use of metaphors is descriptive, the comedians used metaphors in a predominantly evaluative sense”,143 and it is this evaluative tinge of comic metaphors that makes them so important for Hellenistic poets, who often expressed their aesthetic preferences similarly through elaborate metaphors. Indeed, in two particular cases (those of craftsmanship and λεπτότης), we can see Hellenistic poets actively 137. θ]όρυβον … ὄνων, ὀγκήσαιτο (Aet.fr.1.30-31); cf. ὀγκάς … ὄνῳ (Theopompus fr.5); ὄνον (Plato fr.65.6-7). Cf. Philyllius fr.22, where Philonides is dismissed as the offspring of a camel (κάμηλος). 138. E.g. Ar. Nub.539; Eupolis fr.261. For the Callimachean childish persona, see Cozzoli (2011). 139. See Hall (2000) for metapoetic female figures in comedy. 140. See esp. Bakola (2008). 141. Cf. too Stewart’s suggestion (2008: 593-4) that Lysistrata 23-30 could underlie the programmatic imagery of Callimachus, Epigr. 27 Pf. (= 56 HE [1297-1300] = AP9.507). 142. For a comprehensive analysis of lyric poetry’s use of metaphorical language, see Nünlist (1998). 143. Wright (2012: 105). For a more comprehensive discussion of “the metaphorical language of criticism” in Old Comedy, see Wright (2012: 103-140). For metaphors in Callimachus, see e.g. Asper (1997).

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inverting and undermining comic evaluative criticism: just as Callimachus shifted and blurred the poles of the opposition in the Frogs, so too can we see Hellenistic poets recalibrating the comedians’ metaphors on a larger scale. First, craftsmanship. From its very beginning, Hellenistic poets associated refined poetry with skilful artisanry: Philetas, for example, was already contrasting the rustic farmer with ‘one who knows the ordering of words and toils greatly’ (ἐπέων εἰδὼς κόσμον καὶ πολλὰ μογήσας) a generation before Callimachus,144 while Herodas’ persona similarly talks of ‘my labours…among the Muses’ (τοὺς ἐμοὺς μόχθους…ἐν Μούσῃσιν, Herod.8.71-2). Asclepiades, too, associates poetic success with toil when talking of ‘Erinna’s sweet labour’ (ὁ γλυκὺς Ἠρίννας … πόνος, 28.1 HE[942] = AP7.11), while the Theocritean Lycidas claims that his poetry is the polished result of much toil (ἐξεπόνασα, Id.7.51). The same idea also lies behind the explicit comparison of poets with builders, as in Lycidas’ unfavourable equation of those who ‘crow against’ Homer with those who try to build as high as mountains (Id.7.45-9), as well as Callimachus’ more positive association of his own compositions with builders’ products in Iambus 13.145 Yet such comparisons could also feature more implicitly: in Idyll 1, the boy in the bowl ecphrasis seems to be a reflection of intricate craftsmanship, weaving a ‘fine’ cricket-cage (Id.1.52-3),146 while in Herodas’ sixth Mimiambos, the dildo-maker Cerdon appears to be an embodiment of the poet’s own poetics: not only does the repeated use of the verb ῥάπτω (Herod.6. 43, 47, 48, 51) connect Cerdon’s handiwork with the poet’s craft, but the use of diminutives such as ἱμαντίσκοι (6.71) seem well-suited to reflect the attenuated nature of Herodas’ own poems.147 The equation between poet and craftsman thus recurs repeatedly in Hellenistic poetry, and it appears to have had important evaluative associations, as we might also infer from Callimachus’ dismissal of Antimachus’ Lydeas a γράμμα that is οὐ τορόν, lacking the 144. Fr.10, pp.92-93 Powell = fr.8 Lightfoot. Many solutions have been proposed for the identity of the κλήθρη and ‘marshaller of words’ in this poem. The most plausible suggestion is that of Cerri (2005), who notes that κλήθρη is a Homeric dis legomenon (Od.5.64, 239), referring to one of the trees used in Odysseus’ raft. The ‘marshaller of words’ would then be Odysseus himself, an appropriate model for the toiling Hellenistic poet; cf. Kwapisz (2013: 155-6). 145. Diegesis IX. 37-8: οὐδὲ τὸν τέκτονά τις μέμφεται πολυειδῆ σκεύη τεκταινόμενον, ‘nobody finds fault with a builder for creating a variety of artefacts’. 146. E.g. Cairns (1984: 103-4). 147. Cf. Stern (1979: 252-4). Other points support this metapoetic reading, including the fact that Cerdon also comes from Chios or Erythrae (both rival claimants to be Homer’s birthplace), and the dismissal of Nossis (6.20) and Erinna (6.33), possible allusions to Herodas’ fellow poets.

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refinement or sophistication of a properly ‘crafted’, ‘drilled’ or ‘pierced’ work (fr.398 Pf.).148 The origins of this metaphor are often traced back to the epinician poets, who wished to stress the monumental and eternally commemorative power of song, presenting their own work as almost tangible objects which were as durable as, if not more durable than, physical buildings.149 Yet old comedians also seem to have played an important role in developing this image, extending the variety of crafts associated with poetry (e.g. Aristophanes’ evocation of a metal foundry, fr.719), as well as concretising the metaphor to stress the physical textuality of poetic production.150 Especially noticeable in this regard is the way in which words are repeatedly envisaged as physical and measurable objects, described as three-cubits tall by Crates (ἐπὴ τριπήχη, fr.21) and capable of being levered into place like stones by the comic Plato (fr.69), as well as being measured by a wide variety of instruments in Aristophanes’ Frogs (Ran.798-802). Yet perhaps Old Comedy’s most significant influence is the way in which it associated this craftsmanship metaphor especially with the ‘lightweight’ poetics of progressive intellectuals like Euripides and Agathon. We have already noted, for example, how Euripides in the Frogs is presented as a kind of carpenter, with all the appropriate tools of the trade, such as a linchpin and chisel (Ran.819), but he is also described as behaving τορῶς (‘smartly’, Ran.1102), the precise opposite of Callimachus’ conception of the unsophisticated Lyde (γράμμα… οὐ τορόν, fr. 398 Pf.). Beyond the Frogs, meanwhile, Teleclides uses the same metaphor with a similarly intellectual flavour when describing a Euripidean play as ‘put together with Socratic rivets’ (fr.42), while Agathon (another tragedian linked with the innovations of New Music) is implicitly compared to a ship-builder, chariot-maker andmetalworker in Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae (Thesm.52-7).151 Old Comedy thus 148. Cf. Crinagoras 11.1 GPh [1823] (= AP 9.545), where Callimachus’ Hecale is called τὸ τορευτὸν ἔπος. 149. E.g. Nünlist (1998: 83-125) and Ford (2002: 93-157). West (2007: 35-40) connects the metaphor with broader Indo-European patterns. Wright (2012: 117) also notes Presocratic precedent, to which we could add Thucydides’ κτῆμα ἐς αἰεὶ (1.22.4) and Plato’s later interest in craft analogies. Roman poets continued to employ the metaphor: e.g. Horace 3.30: exegimonumentumaereperennius. 150. Thus Wright (2012: 116-120). For poetry as labour in Old Comedy, see too e.g. ἐξεπονήθη (Cratinus fr.255); χαλεπώτατον ἔργον (Ar.Eq.516); ἔργον πλεῖστον (Nub.524). 151. Plutarch claims that Agathon was the first poet to introduce τὸ χρωματικόν into tragedy (Mor.645e), an innovation also elsewhere attributed to Euripides ([Psell.] Detrag. 5: συστήμασι δὲ οἱ μὲν παλαιοὶ μικροῖς ἐχρῶντο, Εὐριπίδης πρῶτος πολυχορδίᾳ ἐχρήσατο).

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seems to have employed the metaphor in contexts which mocked and criticised modern intellectual developments. In redeploying the image for themselves, Hellenistic poets were reclaiming the epinician poets’ more positive use of the image from its negative overtones in Old Comedy. Just as Callimachus reversed the final evaluation of the literary contest in the Frogs, so too did Hellenistic poets revalue the worth of poetic craftsmanship more generally. A similar conclusion can be drawn from Hellenistic poetry’s reception of comic λεπτότης. For ‘thinness’ extends well beyond its association with Euripides in the Frogs and appears to have been a generally pejorative term for a variety of intellectual figures in Old Comedy, especially dithyrambists and sophists.152 Socrates and Strepsiades, for example, are repeatedly connected with λεπτότης in the Clouds (e.g. Nub.153, 161, 320, 359),153 while the dithyrambist Cinesias is mocked for his alleged thinness across a number of plays: in the Birds (Av.1372-1409), he wishes to fly on light wings (πτερύγεσσι κούφαις, Av.1372) and is as thin as ‘linden-bass’ (φιλύρινον, Av.1377); in the Frogs, he is connected with wings and lightweight flight in Euripides’ plan to save the state (Ran.1437-8); and in the Gerytades,he is associated with ‘slender’ hopes alongside the tragic poet Meletus and the comic Sannyrion (λεπτῶν ἐλπίδων, Ar.fr.156.10). Indeed, this last comedy appears to have placed a strong emphasis on ‘thinness’, given that Athenaeus explicitly talks of these poets as ‘slender men’ in his summary of the play (λεπτούς, Ath. 12.551a), and at some point their insubstantiality even seems to have left them in danger of being swept away by the river of the Underworld’s current (fr.156.11-12). In another fragment of the same play, moreover, an unknown character says ‘treat him and fatten him up with monodies’ (θεράπευε καὶ χόρταζε τῶν μονῳδιῶν, fr.162), no doubt referring to one of these ‘thin’ poets and advising that he should be fattened up with the opposite of Tragedy’s ‘Euripidean’ diet in the Frogs (Ran.939-44). Yet it is not just Aristophanes who engages in such a critical discourse on ‘thinness’, for Strattis also mocks Sannyrion by calling him a ‘skeleton’ on account of his leanness (διὰ τὴν ἰσχνότητα, fr.21), while Sannyrion in turn mocks Meletus as ‘the corpse from the Lenaeum’ (fr.2), a likely jibe at the tragic poet’s allegedly emaciated appearance. Comedy thus seems to have taken great pleasure in mocking 152. Cf. Wright (2012:137-8). 153. Cf. too Socrates’ corpse-like pupils,as emaciated as Spartan prisoners (Nub.187). The Socratic Chaerephon is also repeatedly mocked for his allegedly pale appearance, attributed to his unhealthy indoor life of study (Ar.Av.1296, 1564, fr.584; Eupolis fr.253); the scholion on Pl.Ap.20e (which quotes Ar.fr.584) explicitly calls him ἰσχνός.

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various intellectuals and poets for their skinniness (cf. Aelian VH 10.6). It is likely, however, that much of this comic criticism is not aimed directly at the targets’ actual real-life physical condition, but rather their intricate and carefully crafted intellectual output, their devotion to which, it is implied, compromises their physical well-being. Λεπτότης and ἰσχνότης, therefore, seem to have been central features of metaphorical comic mockery, not just limited to the Euripides of the Frogs. In Hellenistic poetry, by contrast, λεπτότης is a repeatedly celebrated virtue, appearing not just in the Aetiaprologue, but also in a host of other texts, including Callimachus’ famous praise of Aratus’ Phaenomena: the poet’s sleepless nights of toil produce fine and subtle verses, not a frail and emaciated shadow of a man.154 By contrast, it is chunky and weighty poetry that Callimachus dismisses, like Antimachus’ ‘fat’ Lyde (παχὺ γράμμα, fr.398; cf. πάχιστον, Aet.fr.1.23). In realigning the evaluative balance in favour of λεπτότης, Hellenistic poets thus appear to have gone against the whole comic tradition of criticism, simultaneously adopting and reversing their models in one bold swoop. Of course, Philetas likely played a decisive role in this positive reassessment of λεπτότης, a figure who seems to have been similarly mocked for thinness, even allegedly needing to insert lead into his shoes to avoid being swept away.155 Yet, regardless of who initiated the paradigm shift, it is clear, as Wright has noted, that Hellenistic poets transformed “the comedian’s ambivalent and ludicrous use of this imagery into a more serious and committed statement of literary belief, making it into ‘a triumphant apologia for the “new poetics”’, rather than an elaborate joke.”156 As in the case of poetic craftsmanship, Hellenistic poets redeemed and revalidated 154. λεπταὶ ῥήσεις (56.3-4 HE[1299-1300] = AP9.507 = 27 Pf.). I remain unconvinced by Tsantsanoglou’s attempt to read ambivalence into this epigram (2009: 75-87) and his suggestion that λεπτός can sometimes have negative connotations in Hellenistic poetry, such as ‘overparticular’ or ‘pedantic’ (2009: 59). See too λεπταλέην (Aet.fr.1.24); λεπτολóγος (Ptolemy, SH 712); λεπτῇ φροντíδι (Leonidas 101.1-2 HE [2573-4] = AP 9.25); Aratus’ ΛΕΠΤΗ acrostic at Phaen.783-7; λεπτή in Posidippus 1.4 A-B; and λεπτόν in Hedylus 5.2 HE [1854]. In Hermesianax’s Leontion, even Homer’s rugged Ithaca has become λεπτήν (fr.7.29, p.98 Powell = fr.3.29 Lightfoot)! Of course, λεπτότης remains only one facet of the Hellenistic aesthetic: see Porter (2011). 155. Aelian VH 9.14 (note especially λεπτότατον); cf. Ath.12.552b (λεπτότερος) and Ael. VH 10.6 (ἐς λεπτότητα). Cf. too the depiction of Philetas as a frail old man in Hermesianax (fr.7.77-8, p.100 Powell = fr.3.77-8 Lightfoot) and an ‘elder full of cares’ in Posidippus 63.5-6 A-B (ἀκρομέριμνον … πρ]έσβυν). There has been much discussion about whether these anecdotes are simply standard comic criticism or actually reflect something more about Philetas’ own poetic preferences. See e.g. Cameron (1995: 488-93) and Bing (2009: 11-32). 156. Wright (2012:139), quoting Hopkinson (1988: 90-1), although perhaps too simplistically attributing this all to Callimachus alone.

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a key metaphor of comic criticism, simultaneously drawing upon, and yet inverting, comic precedent: a typically Hellenistic mixture of tradition and innovation.

3. Conclusions Hellenistic poetry’s debts to Old Comedy have long been underappreciated by scholars who belittle the relevance and significance of the theatre in the Hellenistic world. As I demonstrated in my introduction, however, drama continued to flourish throughout Hellenistic society as an important marker of Greek identity and cultural prestige, both within and beyond the royal courts; and Ptolemaic Alexandria, in particular, appears to have been saturated with references to and discussions of drama, thanks in no small part to the Ptolemies’ active patronage of dramatic performance and scholarship. In such a climate, it is unsurprising to find that Attic Old Comedy played an influential role in the development of Hellenistic poetry, as both a precedent and a model. There are two main conclusions to draw from this study. The first is one of literary history, challenging the traditional and still-lingering conception of Hellenistic poetry as a rupture with the literary past. Much of what is often thought distinctively ‘Hellenistic’ can in fact be shown to have clear old comic precedent: Old Comedy, just like Hellenistic poetry, is heavily intertextual (even to the point of re-appropriating Homeric hapaxlegomena); engages in frequent generic manipulation; displays a strong interest in literary history; emphasises its own literary and metrical innovations; and displays a self-conscious awareness of the tensions between textuality and performance. Even though Old Comedy features rarely in any list of Hellenistic precursors, therefore, its literate poetics demonstrate more than ever that the dawning of the Hellenistic age saw no radical departure from the poetry that had come before. The second conclusion is one of direct reception and intertextuality: Old Comedy was a more important model for Hellenistic poets than is often acknowledged, a realisation that has often been obscured by the far-reaching shadow of Aristophanes’ Frogs. Yet in their agonistic selffashioning, the old comedians were a prime model for Callimachus’ defensive literary programme, while their elaborate repertoire of literarycritical terminology provided material which Hellenistic poets could both appropriate and systematically invert, redeeming the negative comic metaphors of ‘craftsmanship’ and ‘thinness’ as positive paradigms for their own poetics. What I hope should now be clear is that Hellenistic

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poetry’s direct debts to Old Comedy extend well beyond the famous literary agonof the Frogs.157 As a final comment, however, it is perhaps worth highlighting the conspicuous absence of Menander in this study: the emphasis on Old Comedy here is not so much an intentional choice, as a reflection of the differences between ‘New’ and ‘Old’ Comedy. The very nature of Old Comedy made it a particularly suitable model for Hellenistic poets: agonistic, literary-critical and self-consciously intertextual. Yet the changes that comedy gradually underwent over the course of the fourth century shifted focus away from many of these features. This is, of course, not to deny the sophistication and complexities of Menander’s plays, where careful manipulation of the audience’s expectations and tragic parody can still be found,158 nor of Middle Comedy, where many of these features are still visible in some form;159 but by the time of ‘New Comedy’, the strong impression of a combative individual author behind the drama had been lost. It was rather the old comedians, and perhaps especially their self-consciously professed epigonality in relation to tragedy, which provided a key model for Hellenistic poets in their own negotiations with the earlier literary tradition. REFERENCES Acosta-Hughes, B., 2002, Polyeideia:TheIambiofCallimachusandtheArchaic IambicTradition.California. ―, 2010, “The Prefigured Muse: Rethinking a Few Assumptions on Hellenistic Poetics”. In: J.J. Clauss & M. Cuypers (eds.), ACompaniontoHellenistic Literature. Oxford, 81-91. ―, 2012, “‘Nor When a Man Goes to Dionysus’ Holy Contests’ (Theocritus 17.112): Outlines of Theatrical Performance in Theocritus”. In: K. Bosher (ed.), TheateroutsideAthens:DramainGreekSicilyandSouthItaly. Cambridge, 391–408. Acosta-Hughes, B. & S.A. Stephens, 2002, “Rereading Callimachus’ “Aetia” Fragment 1”. CPh 97, 238-55. 157. Given these similarities, it might also be worth asking whether recent parallels drawn between Roman New Comedy and Hellenistic poetry could not be traced further back to Old Comedy itself, especially the parallels drawn between Terence’s prologues and the Aetia prologue: see e.g. Hunter (1985: 32) and Sharrock (2009: 78-83). Sharrock’s study of Terence’s elaborate intertextuality is also inviting (2009: 205-32). 158. See esp. Petrides (2014) on New Comedy’s rich range of literary and theatrical techniques, both intertextual and ‘intervisual’, esp. pp. 49-82 on its relation to tragedy (with further bibliography at 59 n.103). One should also not dismiss the strong influence of New Comedy on Hellenistic ‘mime’ poetry, especially that of Theocritus and Herodas. 159. See e.g. Wright (2013); and also Konstantakos (2003-2004) for a diachronic survey of the changes in comic self-criticism and reflexivity.

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Nervegna, S., 2013, Menander in Antiquity: The Contexts of Reception. Cambridge. Nesselrath, H.-G., 1990, Die attische mittlere Komödie: ihre Stellung in der antikenLiteraturkritikundLiteraturgeschichte. Berlin. ―, 2000, “Eupolis and the Periodization of Athenian Comedy”. In: D. Harvey & J. Wilkins (eds.), The Rivals of Aristophanes. Studies in Athenian Old Comedy. London, 233-246. ―, 2014, “Ancient Comedy and Historiography: Aristophanes Meets Herodotus”. In: Olson, S.D. (ed.), AncientComedyandReception:EssaysinHonorof JeffreyHenderson. Berlin/Boston, 51-61. Newiger, H.-J., 1980, “War and Peace in the comedy of Aristophanes”. YClS26, 219-237. Newman, J.K., 1967, AugustusandtheNewPoetry. Brussels. Nieddu, G.F., 2004, “A Poet at Work: The Parody of Helen in the Thesmophoriazusae”. GRBS 44, 331-360. Nünlist, R., 1998, Poetologische Bildersprache in der frühgriechischen Dichtung. Stuttgart. Olson, S.D. (ed.), 2002, Aristophanes:Acharnians. Oxford. –––– (ed.), 2007, BrokenLaughter. Oxford. O’Sullivan, N., 1992, Alcidamas, Aristophanes, and the Beginnings of Greek StylisticTheory. Stuttgart. Pébarthe, C., 2006, Cité, démoractie et écriture. Histoire de l’alphabétisation d’Athènesàl’époqueclassique. Paris. Pelling, C.B.R., 2000, LiteraryTextsandtheGreekHistorian.London. Petrides, A.K., 2014, Menander,NewComedyandtheVisual. Cambridge. Pinto, P.M., 2013, “Men and books in fourth-century BC Athens”. In: J. König et al. (eds.) AncientLibraries. Cambridge, 85–95. Pfeiffer, R., 1949-1953, Callimachus.2 vols. Oxford. ―, 1968, History of Classical Scholarship: from the beginnings to the end of theHellenisticage. Oxford. Provenzale, F. (2009) FilicodiCorcira:testimonianzeeframmenti.Introduzione,testocritico,traduzioneecommento. Ph.D. diss., Roma Tre. Poliakoff, M., 1980, “Nectar, Springs and the Sea: Critical Terminology in Pindar and Callimachus”. ZPE39: 41-47. Porter, J.I., 2011, “Against λεπτότης: rethinking Hellenistic aesthetics”. In: A. Erskine & L. Llewellyn-Jones (eds.), Creating a Hellenistic World. Swansea, 271-312. Powell, J.U. (ed.), 1925, CollectaneaAlexandrina. Oxford. Rau, P., 1967, Paratragodia: Untersuchung einer komischen Form des Aristophanes. Zetemata, 45. Munich. Reinsch-Werner, H., 1976, CallimachusHesiodicus:DieRezeptionderhesiodischenDichtungdurchKallimachosvonKyrene. Berlin. Reitzenstein, E., 1931, “Zur Stiltheorie des Kallimachos”. In: E. Fränkel & H. Fränkel (eds.), FestchriftRichardReitzensteinzum2.April1931dargebracht.Leipzig/Berlin, 25-40. Rengakos, A., 1992, “Homerische Wörter bei Kallimachos”. ZPE 94: 21-47. ―, 1993, DerHomertextunddiehellenistischenDichter. Stuttgart. ―, 1994a, ApolloniosRhodiosunddieantikeHomererklärung. Munich. ―, 1994b, “Lykophron als Homererklärer”. ZPE 102, 111-130.

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―, 2008, “Apollonius Rhodius as a Homeric Scholar”. In: T. D. Papanghelis & A. Rengakos (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Apollonius Rhodius. Second, RevisedEdition. Leiden, 243-266. Revermann, M., 2006, ComicBusiness:Theatricality,DramaticTechnique,and PerformanceContextsofAristophanicComedy. Oxford. Rice, E.E., 1983, TheGrandProcessionofPtolemyPhiladelphus. Oxford. Richardson, N.J., 1985, “Pindar and Later Literary Criticism”. PLLS 5, 383-401. Romano, A.J., 2011, “Callimachus and Contemporary Criticism”. In: B. AcostaHughes et al. (eds.), Brill’sCompaniontoCallimachus. Leiden, 309-328. Rosen, R.M., 1988, OldComedyandtheIambographicTradition. Atlanta. ―, 1997, “Performance and Textuality in Aristophanes’ Clouds”. YJC, 10, 397-421. ―, 2000, “Cratinus’ Pytine and the construction of the comic self”. In: D. Harvey & J. Wilkins (eds.), The Rivals of Aristophanes. Studies in Athenian Old Comedy. London, 23-39. ―, 2004, “Aristophanes’ Frogs and the Contest of Homer and Hesiod”. TAPhA 134, 295-322. ―, 2007, “The Hellenistic Epigrams on Archilochus and Hipponax”. In: P. Bing & J.S. Bruss (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Hellenistic Epigram. Leiden, 459-476. ―, 2013, “Iambos, comedy and the question of generic affiliation”. In: E. Bakola et al. (eds.), GreekComedyandtheDiscourseofGenres. Cambridge, 81-97. Ruffell, I., 2002, “A total write-off: Aristophanes, Cratinus, and the rhetoric of comic competition”. CQ 52, 138-63. Scharffenberger, E.W., 2007, “Deinon Eribremetas: The Sound and Sense of Aeschylus in Aristophanes’ Frogs”. CW 100, 229-249. Schmitt, R., 1970, Die Nominalbildung in den Dichtungen des Kallimachos vonKyrene: Ein Beitrag zur Stellung seines Wortschatzes innerhalb des Griechischen. Wiesbaden. Schmitz, T.A., 1999, “‘I Hate All Common Things’: The Reader’s Role in Callimachus’ AetiaPrologue”. HSPh 99, 151-78. Scodel, R., 1980, “Hesiod Redivivus”. GRBS 21, 301-320. Sens, A., 2002, “The Corpus Asclepiadeum and Early Epic”. In: M. A. Harder et al. (eds.), Hellenistic Epigrams. Hellenistica Groningana, 6. Leuven, 201-214. ―, 2010, “Hellenistic Tragedy and Lycophron’s Alexandra”. In: J.J. Claus & M. Cuypers (eds.), ACompaniontoHellenisticLiterature. Oxford, 297-313. ―, 2015, “Hedylus (4 and 5 Gow–Page) and Callimachean Poetics”. Mnemosyne 68, 40–52. Sharrock, A., 2009, ReadingRomanComedy. Cambridge. Sider, D., 2001, “‘As is the Generation of Leaves’ in Homer, Simonides, Horace and Stobaeus”. In: D. Boedeker & D. Sider (eds.), The New Simonides: ContextsofPraiseandDesire. New York, 272-288. Sidwell, K., 1995, “Poetic rivalry and the caricature of comic poets: Cratinus’ Pytine and Aristophanes’ Wasps”. In: A. Griffiths (ed.), StageDirections: EssaysinAncientDramainHonourofE.W.Handley. London, 56–80. ―, 2000, “From Old to Middle to New? Aristotle’s Poetics and the History of Athenian Comedy”. In: D. Harvey & J. Wilkins (eds.), The Rivals of Aristophanes.StudiesinAthenianOldComedy. London, 247-258.

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Silk, M.S., 2000a, AristophanesandtheDefinitionofComedy.Oxford. ―, 2000b, “Aristophanes versus the rest: comic poetry in Old Comedy”. In: D. Harvey & J. Wilkins (eds.), The Rivals of Aristophanes. Studies in AthenianOldComedy. London, 299-315. Sistakou, E., 2007, “Glossing Homer: Homeric Exegesis in Early Third Century Epigram”. In: P. Bing & J. S. Bruss (eds.), Brill’sCompaniontoHellenisticEpigram. Leiden, 391-408. ―, 2009, “Callimachus Hesiodicus Revisited”. In: F. Montanari et al. (eds.), Brill’sCompaniontoHesiod. Leiden, 219-252. ―, 2016, TragicFailures:AlexandrianResponsestoTragedyandtheTragic. Berlin/Boston. Slater, N. W., 1996, “Literacy and Old Comedy”. In: I. Worthington (ed.), Voice intoText:OralityandLiteracyinAncientGreece. New York, 99-112. Sommerstein, A.H., 1996, Aristophanes:Frogs. Warminster. ―, 2004, “Harassing the Satirist: The Alleged Attempts to Prosecute Aristophanes”. In: I. Sluiter & R.M. Rosen (eds.), Free Speech in Classical Antiquity. Leiden 145-174. ―, 2005, “A lover of his art: the art-form as wife and mistress in Greek poetic imagery”. In: E. Stafford & J. Herrin (eds.), PersonificationintheGreek world:fromantiquitytoByzantium. Aldershot, 161-171. ―, 2009, TalkingaboutLaughterandotherstudiesinGreekComedy. Oxford. Steiner, D.T., 1994, TheTyrant’sWrit:MythsandImagesofWritinginAncient Greece. Princeton. ―, 2015, “The Poetics of Sound: Callimachus’ Reading of Pindar Fragment 70B S.-M.”. CPh 110, 99-123. Stephens, S.A., 2011, “Introduction”. In: B. Acosta-Hughes et al. (eds.), Brill’s CompaniontoCallimachus. Leiden, 1-19. Stern, J., 1979, “Herodas’ Mimiamb 6”. GRBS 20, 247–254. Stewart, S., 2008, “Emending Aratus’ Insomnia: Callimachus Epigr.27”. Mnemosyne 61, 586–600. ―, 2010, “‘Apollo of the Shore’: Apollonius of Rhodes and the Acrostic Phenomenon”. CQ 60, 401–405. Storey, I.C., 2003, Eupolis:PoetofOldComedy. Oxford. ―, 2011, FragmentsofOldComedy.3 vols. London/Cambridge, MA. Strecker, K., 1884, De Lycophrone Euphronio Eratosthene comicorum interpretibus. Diss. Greifswald. Taplin, O., 1986, “Fifth-Century Tragedy and Comedy: A Synkrisis”. JHS106, 163-174. ―, 1996, “Comedy and the Tragic”. In: M. Silk (ed.), TragedyandtheTragic. Oxford, 188-202. Telò, M., 2014, “Aristophanes vs Typhon: Co(s)mic Rivalry, Voice and Temporality in Knights”. Ramus43, 25-44. Thomas, R.F., 1979, “New Comedy, Callimachus, and Roman Poetry”. HSPh 83, 179-206. Tsantsanoglou, K., 2009, “The λεπτότης of Aratus”. TCS1, 55-89. Von Möllendorff, P., 1996/7, “Αἰσχύλον δ᾽αἱρήσομαι – Der ‘neue Aischylos’ in den Fröschen des Aristophanes”. WJA21, 129-151. Wells, J., 1923, StudiesinHerodotus.Oxford. West, M.L., 2007, Indo-EuropeanPoetryandMyth. Oxford.

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SPECTATORS-IN-PERFORMANCE IN THEOCRITUS’ ADONIAZUSAE1 Maria PAPADOPOULOU Συνοίκιά γε ταῦτα ῥυπαρά. ἀνάγκη γὰρ τὴν σύνοδον γίνεσθαιπαμμίγουςὄχλου. This is a filthy public celebration. For it is inevitable that the crowd will consist of people of all sorts. Athenaeus Deipn. 7.276c = FGrH 241 F

1. The concept of ‘performanceʼ As the quotation introducing this paper suggests, Athenaeus mentions that a Ptolemaic queen (Arsinoe II or III) did not particularly approve of the lagynophoria festival organized by king Ptolemy II or III: she disliked it being an occasion when and where an indiscriminate mix of people came together to drink non-stop throughout the night, while informally sitting and eating together. Theocritus, on the other hand, praises a Ptolemaic queen (Arsinoe II) who endorses the invitation of crowds inside her palace in order to celebrate the festival of Adonis. Instead of lagynophorein, adoniazein in Arsinoe’s version2 was a place where a vast Alexandrian crowd could watch and listen to what the queen had carefully selected and prepared for them. As the title of this paper suggests, this paper deals with Theocritusʼ Adoniazusae in relation to the concept of spectators performing while being spectators, i.e. themselves becoming the performers or agents of the performance. First I will define the terms ‘spectator’ and ‘performance’ and second I will try to show their relevance to the structure, content and poetic method in Theocritus’ idyll 15.

1. I would like to acknowledge the generous funding of the European Union Marie Curie Actions, project no. 657898 Chlamys. The Cultural Biography of a Garment in HellenisticEgypt.Citations for Theocritus follow Gow (1965 = 1952, vol.1). 2. The Adonia, too, was considered a type of festival where licentious behaviour was induced and tolerated in Plato’s Phaedr. 276b and in comedy(Lambert 2001: 89).

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According to the Merriam Webster Dictionary performance is defined as:3 1a: the execution of an action; b: something accomplished (synonym of deed, feat); 2: the fulfilment of a claim, promise, or request (synonym of implementation); 3a: the action of representing a character in a play; b: a public presentation or exhibition; 4a: the ability to perform (synonym οf efficiency); b: the manner in which a mechanism performs; 5: the manner of reacting to stimuli (synonym of behaviour); 6: the linguistic behaviour of an individual (synonym of parole); also: the ability to speak a certain language, cf. competence.

The Greek equivalents for performance in the sense 1aare ἀπόδοσις4 and ἀσχόλημα,5 in the senses 3a and b are διασκευή,6 and θέα,7 for ‘tragedy performance’ τραγῳδοί, for ‘comedy performance’ παίγνιον and κωμῳδοί.8 Woodhouse’s English – Greek Dictionary performance, performer and spectator gives the following equivalents:9 performance: act of performing: πρᾶξις act done: πρᾶγμα,πρᾶξις,ἔργον feat:ἀγώνισμα performer: one who does a thing: πράκτωρ actor: ὑποκριτής skilled artist: τεχνίτης spectator spectator at a show: θεατής,θεωρός be a spectator: θεᾶσθαι,θεωρεῖν

Performance has the following meanings in two databases of Engish: Wordnet, which contains 117, 000 synsets, i.e. sets of cognitive synonyms) and Framenet.

3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/performance LSJ sense 2. LSJ ἀσχολέω II. LSJ9 sense VI. LSJ9 2 (spectacle) and III (seat in theatre). LSJ9 III 2. Accessible and searchable online: https://www.lib.uchicago.edu/efts/Woodhouse/

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Performancein Wordnet:10 (n) performance: public presentation a dramatic or musical entertainment the act of presenting a play or a piece of music or other entertainment execution, carrying out, carrying into action the act of performing; of doing something successfully; using knowledge, as distinguished from merely possessing it any recognized accomplishment operation, functioning process or manner of functioning or operating

Framenet is a lexical database of c. 10, 000 word senses of the English language.11 It is based on C. J. Fillmoreʼs FrameSemantics and the idea that the meaning of most words can be better understood on the basis of a description of a type of event, termed semantic frame, which includes a number of participants, entities, and relations. The text in the box that follows describes the Frame of Performance: The Performers, together with behind the scenes Personnel, execute a Performance according to a Script and/or Score. The purpose of the Performance is to create an experience for an Audience, who then judge its merits. Performances may be in many different Mediums and be of various Types. This frame is very elaborate in modern society and there are a number of traditions and practices typically (but not necessarily) related to Performances: The Performance is preceded by many practice sessions in which the Performers and other Personnel attempt to improve the quality and/or fidelity of their individual and collective performances to the Script and/or Score. The Audience members pay a fee to experience the Performance. The Performers (and Personnel) receive payment for contributing to the Performance. Often there are other individuals involved in the specifically financial aspects of the Performance and Performers. Critics act as part of the Audience and then write reviews that evaluate the merits of the Performance, describing the Performance to other potential Audience members. Due to the high quality of previous Performances, Performers can become famous, i.e. well known and liked. Those who like them particularly well become fans of the Performer.

10. Accessed online: http://wordnet.princeton.edu/ 11. Accessible and searchable online: https://framenet.icsi.berkeley.edu/fndrupal/ IntroPage

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In modern theatrical theory performance is defined as any piece of behavior or action which is in some way marked off, framed.12 The framing enables us to comprehend it as an entity, and think about it in clear terms, such as where and when it happens, who is present, how it unfolds and perhaps what is its purpose, or indeed whether it has a purpose. The performance implies the physical presence of both the performer and the spectator. The performer does. The spectator sees what is being performed. He/she is the observer of an event, someone attending a performance, a spectacle. The meaning of the word spectacle is quite transparent by virtue of its etymology (specto, spectare)13. The same key concept is expressed by the Greek word for ‘spectator’ θεατής and its cognates: θεάομαι, θέατρον. The most important convention the spectators subscribe to is that the performance is mimesis. The spectator does not belong on stage. He/she is a member of the audience. The etymon of the word ‘audience’ implies something to do with hearing or listening. ‘Audience’ is a singularetantum, i.e. a noun which only appears in the singular. This comes with the assumption that what this nouns signifies is a constructed unity made up of plurality and diversity, an aggregate of individuals that give up their plurality in order to create a whole that gathers in order to be both mentally and physically present at a spectacle. There is a series of conventions that govern the relationship between the performer and the audience. An exhaustive list is provided by the Austrian playwright Peter Handke in his ingenious 1966 play (sometimes called anti-play) entitled Offendingtheaudience. Handke eschews theatricality, by seeking to represent nothing by the subversion of theatrical convention. His characters directly address the audience throughout the play: “Sie sitzen in Reihen. Sie bilden ein Muster. Sie sitzen in einer gewissen Ordnung. Ihre Gesichter zeigen in eine gewissen Richtung. Sie sitzen im gleichen Abstand voneinander. Sie sind ein Auditorium. Sie bilden eine Einheit. Sie sind eine Zuhörerschaft, die sich im Zuschauerraum befindet. Ihre Gedanken sind frei. Sie machen sich noch Ihre eigenen Gedanken. Sie sehen uns sprechen und Sie hören uns sprechen. Ihre Atemzüge werden einander ähnlich. Ihre Atemzüge passen sich den Atemzügen an, mit denen wir zu ihnen sprechen. Sie atmen, wie wir sprechen. Wir und Sie bilden allmählich eine Einheit.”14

12. 13. miroir 14.

Leach (2008: 6). This etymology has lead Kowan (1975: 9) to create the etymological pun théâtre(theatre-mirror/spectacle). Handke (1966: 15-16).

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Here is the text in English: “You are sitting in rows. You form a pattern. You are sitting in a certain order. You are facing in a certain direction. You are sitting equal distance from one another. You are an audience. You form a unit. You are auditors and spectators in an auditorium. Your thoughts are free. You can still make up your own mind. You see us speaking and you hear us speaking. You are beginning to breathe in one and the same rhythm. You are breathing, while we are speaking. You and we gradually form a unity.”

Taking into account the definitions above, Theocritus’ ladies of Syracuse that are now Alexandrian expatriates, are both spectators, i.e. members of the audience, and performers, i.e. agents of the dialogic performance which opens the poem.

2. The structure and agents of performance Τheocritus’ idyll 15 figures prominently as exemplifying the relevance of the notion of performance in Hellenistic poetry. This paper aims to show that there are in fact multiple layers of performance at work within the poem. The idyll has received much attention by scholars focusing on its content, its place within Theocritus’ pastoral world (whether it is an urban non-bucolic mime or an urban pastoral),15 its literary genre (balancing mime, epic and comedy), and its gendered gaze on everyday life in Alexandria. Scholars have categorized this poem under epic, because of its Homeric dactyls, under mime because of the poet’s connection to Sophron’s of Syracuse prose mimes, and further subcategorized it as literary mime to draw attention to the intertextuality with other genres, and as urban mime16 emphasizing its setting or urban pastoral,

15. Krevans (2006). Van Groningen’s claim (1958: 297) that bucolic poetry is “la musique et l’amour” also applies to this poem, even though not as its central theme. 16. Mime is the primary genre influencing this poem. The ‘urban’ content of idyll 15 was first mentioned in Horstmann (1976: 18); Goldhill (1991: 274). Together with idylls 2 and 14, it represents life in an urban context, that of Alexandria under the second Ptolemy. The scholia tell us, as mentioned above, that Idyll 2 was based on a mime by Sophron. Griffiths (1979: 109) notes that Theocritus, followed Sophron, who wrote men’s mimes (ἀνδρεῖοι) and women’s mimes (γυναικεῖοι), in writing a mime praising Ptolemy II (Idyll 14), and a mime praising Arsinoe II (Idyll 15). Hordern (2002; 2004: 8-10) contests the widely-held belief that Sophronʼs mime was fully dramatic, and suggests sympotic performance. For Hunter (1996: 119) Theocritean mime follows literary models and this one in particulal offers a mimetic representation of ‘realityʼ. Kutzko (2008) identifies the tension between the realism of mime and poetic artifice, noting that the audience is made to pause and acknowledge it.

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placing the emphasis on its connection to features of the bucolic genre other than where it is set. Theocritus’ project is not to break but to represent dramatic convention. He does his best to focus on the spectators, as well as on the actual performance. The scholia report that the poem is modeled on a mime of Sophron, now lost, titled SpectatorsattheIsthmianFestival (Fr. 10 K-A). If this is so, Theocritus will perhaps have imitated Sophron’s technique of supplying a description of a scene via a conversation. Tragedies had similar scenes (cf. Eur. Ion 184‒218); the Sicilian comic writer Epicharmus wrote a play entitled Spectators, in which bystanders discuss dedicated objects at the Pythian festival. Herodas, Theocritus’ contemporary, authored a poem thematically related to one. In it two women accompanied by their servants visit a temple of Asclepius and comment on the works of art that are on display.17 In contrast to these texts by Sophron and Herodas, Theocritus’ poem stresses the dramatic, theatrical element rather than the visual. If, following Klooster (2011: 5-10), one were to distinguish Hellenistic poets into poets of the past and poets of the present, one would safely say that Theocritus in this poem posits himself as a poet of the present addressing a patronal audience. The title of Theocritus’ idyll 15 points at the prime characters and the main event taking place within the poem: the poem is about two women worshippers of Adonis, who instead of practicing the customary rites connected with this foreign, but Hellenized god privately, attend the festival of Adonis (Adonia) hosted by the queen at her palace. The tense of the participle (Adoniazusae) implies that the ‘action’ unfolds ‘here and now’: they meet, they chat, until they are ready to leave the house and go to celebrate Adonis at the royal palace, they see the beautiful exhibits there, the singer sings, then they realize it is getting late and they need to get back home. This is the ‘plot’ in a nutshell. But the poem is more complicated than that: as the ‘story’ unfolds there are several ‘deviations’ from the central thematic core of the poem which is the performance of the Adonis song by a lady singer from Argos in the Peloponnese. The song is prefaced by a first, longer, part (verses 1-99) which presents what happens before the actual performance and a final part, the shortest of the three (verses 145-149), which ‘sealsʼ the performance with the wish for a re-performance the following year. There are no nonmimetic narrative parts in this poem. The first part is a continuous dialogue between the two Sicilian women conversing in dactylic hexameters, 17. On Theocritus in connection to Herodas see Stanzel (1998).

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mocking and blaming their husbands behind their back, reprimanding their slaves, as they are getting ready to go to the royal palace where a big show sponsored by the queen is on. Their dialogue is interspersed with a series of shorter episodes where the tone varies, from very polite to fully abusive. The second part is the Adonis song performed by the woman from Argos. The third part is merely a few closing lines spoken by one of them. Theocritus opts for the use of dialogue for part one and direct first person speech for parts two and three; the song, a lyric hymn to Aphrodite and Adonis, is quoted verbatim. No reported speech is employed. There is no omniscient narrator, no ‘personale Erzählsituation,’ where the narrative voice is focused primarily on the characters, no ‘Ich-Erzähler’ or ‘authorial narrator’, who is usually not involved in the action of the narrative, but relates events from a distance. Most characters in the poem are female: the leading roles are held by Gorgo and Praxinoa, whose dialogue dominates the first part, their servants (who remain silent), and Praxinoa’s baby son. Their husbands are not present, but are discussed and derided in the manner of attic comedy. The second part is sung by a female soloist. It can be seen as a monoidia, an ode for a single voice, often a mournful song, a dirge. The third part is a short soliloquy by Gorgo, the first and last voice heard in the poem. The most complicated part in terms of characters is the first one, as it also presents four nonprotagonist roles: some silent, e.g. the horse driver directly addressed to in the second person,18 some vocal, e.g. the first man they meet, the second man, and the old lady, who ‘play’ very small ‘parts’, one to two lines long each. Drama requires three voices per ‘episode’.19 Mime companies were more numerous and also employed non-professional actors (‘the mimic chorusʼ) for particular performances. In this idyll, the prime characters, highlighted as thespectators of the Adonia festival, are female20 and have at least two things in common with the poet; they also come from Sicily and they also are expats in Alexandria, where the festival is supposed to be taking place. They certainly do not live in luxury. He gives them a distinct female identity: they are both married. Gorgo’s child is a baby or a toddler. One may well assume, that they are the mouthpiece of the 18. See v. 52 (Ἄνερφίλε, μή με πατήσῃς. “My dear sir do not tread on me!”). 19. It is constant in tragedy, and perhaps comedy had a fourth actor in the first-second century AD. 20. Idyll 2, also considered an urban mime, and idyll 15 are the only ones with female protagonists, but the female element in Idyll 2 is dominant. See Acosta-Hughes (2010: 71) on Theocritus’ idyll 2 drawing on Sappho.

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poet.21 Their dialogue takes up almost two thirds of the poem. The poet weaves the plot (storyline) around them. They are singled out out of the massive audience, which is also watching the performance. Everything Theocritus’ readers find out about this performance is thanks to the physical presence of these two women, where the performance took place. The singularity of the audience is, to a great extent, disrupted by the dialogue these two engage in, despite the fact that they are members of an audience, which is described as a mob.22 Neither lady has anything good to say about this crowd. It is, to them, nothing but a mob pushing and shoving like pigs (73), an unidentifiable entity comprising people independent of gender, age, ethnicity, language etc., whose common purpose for being there is to attend this magnificent performance.

3. Framing the solo This is a song-within-a-poem performance.23 Theocritus provides a lot of background information on when, where, and why (on what occasion) this performance takes place. The song is sung at the royal Ptolemaic palace as part of a religious festival also known in different parts of the Hellenic world in honour of Adonis and Aphrodite. The poet frames the performance in a number of ways that provide the spatio-temporal geo-historical context in lieu of stage directions.24 He binds the performance to his text and his text to the context, and does not use reported speech. Parts 1 and 3 21. I am going to attempt an analogical reading of this poem. On mimetic vs analogical readings of bucolic poetry cf. Gutzwiller (1991: 18): “a mimetic reader attributes what is said in the poem solely or primarily to the voice of the character, so that the reader’s inability to integrate surface analogies into rationalized meaning is explained as the result of the character’s naiveté. An analogical reading, on the other hand, reconstructs analogies to produce meaning. The analogical reader identifies the voice of the character closely with the voice of the poet, thus associating reconstructed meanings with authorial intention and often deemphasizing the gap between naive and sophisticated levels of speaking”. 22. See verses 5 (πολλῶ μὲν ὄχλω “big crowd”), 44 (ὅσσος ὄχλος “what a crowd”), 59 (ὄχλος πολὺς “big crowd”), 65 (ὅσσος ὅμιλος “what a crowd”), 66 (θεσπέσιος “massive”), 72 (ὄχλος ἀλαθέως·ὠθεῦνθ’ ὥσπερ ὕες “it’s a real mob, pushing and shoving like hogs”). The mob of Alexandria was notorious for its riots, see Fischer-Bovet (2014: 94) on the role of the army in Alexandrian riots; see Barry (1992) on the riot of 203 BC. 23. Surely Theocritus was a poet, but also the composer of the songs that he incorporates in this as well as other idylls. As Engdahl (2016), member of the Nobel Prize for Literature Swedish Academy Committee put it:‘‘In a distant past, all poetry was sung or tunefully recited, poets were rhapsodes, bards, troubadours; ‘lyricsʼ comes from ‘lyreʼ.’’ 24. Performance signs, actor’s siglaand stage directions are very rarely found on texts. See Gammacurta’s (2006) analysis of papyri of dramatic texts from the third century BC to the third century AD.

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frame the second part, which is the actual performance of a soloist singer. There is unity of time (starting with Gorgo reaching Praxinoa’s home and ending less than a minute after the song ends), and unity of space (Alexandria at the time of Ptolemy II). Theocritus’ dramaturgical decisions have Gorgo cross the streets of the city he naturally wanted this poem to be most read and made the choice of this name, which implies that she crossed the streets at a great speed. Just enough for the poet to compose an epic in a concise form. Gorgo is the person who sets the time frame, in trying to make Praxinoa speed up her preparations before going out, telling her that it’s time to hush and listen to the song. It is the voice Theocritus chooses to open and close the poem with. The musical performance is accompanied by an artistic exhibition of fine textiles displaying scenes on the same mythological topic.25 No object is there by accident. This representation of a group of objects that are in dialogue with one another and as a whole produce a “scene” is by no means coincidental. Everything diplayed has been carefully stylized and fashioned. The whole event is offered by the queen and is open to all. According to the poem this open event has caught the attention of the Alexandrians, who flood into the palace to watch it. And the word is out that this is an excellent, a not-to-miss show, when Gorgo reaches Praxinoa’s home somewhere in the suburbs of Alexandria. Gorgo urges Praxinoa to hurry up and get ready to go see it, because she has heard that the spectacle the queen has put on is worth seeing.26 For Theocritus’ readers this poem is a complete aesthetic experience with words to read, beautiful images to visualize, the voice of the singer performing her solo, the agitated dialogue of the two Adoniazusae dispersed with short comments from onlookers. Before the singer starts singing, Theocritus supplies his readers with a response from another onlooker the readers can identify with: it is a man who is annoyed by their chattering and tells them to stop talking, especially because he finds their accent awful. When the singer starts singing everybody listens with rapt attention. The transition from one scene to the next is natural. The unity of content is also secured by the metric and linguistic form: dactylic hexameters, – even for the lyric part, and language register, i.e. Doric, – even for the part of the man who mocks them for their Doric accent. 25. See Whitehorne (1995); Skinner (2001) suggests that Theocritus alludes to female poets, Erinna in particular, in the description of the tapestry. 26. Vv. 23-4 ἀκούω χρῆμα καλόν τι κοσμεῖν τὰν βασίλισσαν ‘‘I’m told the queen is giving a fine showʼʼ. A literal translation would be ‘I hear…’ (ἀκούω). The active voice is preferable, since it evoques the action of the personaaudiens (the person who listens), which is in fact also the personaloquens (the person who speaks).

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Theocritus offers an early version of ‘a play within a play’. Plays within a play feature a double audience, with some characters arranged as spectators to this event, mirroring the actual world audience. Playswithin-a-play as a model of metatheatre need not always reproduce a complete performance. Similarly, in an eidyllion all the elements the poet intends to blend are administered in small dosages. As Sistakou27 affirms, in connection to Theocritus’ bucolic idylls, “in creating the bucolic cosmos as a theatrical stage where human passions, especially erotic sufferings, are re-enacted by the boukoloi”. It is very likely that the occasion for composing this poem was a spectacle sponsored by Arsinoe II. This is one of the rare occasions in Hellenistic poetry where there is a firm chronological peg lending credence to the historicity of the performance. Around 275 BC Ptolemy II marries his sister Arsinoe II, they stay married for five years or more, until her death in 270 (or 268 BC). It was Philadelphus who conceived of and realized the most important architectural programme in Alexandria since its foundation. He embellished his capital with beautiful Greek buildings: the palace complex which extended along the waterfront from the promontory of Antirrhodos to Cape Lochias28 and included the Mouseion/library, the lighthouse (pharos), the causeway (heptastadion), Alexander’s tomb, the theatre, and the race course in this immense building project. The place the idyll unfolds is Alexandria’s Broucheion, the quarter of the Lagid capital where the palace was. The spectacle offered to the city crowd is sponsored by the queen and takes place at her home which dominated the port of the city. The Mouseion and Alexander’s tomb, known as Sema (meaning ‘signʼ) or Soma (meaning ‘bodyʼ), were in close vicinity. Any performance implies physical presence both of the actors and of the audience, but also a certain distance between them. The performance presented in idyll 15 is mediated through the distal sensory channels (hearing and seeing), as opposed to proximal ones (touching, smelling, and tasting)29 of the two Syracusans. Gorgo says to Praxinoa: letʼs go… see (i.e. watch the performance of the song of) the Adonis (βᾶμες τῶ βασιλῆος …θασόμεναι τὸν Ἄδωνιν (22-23) (my emphasis). Several lines down, when they are finally at the palace, she urges Praxinoa to “come here and look at the tapestries” (78). And when the famous songstress is about to begin, she tells her friend to hush. (σίγη, 27. 28. 29. covers

Sistakou (2016: 224). McKenzie (2007: 173–5). It is only the singer that gives a tactile detail of the scene; she mentions the soft on Adonis and Aphrodite’s bed.

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Πραξινόα, 96). A man standing next to them in the crowd has also tried to silence Praxinoa eight lines before (87-88). There is a deliberate similarity between the epilogue of the song and the epilogue of the poem. Gorgo recapitulates the meaning of the performance: the celebration of Adonis’ return concludes the lamentation for his death. This is the most religious part of this otherwise secular poem. Heroes and demi-gods die, but this death is not a final state; they soon come back to life for a recelebration of their acts and feats. The royal patrons in Alexandria, namely the queen, have achieved the same status as the gods worshipped during the Adonia. Gorgo realizes that she has to give her husband some supper, or he will be angry at her. The performance is over and she has to stop being a spectator mentally and physically connected to this spectacle. Her own performance is also over, as she expresses the hope for a re-performance the following year. The use of the imperative, frequent in ritual discourse, serves to bridge the present with the past and the future.30 Theocritus’ stance seems to follow the same logic with that of contemporary anti-theatre dramaturgy: something was dramatized and performed has come to an end, now it is time return to our normal selves, thoughts and lives. The performing spectators, have to now stop this performance in order to return to their everyday chores. The collective subject present in the plural form of the penultimate word of the poem, the participle χαίροντας (149), recapitulates the emotional reaction to the closing verse of the Argive woman’s song (144). The Adonia were related with wine and all-nights parties, lascivity, profligacy, and were popular with hetairai.31 Theocritus paints a totally different picture: the festival staged by Arsinoe is open to all the people of Alexandria, people from all walks of life. No-one seems to be excluded, but the image of the city as one where law and order reigns, thanks to the king, reinforces the view that the Alexandrian version of the Adonia is much more elevated and grand, for political reasons. The audience is there to listen to a song and look at the image of Adonis; they are watching a stylized mimetic representation of the lamentation of Adonis, but they are not practicing the rites related to Adonis. The transmission of the spectacle is non-dialectic, unidirectional, non-interactive. While this seemed to be an open-doors event, the set-up is carefully chosen so as to create distance. This is counterbalanced by what happens in the first part 30. On the link between Adonia and women’s lamentation see Alexiou (2002: 55-82). 31. In the Adonia practiced by women in Athens and other parts of the Greek world those participating in the ritual would either go up ladders to place the Adonis jars (known as gardens of Adonis). Reitzammer (2016) with relevant bibliography.

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where the (Sicilian women) spectators perform their roles as housewives, wives, mothers. They have to return to the same chores as soon as the performance is over. This adds to the importance of the middle part, which is the moment where the spectators are not performing their own roles. They step out of these roles in order to be the audience to such unique aesthetic experience. Scholars disagree on the aesthetic value of the song, some dismissing it as a deliberate effort to write hymnic poetry badly. The occasional voice of praise for the song is heard, such as Burton’s (1995: 134–54), who suggests that ‘‘what has been seen as ineptitude is instead conscious refinements contributing to the overall effectiveness of a strikingly unconventional hymn” (Burton 1995: 135). Hunter (1996: 123-38) relates some of the scholarly criticism against it and argues against accusations of the Adonis song for vulgarity and triviality. The women, however, do not comment on the quality of the song, only of the quality of the performance of the song. The mundane character of this poem is present throughout it, even in the final lines which can be interpreted as a prayer, where instead of speaking of a fully blown resurrection, which would be much closer to Egyptian belief about life after death, the poem speaks of Adonis’ return, as if it were a mere journey back home. A host of dramatic emotions, including laughter, but also fear and pity for Adonis, are present in the different layers of this Theocritean work. At the end of the poem a sort of ‘catharsis’ is achieved by means of a prayer. Theocritus is responding to the performance staged by the queen by addressing Ptolemy (directly) and Arsinoe (indirectly). The same mode of address in idyll 28, where Theocritus gives a poem and a present to his friend’s wife and addresses his friend directly (2nd person address).32 Gorgoʼs act of praying stands in for a communal act of worship. Arguably this is Theocritus’ interpretation of the poet’s role vis-a-vis the polis, i.e. a prayer for health and well-being of everyone in it. The closing lines of the poem, spoken by Gorgo, mark a sudden and utter change of theme and climate. Scholars have wondered why the sudden ending with no reference whatsoever to the performance. Gorgo merely prays and wishes for Adonis’ return. This is, in my view, the main point: Adonis’ return gives the possibility to re-perform or re-experience. Judging by how the poem closes, the artistic experience this audience is exposed to does not pose any questions, does not polemicize, nor does it polarize. The lens through which all the action is seen is through the eyes 32. See Papadopoulou (2016) on Idyll 28.

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of the two Suracusan women. They are the privileged spectators, chosen among the multitude, but, perhaps do not have the cognitive apparatus or the inclination to express informed aesthetic judgments on the performance. Can this be taken as an indicative reponse of other members of the audience, too? Theocritus remains silent on the matter. One might argue that there is no closure, not a satisfactory one anyway. Even today people who are not experts hesitate to formulate judgements about art. Songs sung at the royal palace is a theme bringing to mind the world of Homeric epics and the song culture of Greece. But the audience is not a closed circle of guests, it is the whole city. This is a musical performance given not to satisfy the taste of a elite circle of chosen few, as the ones taking place at the Mouseion; it is a mass performance to carry hidden social, political and cultural messages. The reading of Theocritus’ poetry was more likely to be addressed to a more elitist audience. Under the influence of the Egyptian culture, which was very visual, the Ptolemies were very fond of court-sponsored festivals. From Ptolemy Philadelphus to Cleopatra, Ptolemaic culture was a culture of live performances and aesthetic delight drawn on public displays of art on the occasion of religious festivals. These included the Basileia, which apparently combined an older Macedonian festival of Zeus Basileus,33 and royal birthday celebrations, the Soteria (probably in honor of Ptolemy I Soter), the Isis festivals and the ritual mourning that took place at the death of the Apis bull, and very possibly notionally Greek festivals included elements to appeal to the Egyptian population, the Ptolemaia,34 and the Arsinoeia (in honor of Arsinoe II).35 Why did Arsinoe choose to celebrate Adonis in this way? The celebration taking place in the palace, the inclusiveness of both men and women spectators and the extravagance of the festival may lead one to believe that the religious festival was just an excuse for the Ptolemies to show off their opulence. Arsinoe’s Adonis obviously also addressed new audiences: men (an element in common with Menander’s Adonia), 33. Ptolemy II had been quite receptive to the needs of his multinational audience. For his newly arrived audience, such as the two ladies from Sicily, he and his queen/sister/ wife were assimilated to Greek deities such as Dionysus, e.g. in the big procession described by Callixenus of Rhodes the statue of Ptolemy II followed the scenes from Dionysus Indian campaign (MacKechnie 2008: 151). This eagerness for assimilation with Zeus was noticed by Theocritus himself, who praised the king accordingly in his Encomium. 34. Callixenus’ detailed (and only) account (Ath. 197c–203b), gives us considerable insight into the ideological foundations of Ptolemaic administration. The festival was first celebrated around 276 BC by Ptolemy II and began with a procession through the city. See Rice (1983); Stephens (2003; 168). 35. Perpillou-Thomas (1993: 151–75).

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respectable housewives, soldiers guarding the palace and almost anybody who wanted to watch the performance and tell others about it. Theocritus clearly shows that the people of Alexandria received Arsinoe’s festival very well: they flooded into the palace to see and to be seen, to be able to report to those that did not have the chance to be there. Why did Theocritus choose to make this performance the topic of his poem? Was the aim to combine implicit praise to the Ptolemies with Ptolemaic propaganda? The Hellenized dimensions of Adonis together with the Egyptian connection to Osiris was something that both Greeks and Egyptians were in position to grasp and appreciate.36 Even though in Theocritus the Egyptians population is presented in a non-flattering way (47–50), the performance of the Adonis song is likely to have been targeted at a socially and ethnically mixed audience. Thanks to a series of meta-theatrical comments and elements Theocritus strengthens the theatrical realism of this poem. The theatrical convention created so meticulously by Theocritus, is not broken, nor is the poet’s commitment to chronicle a difficult and dangerous journey ending up into a most luxurious version of the gardens of Adonis. As Pavis (2001: 115) writes: ‘‘theatre spectators… ‘speakʼ to the stage by attending to it with eyes and ears, modifying it with their attention. They also ‘speak’ to their neighbours in the audience even without saying anything, because they know that while at the theatre they belong to a group which is nolensvolens in solidarity, in the same boat, and whose members thus cannot but communicate.”

Furthermore, the poet is successful in blurring the line between ritual practice and artistic representation. The queen was worshiped as Aphrodite at cape Zephyrion, near Alexandria.37 Perhaps this is where the worshippers of Adonis would have to be the following morning. The lady singer 36. The Khoiak annual festival of Osiris is perhaps the most important celebration of Osiris dating from the Middle Kingdom and one of the most important in Egypt, celebrated in all parts of the country. Myrrha along with wine was offered by the priest to the god. The public gathered to watch the procession. The festival included the creation of images of the gods, which both alluded to the cult and to the affluence of the person who had commissioned them. A text inscribed at the rooftop chapels of temple of Hathor at Dendara (built between 30 BC and 14 AD) contain instructions on how these rites were performed. The most important affinities to Theocritus’ account of the Adonia at Alexandria where the gathering of the crowd, the patronship of the pharaoh and some of the material offerings to the god. For a detailed description of the rites of the Osiris festival see Teeter (2011, 58-66); Colin-Cauville (1997). 37. The name of the Gorgo’s baby recalls this toponym. On Ζωπυρίων being a panhellenic name see Hatzopoulos (2000: 107, table 3). The form points to a non-Athenian, probably Dorian, origin.

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invites the audience (132-135) to practice the actual rites practiced by the sea by the ‘real’ Adoniazusae and then begin a lamentation song. What has actually been sung is more likely an epithalamion, i.e. wedding song.38

4. Conclusion: what separates the world from the characters Athenaeus writes that Herodotus was recited at the great theatre of Alexandria by the actor Hegesias.39 The fact that such literature was performed on stage is indicative of theatrical tastes in the Alexandrian period. At the time of Theocritus, communal, public reading in groups was more widespread than silent reading, which only began with the standardization of writing techniques and the advent of the printing press: public reading consisted mainly of orally reciting the poem or song, while the group listened. Over time, as literacy became more widespread, and books easier to own privately, reading habits changed. During the latter part of the fifth century there is evidence for the gradual dissolution of what John Herington has called a ‘song cultureʼ and its replacement in part by a book culture, and, in part, by a new kind of specialist music culture in the hands of experts and virtuosi whose performances were no longer necessarily tied to specific performance occasions, usually great public or private celebrations. As poets concentrated upon the words rather than the music, they naturally tended to write in non-lyric metres. Performance remained an important notion with regard to reading poetry, both in the case of public recital and private reading.40 According to Hunter (1996: 7): “We have no reason to assume that the audience for ‘eliteʼ culture did not also attend ‘popularʼ performances, for example of the kind dramatised in Idyll 15; the reverse will, of course, not hold good, because in its very nature ‘elite’ culture defines itself by its self-proclaimed exclusiveness. The differences between the two cultures are not always easy to define, particularly because of our woeful ignorance of the wider musical and poetic world.”

38. Reed (2000: 336). Cf. the excerpts of a hymn to Arsinoe-Aphrodite/Isis, mistress of the sea,P.Goodspeed 101= P.Lit.Goodspeed 2. 39. Kotlinska-Toma (2014: 184). Goldhill (1991: 273) writes that there is no conclusive evidence as to assume either that such mimetic poems were recited before an educated audience or that poems were circulated in manuscript form for private reading. 40. Hunter (1996: 4).

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Whereas fiction is produced at one spatio-temporal frame and received at another, a performance is given hincetnunc. In Idyll 15, if we consider the song to be the on-stage performance, the off-stage is twice as long in terms of verses. By this calculation two thirds of the action happen off-stage. Thus, the off-stage becomes one with the onstage: there is an alternation of characters entering and leaving the stage to ‘playʼ short episodes creating the illusion of the ‘realʼ world outside the palace who wants a glimpse of the performance taking place inside. These episodes do not impede or interrupt the performance; by preceding it they prepare the readers for it. This is a performance of and for a whole city, and the poet’s effort emphasizes what Kutzko (2008) calls ‘quasi-dramaticʼ techniques; it is not a drama, but a literary work which simulates dramatic conventions. In this case, a distinction between dramatic performance and poetic/literary read-aloud performance would be pertinent. This poetry was composed in order to be performed orally before an audience. The time of composition and the time of performance do not coincide, which is a major difference from modern ‘performance poetry’ and the artistic movement of contemporary art known as ‘performance’, which can either be spontaneous, or carefully scripted. Metatheatrical is what occurs as a shift of attention to the theatrical conventions—a focus on the message itself. There is no genuine metatheatricality, i.e. the characters are not aware of or comment on their fictional status. The representation of their activities in daily life is rendered with as much veridicality as possible. The theatrical medium, a complex semiotic system whereby the text, the actors, the mise-en-scène form an agglomerate of signifying vehicles that complement each other in carrying meaning, is, of course, very different from what Theocritus strives to do in this poem. Tadeusz Kowan, the Polish semiotician of the Prague School of Semiotics, suggested important types of relation between text and performance.41 Theocritus’ project is, in a sense, a re-enactment of a performance after which it has taken place. Theocritus manages to recast the boundaries between performing and viewing, imaginary and real audience, authorship and audienceship, drama and literary text, theatrical and textual communication. His poem is unique not only in terms of its topic and technique, but also because it provides valuable evidence towards reconstructing the actual practice of how Adonia was performed in Alexandria. It seems that non-native female performers, came to Egypt in order to perform. Winning the agon (musical contest) 41. Kowan (1975; 2008).

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was a way to establish a good reputation. The semiotic density of the mise-en-scène of this idyll is perhaps good indication that Theocritus strove hard to win a personal popularity contest as a poet addressing his patronal audience in Alexandria. Perhaps the character’s predicament is very much like the poet’s: to find a way into the royal palace and a view on what takes place inside it. Hunter (1996: 236) states that the two heroinesʼ admission to the palace may signify that the Sicilian mime may have been also admitted. Is it possible to imagine the palace halls resonate with these verses reminiscing a performance that had taken place there a while before? Surely, what Theocritusʼ work represents here is not a rehearsal. The royal couple grant the people of Alexandria permission to enter the palace. Seen in a different light, they grant an audience to their subjects, while making an audience out of them. The granting of audience to their subjects implies an exchange between a giver and a taker. The auditor is in a priviliged position, since giving audience is a ‘gift’, but being an audience is not as passive as one might assume. In fact, as the numerous papyrological finds that the sands of Egypt were generous to grant us with show, Ptolemy II received numerous written petitions from his subjects, regardless of nationality. Giving an audience, even through the written word, is an act of reception. Theocritus shows full awareness of what an audience is and what a spectator does or does not do, while masterfully shifting between genres. Just one line before the actual song starts Gorgo, the spectator, uses the same wording (καλόν) as in v. 23, when she was still at her friend’s house. ‘‘Seeing comes before words. … It is seeing which establishes our place in the surrounding world.” wrote John Berger in his influential 1972 book Ways of seeing.42 After entering the Ptolemaic palace, the two Syracusan woman are spectators and auditors preparing one another (and the reader) by saying: (Getready.) Thesingerisnowclearingherthroat.43 They enter the world of the performance, where time is supposed to be another time, and exit it as soon as the song is over, to return back to their own time: ὥρα ὅμως κἠς οἶκον. (147) Time to go home now.

42. Berger (1972: 7). 43. The Greek text is elliptically suggestive of the fact that the singer is just about to begin her song: διαχρέμπτεται ἤδη (v. 99).

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Theocritus’ enterprise to bridge real-life world and stage comes to an end in a positive atmosphere. What was at first announced as καλόν (99), is now referred to as ὀλβία…πανολβία (146). After having being themselves part of the spectactle, the women spectators-auditors leave the stage blending the promise of repeat with the warmest emotions of glee. REFERENCES Acosta-Hughes, B., 2010, ArionʼsLyre:ArchaicLyricintoHellenisticPoetry. Princeton, NJ. Alexiou, M., 2002 (1974), The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition. Lanham, Maryland/Oxford, UK. Barry, W.D., 1993, ‘‘The Crowd of Ptolemaic Alexandria and the Riot of 203 BC.” EchosduMondeClassique/ClassicalViews37, 415-431. Berger, J., 1972, WaysofSeeing. London. Burton, J. B., 1995, TheocritusʼsUrbanMimes.Mobility,GenderandPatronage. Berkeley. Colin-Cauville, S., 1997, Dendara X. Les chapelles osiriennes  : textes hiéroglyphiques. Cairo. Engdahl, H., 2016, PresentationSpeechbyProfessorHoraceEngdahl,Member of the Swedish Academy, Member of the Nobel Committee for Literature, 10December2016. Αccessible online: https://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_ prizes/literature/laureates/2016/presentation-speech.html Fischer-Bovet, C., 2014, ArmyandSocietyinPtolemaicEgypt. Cambridge. Gammacurta, T., 2006, PapyrologicaScaenica. Alessandria. Goldhill, S., 1991, ThePoet’sVoice:EssaysonPoeticsandGreekLiterature, Cambridge. Gow, A. S. F., 1965 (1952), Theocritus, vol. 1. Cambridge. Griffiths, F.T., 1979, TheocritusatCourt. Leiden. van Groningen, B. A., 1958, “Quelques Problèmes De La Poésie Bucolique Grecque.” Mnemosyne11, 293-317. Gutzwiller K. J., 1991, Theocritus’ Pastoral Analogies: The Formation of a Genre. Madison, Wisconsin. Handke, P., 1969, “Publikumsbeschimpfung.” In: Publikumsbeschimpfungund andereSprechstücke. Frankfurt, 1966. Trans. M. Roloff 1971 “Offending the Audience.” In KasparandOtherPlays. London. Hatzopoulos M., 2000, “L’histoire par les noms.” In: S. Hornblower & E. Matthews (eds.) Greek Personal Names: Their Value as Evidence, 99-117. Hordern, J. H., 2002, “Sophron, Fr. 171, and Theocritus 15.” ZPE 140, 1-2. Hordern, J. H., 2004, Sophron’s Mimes: Text, Translation and Commentary. Oxford. Horstmann, A. E.-A., 1976, Ironie und Humor bei Theokrit. Meisenheim am Glan. Hunter, R. L., 1996, “Mime and Mimesis. Theocritus, Idyll 15.” In M. A. Harder etal. (eds.) Theocritus,149-169. Groningen.

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Klooster, J., 2011, Poetry as Window and Mirror: Positioning the Poet in HellenisticPoetry. Leiden. Kotlinska-Toma, A., 2014, Hellenistictragedies:texts,translationsandacriticalsurvey. London, New Delhi, New York, Sydney. Kowan, T., 1975,Littératureetspectacle, The Hague. Kowan, T., 2008,Théâtremiroir.Métathéâtredel‘AntiquitéauXXIesiècle, Paris. Krevans, N., 2006, “Is there Urban Pastoral? The case of Theocritus’ Id. 15.” In: M. Fantuzzi & T. Papanghelis (eds.) Brill’s Companion to Greek and LatinPastoral. Leiden, 119-146. Kutzko, D., 2008, “All the World’s a Page: Imitation of Metatheater in Theocritus 15, Herodas 1 and Virgil Eclogues 3,” CJ 103, 141-61. Lambert, M., 2001, “Gender and Religion in Theocritus, Idyll 15: Prattling Tourists at the Adonia“, AClass 44: 87-103. Leach, R., 2008, TheatreStudies:theBasics. London, New York. MacKechnie, G., 2008, PtolemyIIPhiladelphusandhisworld. Leiden, Boston. McKenzie, J., 2007, The Architecture of Alexandria and Egypt, c. 300 BC to AD700. London. Pavis, P., 2001 (1995), TheatreattheCrossroadsofCulture. Trans. L. Kruger. London, New York. Papadopoulou, M., 2016, ‘‘Textile and textual poetics in context: Callimachus’ 4th Iamb and Theocritus’ Idyll 2.” In: G. Fanfani et al. (eds.) Spinning Fates and the Song of the Loom: the use of textiles, clothing and cloth productionasmetaphor,symbolandnarrativedeviceinGreekandLatin literature. Oxford, 217-240. Perpillou-Thomas, F., 1993, Fêtesd‘Egypteptolémaïqueetromained‘aprèsla documentationpapyrologique. Louvain. Reed, J.D., 2000, “Arsinoeʼs Adonis and the Poetics of Ptolemaic Imperialism“. Trans.Am.Phil.Ass. 130 (1), 319-351. Reitzammer, L., 2016, TheAthenianAdoniainContext:TheAdonisFestivalas CulturalPractice. Madison, Wisconsin. Rice, E.E., 1983, ThegrandprocessionofPtolemyPhiladelphus. London. Skinner, M., 2001, “Ladies’ Day at the Art Institute: Theocritus, Herodas and the Gendered Gaze.” In: A. Lardinois & L. McClure (eds.). MakingSilence Speak:Women’sVoicesinAncientGreekLiteratureandSociety. Princeton, 201-222. Stanzel, K.H., 1998, ‘‘Mimen, Mimepen und Mimiamben- Theokrit, Herodas und die Kreuzung der Gattungen.” In: M. A. Harder etal. (eds.). Genrein HellenisticPoetry. Groningen, 143-165. Sistakou, E., 2016, TragicFailures.AlexandrianResponsestoTragedyandthe Tragic. Berlin/Boston. Teeter, E., 2011, ReligionandRitualinAncientEgypt. Cambridge. Whitehorne, J., 1995, ‘‘Women’s Work in Theocritus, Idyll 15.” Hermes 123 (1), 63-75.

MIMETICISM, PERFORMANCE AND RE-PERFORMANCE IN CALLIMACHUS’ HYMNTOAPOLLO AND INSCRIBED PAIANS Alan SHEPPARD

1. Callimachus in his Religious and Literary Context Assessing the question of performance in Callimachus’ hymns requires the scholar to navigate between two very different visions of Greek literature and its audiences. On the one hand, the dominant view of the twentieth century has been to portray Callimachus and his contemporaries as scholar-poets confined to the library, writing elevated and recherché works for a small circle of fellow poets and far-removed from the previous culture of orally performed poetry prevalent in archaic and classical Greece.1 Yet, at the same time, recent work on Callimachus has stressed the need to understand Callimachus within the socio-historical context of the third century BCE. It is thus necessary to see Callimachus not only as a scholar familiar with the songs and rituals of ancient Greece through his research in the library, but also as someone who would have had first-hand experience of the songs, rituals, and festivals in Cyrene and Alexandria.2

*

My thanks to the organisers of and participants in the Groningen Hellenistic Poetry workshop for their responses and suggestions on the previous version of this paper. I would also like to thank Richard Martin, Anastasia-Erasmia Peponi, Pascale BrilletDubois, Ivana Petrovic and, in particular, Susan Stephens for their incisive comments and encouragement on earlier iterations of this paper and Greek hymns in general. 1. On the HymntoApollo,Williams (1978)’s commentary is the most relevant example although it should be noted that Williams’s introductory comments leave open the possibility for performance (just not at a religious ceremony). Similarly, despite providing nuanced readings of the hymn and an important foundation for recent work, the two papers from the proceedings of the first Groningen Workshop that discuss Callimachus’ Hymnto Apollo, Calame (1993) and Depew (1993) both see the HymntoApolloas being absent from any performance context and composed solely for learned readers. 2. Fraser (1972: 252-6) acknowledged the deep links between the HymntoApollo and Cyrene and the possibility for public performance. Cameron (1995: 24-70) reopened the question of performance and festivals for Alexandrian poetry in general. More recently, Petrovic (2007: 114-81) has argued that there was no reason for the hymns not to be performed, drawing on aspects common to both Callimachus and contemporary religion such as the interest in cult statues.

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Recent scholarship on Callimachus’ HymntoApollohas emphasised the importance of the context of the Cyrenaean Carneia to the poem.3 Yet, beyond the specific context of Callimachus’ origins, a broader understanding of Greek hymnic practice in the fourth and third centuries BCE promises a new perspective on some of the thornier questions surrounding the HymntoApollo. In particular, a comparison with inscribed paians sheds new light on questions surrounding mimeticism4 and the ambiguity of voice in the HymntoApollo. By reading the Hymnin the context of inscribed paians, this paper argues that Callimachus was replicating aspects of performance using a strategy already common in lateClassical and early-Hellenistic cult paians. Finally, reading the HymntoApolloalongside the corpus of inscribed paians provides new insight into Callimachus’ engagement with the literary culture of late-classical Greece. The steadily increasing growth of literacy and writing and the increasing trend towards canonisation, excerption and reperformance for Greek poetry (the first two of which call for a written text)5 clearly changed literary and performance culture in the fourth century BCE. Questions familiar to scholars of Hellenistic 3. Acosta-Hughes & Stephens (2012: 84-147; 157-8) have addressed links between contemporary performance and Callimachus as well as connections between archaeological finds at Cyrene and the HymntoApollo. Stephens (2015: 74) summarises the current state of affairs for the HymntoApollo. Cf. Petrovic (2011; 2012) on links to contemporary religious practices (especially the Cyrenaean purity regulations). 4. Gramps (this volume: {1}) reassesses the category of ‘mimetic poetry’, arguing that the ‘mimetic hymns’ should be approached not in terms of changes in voice but as an “oscillation between two experiential frames.” This paper shares Gramps’ concerns with the identification of precise speakers in the HymntoApollobut will use the term ‘mimetic’ due to its popularity in pre-existing scholarship on Callimachus’ hymns. In using the label ‘mimetic’ in both Callimachus’ hymns and inscribed paians, this paper follows Harder (1992: 386) who states that “when there is no narrator transmitting a story or description to a reader, but the speaker is either addressing himself as a fictional character or addressing other fictional characters (which may include transmitting an embedded narrative or description to them), I regard the text or passage as mimetic. In this category we may include such cases where the address is merely implied because the occasion for the hymn is mentioned (this too presupposes an audience distinct from the historical reader).” Harder’s article makes the crucial point that the division between the mimetic and diegetic narrative modes in the hymns is not a black and white one. For more on mimeticism and voice in Callimachus’ Hymns see especially Depew (1993), Bing (1993), Morrison (2007: 109-78), and Vestrheim (2012). 5. E.g. The elevated status of Attic tragedy (particularly Euripides) and establishment of state texts in Lycurgan Athens, or the tendency of orators to quote inscribed epigrams that were likely beginning to circulate in collections. See Hanink (2014) and Petrovic (2013) respectively. On fourth century BCE lyric more broadly see LeVen (2014) and Ford (2011)’s study on Aristotle’s Hymn to Hermias and its context. Le Ven’s (2014: 86-101) analysis of the strategies of self-representation used by practitioners of the ‘New Music’ provides a further parallel to Callimachus’ mimeticism, demonstrating the need to consider Callimachus’ engagement with late-classical poetry.

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literature (for example the removal of texts from their original performance context and the necessary reinterpretation by the audience of aspects that were once specific to a particular ritual or social context)6 are also clearly present in fourth century BCE poetry. For instance, Pauline LeVen (2014: 282) argues that these fourth century compositions, inspired by the ‘New Music’, took a new and less rooted approach to genre and performance context, noting “the fluidity of compositions that can move from private to public setting and vice versa and the great receptivity of various contexts to the importation and exportation of songs.” This paper argues that reading Callimachus within the literary and religious context of the fourth and third centuries BCE7 explains much of the mimeticism and ambiguity in the HymntoApollo.

2. Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo as Paian Since this paper deals specifically with the paian, a brief definition of what constituted a paian in the fourth and third centuries BCE will be necessary. While this is simpler than trying to come up with stable generic characteristics that hold true for 500 years or more, it is still not a simple and clearly defined definition.8 The classic example is P.Oxy One should note too D’Alessio’s (2004: 294) suggestion that the origins of Hellenistic ‘mimetic poetry’ lie in Archaic lyric’s ‘necessary fictionality’ whereby composers evoked the performance context ahead of time when composing. D’Alessio’s analysis of what are often termed ‘encomiastic’ or ‘performative’ futures in Pindar provides a useful parallel for all the texts discussed in this paper. However there is a significant difference between mimesis of song in an inscribed or literary text and the mimesis of an oral performance in a poem designed for oral performance itself. 6. E.g. Bing (1995) on Ergänzungsspiel in Hellenistic epigram. 7. This approach has gained ground in recent years prompted both by Cameron (1995) and the publication of Furley & Bremer (2001)’s collection of hymns from lyric, drama, and inscriptions. For Callimachus and inscribed hymns see both Vamvouri Ruffy (2004) who compares the Homeric hymns, inscribed hymns, and Callimachus, and Petrovic (2011) and (2012) who examines links between the HymntoApolloand sacred cult regulations. More broadly, Fantuzzi (2010) provides an overview of the inscribed hymns of Isyllus, Philodamus, Athenaeus, Limenios, and Aristonoos, while LeVen (2014: 283-329) discusses inscribed hymns in the context of late-Classical lyric focusing on the Paean Erythraeus, Aristonoos, Philodamus, and Isyllus. 8. On the genre of paian in general see Käppel (1992); Schröder (1999); Rutherford (2001). Schröder’s book was written in direct response to Käppel, while Rutherford meanwhile stands at some remove, the book being a project that was already underway when Käppel’s work appeared. Almost as important are the reviews of the various contributions, D’Alessio (1994b; 2000) on Käppel and Schröder respectively and Käppel (2002) on Rutherford. Ford (2006) writing at some remove from the initial debate provides further assessment of the debate the problem of generic classification while Depew (2000) on hymns as a performative genre provides a very different approach. However, Depew’s

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2368, a commentary on an ᾠδή of Bacchylides which Aristarchus entitles Cassandra. The papyrus records that Aristarchus criticised Callimachus for mistakenly classifying the song as a paean because he didn’t realise that the refrain, ‘[τὸ ἐπίφθ] εγ{γ}μα’, also appeared in dithyrambs as well.9 This fragment therefore demonstrates that Callimachus viewed any song with the paian refrain as a member of the paian genre – a reasonable baseline followed by most modern scholars as well.10 Crucially for this paper, it demonstrates that Callimachus’ HymntoApollomust have been classified as a paian since it contains the refrain when it explains the etymology of the cry (Cal. h.Ap.97-103). This basic definition must also hold true for the inscribed paians of the fourth and third centuries BCE. These texts encapsulate the moment at which the paian genre became more diversified with regard to its divine addressees. For instance, the Paean Erythraeus (or Paians to be precise) features a sacred law on one side of the stone with two paians to Apollo and Asclepius on the reverse.11 The placement of these texts together on the stone clearly link the two paians, justifying Asclepius’ paian through its association with the more traditional paian to Apollo. Similarly, model relies solely on the initial oral performance and is less applicable for the texts this paper studies. One fundamental problem with the approaches of Käppel, Schröder, and Rutherford is a desire to fit each piece of evidence into an all-encompassing generic narrative. Unfortunately this leads to variations in the narrative being either explained away or worked into the schema in overly-ingenious ways. This becomes especially problematic when we have examples drawn from both high literary society like Callimachus alongside epigraphic poetry. We must acknowledge that Callimachus and Isyllus were writing for very different purposes and thus would take the paianin very different directions. A genre can exist at (for want of better labels) both a ‘high’ and ‘low’ level without breaking apart into incoherence. 9. See further discussion in Käppel (1992: 38-41); Schröder (1999: 110-123); Rutherford (2001: 97-9). The latter provides a full text and apparatusalthough Lobel’s restoration of [τὸ ἐπίφθ]εγ{γ}μα is almost universally accepted. 10. E.g. Ford (2006: 286) “the one feature that comes nearest to being a hall-mark of the genre”. Cf. Rutherford (2001: 69-72); Schröder (1999: 49-61) who stipulate that the refrain needs to include the ‘ie’ cry alongside an invocation of Paian. Käppel (1992: 65-70) however argues that the formal internal characteristics of paians (including the ritual cry) only appeared in the Hellenistic period and that prior paians did not need to include the refrain since their generic classification depended upon their performance context. This view is contested by Schröder (1999) and D’Alessio (1994b). 11. The paian to Apollo is extremely fragmentary while the paian to Asclepius is fully preserved. The opening lines of a third paian to Seleucus added in the Hellenistic period are also preserved below the paian to Asclepius. The complete text including the sacred law and the remains of all three paians is found in Sokolowski (1955), nr. 24 and Engelmann & Merkelbach (1973), 331-41. Wilamowitz (1909) 37-48 provides the editio princeps along with a sketch of the stone. Furley & Bremer (2001b) print only the paian to Asclepius but do collect and print the various reinscriptions of the paian at Ptolemais, Athens, and Dion in the imperial period. Graf (1971), 250-7 provides an analysis of the sacred law.

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Philodamus’ Paian to Dionysus contains instructions from Apollo to complete the temple and institute paians to Dionysus as well.12 Finally, Isyllus’ Paian to Askelpios features a similar strategy with the paian preceded by a sacred law outlining a festival of Apollo and Asclepius as well as an oracle approving of Isyllus’ paian. Interestingly, despite the paian focusing primarily on Asclepius (Apollo is only mentioned as Asclepius’ father), the report of the oracle’s pronouncement describes the paian as εἰς τὸν Ἀπόλλωνα καὶ τὸν Ἀσκληπιόν.13 These inscribed paians provide a glimpse into the realiaof cult practice in late-Classical and early-Hellenistic Greece, demonstrating how poets and religious officials justified the expansion of the paian genre to praise gods closely associated with Apollo. Thus, if the paian genre had ever been solely the preserve of Apollo, by the fourth century BCE the genre had expanded to include praise of other gods such as Asclepius and Dionysus. With the expansion of addressee, an increasing number of performance contexts must have emerged14 and the unifying characteristic of the genre was the existence of the ritual paian cry. This diversity in form provided ample means for experimentation and reflection in both Callimachus and the composers of inscribed paians. As this paper demonstrates, one of the most crucial components of this experimentation was the engagement with the question of performance contexts and divine approval.

3. Mimetic Openings and Paratexts in Inscribed Paians 3.1 ThePaeanErythraeus Inscribed paians not only shared a genre with Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo but also a similar interest in the mimetic replication of performance context. The question of mimeticism in Callimachus’ hymns will be reassessed below (specifically how the HymntoApollois structured differently to the BathsofPallasor the HymntoDemeter) but first it’s 12. Philod. Scarph. 105-56. Furley & Bremer (2001b: 2.5) date the paian to 340/39 BCE. 13. Isyll. 33-4. 14. I am thinking here primarily of an increasing variety of addressees and a subsequent increase in performance context. Rutherford (2001: 16-23) suggests that paians were addressed solely to Apollo from the time of the syncretism of Paioon and Apollo until the late-fifth century BCE. This in itself could encompass a variety of performance contexts but there was undoubtedly an expansion once the genre was extended to Asclepius and Dionysus. See further Rutherford (2001: 23-90) for discussion of performance context and generic features.

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necessary to demonstrate that inscribed paians use mimetic openings in a similar way to the HymntoApollo.It should be noted moreover that this is a characteristic specific to inscribed paians rather than inscribed hymns more generally. The earliest example of an inscribed hymn, the Paean Erythraeus, is a fascinating case-study for the transmission and dissemination of inscribed poetry. The paian appears in four separate inscriptions, three from the imperial period in Athens, Ptolemais, and Dion, and one from Erythrae in Asia Minor dated by Wilamowitz (1909: 37) to 380-360 BCE. Given the amount of supporting paratext, including a sacred law as well as a fragmentary paian to Apollo which preceded the paian to Asclepius, it is universally agreed that the paian was first composed and inscribed at Erythrae. Indeed, it is the earliest surviving example of an inscribed hymn. The opening of the Paean Erythraeus instructs a choir of young men to sing:15 ‘[Παιᾶνα κλυτό]μητιν ἀείσατε κοῦροι [Λατοΐδαν Ἕκ]ατον, ἰὲ Παιάν,’ ‘Sing, youths, of famous Paian, son of Leto, long-range archer, iePaian.’

Following the stanza, the paian goes on to recount Asclepius’ parentage before outlining a host of minor health deities descended from Asclepius. The closing section of the paian goes on to ask Asclepius to look kindly on the city and grant the citizens health:16 ‘Χαῖρέ μοι, ἵλαος δ{ὲ} ἐπινίσεο τὰν ἀμὰν πόλιν εὐρύχορον, ἰὲ Παιάν, δὸς δ’ ἡμᾶς χαίροντας ὁρᾶν φάος ἀελίου δοκίμους σὺν ἀγακλυτῶι ἐοαγεῖ Ὑγιείαι. ἰὴ Παιάν, Ἀσκληπιὸν δαίμονα κλεινότατον, ἰὲ Παιάν.’ ‘Be gracious to me and kindly visit our city with its broad dancing places. Ie,Paian! Allow us, rejoicing to see the glorious light of the sun with famous 15. Pae. Eryth. 1-3 (=Furley & Bremer (2001a: 6.1). 16. Pae. Eryth. 19-27

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and pure Hygieia. IePaian! Asklepios, most famous divinity. IePaian!’

By this point in the paian, the voice of the speaker of the paian has changed. While the opening featured a second person command to a chorus of young men, with the voice external to the chorus, by the close of the paian speaker and chorus form one voice. The middle part of the paian however features no indication of either a first or second person speaking voice, providing an ambiguous transitional section between the opening of the paian spoken in the second person and the first person closing. These three sections correspond neatly to the tri-partite structure of invocation, praise/narration, and prayer identified by many scholars of Greek hymns.17 The second person address to the chorus doubles as the opening invocation since the chorus are instructed to sing of the god, ‘Παιᾶνα κλυτό]μητιν [Λατοΐδαν Ἕκ]ατον’. The middle section then features the praise/narration of Asclepius while the final section, now spoken in the first person, features the closing prayer, asking Asclepius to grant prosperity to the city. This second person opening address to the chorus is highly unusual. There is almost no parallel in the Homeric Hymns or the remains of hymns found in tragedy or lyric,18 these hymns always address the god directly. An explanation for this unusual address can be found in the act of inscription since, by inscribing the paian, the Erythraeans were opening the paian up to an audience outside its specific cult performance context. The paian was undoubtedly sung at festivals but the act of inscription must have meant that it could also have been viewed and read aloud by visitors to the sanctuary at other times. The act of inscribing a paian would thus serve as a lasting physical reminder of the original performance in the sanctuary, paralleling the way a votive object acted as a physical reminder of the original act of dedication.19 This line of argument is strengthened by the fact that several 17. E.g. Furley & Bremer (2001a: 50-64). Furley & Bremer refer to these three parts as invocation, praise and prayer. I use praise/narrative for the middle section. 18. The only instances are in two short Homeric Hymns (17 and 20) to the Dioscuri and Hephaestus respectively. The first line of both hymns ends with the formula ἀείσεο, Μοῦσα λίγεια. This second person address parallels the instructions to the chorus but the speaker is addressing the divine Muse rather than a chorus. 19. Indeed LeVen (2014: 318) notes the opening prose introduction to Isyllus’ inscription which use the verb ἀνέθηκε, making it clear that Isyllus saw the inscription as a dedication.

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Greek poets discuss songs and hymns as offerings in their own right.20 Yet, this is not to suggest that a rereading of an inscribed hymn can function as a reperformance where the act of inscription anticipates a repeat of the initial utterance upon rereading.21 While this model works well for something like dedicatory epigram where the act of rereading can function within the same ritual parameters as the initial dedication, this is emphatically not the case for an inscribed paian where a complete male chorus and musical accompaniment is needed to perform the song correctly. A lone visitor to a sanctuary reading the inscribed text would not have the same ritual effect as a chorus and a scenario where the stone of an inscribed paian is used as a script for performance is unlikely.22 Instead, the effect of the mimetic opening on stone would evoke the original performance context and festival to a reader. This is made especially clear by the paratexts that often accompany inscribed paians, often making specific mention of the establishment of an annual festival at the site.23 This is certainly the case for the Paean Erythraeus where the prose sacred law that precedes the inscriptions gives explicit instructions for the singing of a paian at the end of the text. The majority of the sacred law sets out the precise details of the required sacrifices for Apollo and Asclepius before going on to state that the prescribed rites are to be carried out on behalf of the whole city, explicitly banning private individuals from making sacrifices during the festival. Finally the sacred law details the correct procedure for incubation and closes by ordering that a paian be sung. The sacred law then morphs almost immediately into the text of a basic paian to Apollo.24 20. E.g. h. Hom. Cer. 494 ‘πρόφρονες ἀντ’ ᾠδῆς βίοτον θυμήρε’ ὀπάζειν’; Call. Fr. 494 ‘ἄκαπνα γὰρ αἰὲν ἀοιδοί θύομεν’; Eust. Proem.comm.Pind.31 ‘Δελφόσε δὲ ἐρωτηθεὶς τί πάρεστι θύσων, παιᾶνα, εἶπε’. These passages are collected and discussed in Pulleyn (1997: 49-50). 21. E.g. Day (2000) in close dialogue with Depew (2000) on hymns, performance, and genre in the same volume. 22. Pace LeVen (2014: 291-2). I have no doubt that the hymn was performed and reperformed and likely included the exhortation to the choir to sing but it is important to separate the afterlife in reperformance from the afterlife as an inscription. Regardless of whether the choir learnt the reperformed hymn from a script, I cannot imagine them using the inscription as a proto-hymnsheet. 23. E.g. Philod. Scarp. 110-4; Isyll. 10-26 24. Text from Sokolowski (1955: nr. 24). Most scholars think this paian is separate from the fragmentary paian to Apollo preserved on the other side of the stone, e.g. Furley & Bremer (2001a: 213) who note that it is “probably not the continuation of the paian on the front.” This makes epigraphical sense too since the texts are on two separate sides of the stone. Elsewhere the inscribers have taken care to mark divisions between separate texts, for instance the transcription of the stone by Wilamowitz (1909: 38) shows a clear

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‘…ὅταν τὴν ἱρὴν μοῖραν ἐπιθῆι, παιωνίζειν πρῶτον περὶ τὸμ βωμὸν τοῦ Ἀπόλλωνος τόνδε τὸμ παιῶνα ἐς τρίς· Ἰὴ Παιών· ὤ, ἰὴ Παιών· ἰὴ Παιών· ὤ, ἰὴ Παιών· ἰὴ Παιών· ὤ, ἰὴ Παιών. [ὦ] ἄναξ Ἄπολλον, φείδεο κούρων, φείδ[εο]’ ‘… and whenever someone has set down the sacred portion (on the altar), they are first to sing a paian three times around the altar of Apollo. Ie Paian, o ie Paian . Ie Paian, o ie Paian. Ie Paian, o ie Paian. O lord Apollo, spare the young men, spare them.’

The implication of the sacred law preceding the paians at Erythrae is clear. The inscription functions as a permanent reminder of the city of Erythrae’s sung offerings to Asclepius and Apollo not only by preserving the text of the paians but also by preserving information about the proper context in which they were sung. Indeed, Graf (1971: 250) suggests that the inscription not only preserves the full festival context of the paian for both human and divine readers but the inaugural instructions for the cult as well. A comparison of the Paean Erythraeus with the paians of Philodamus and Isyllus adds further weight to Graf’s suggestion. In these two texts, the documentation of new paians and festivals on stone can be seen as an attempt to add an extra layer of legitimacy, thereby ensuring their future success. 3.2 Philodamos’DelphicPaiantoDionysus Philodamus’ paian to Dionysus was inscribed at Delphi and is dated to 340/39 BCE on prosopographical grounds.25 The paian refers explicitly to the (at the time) incomplete reconstruction of the temple of Apollo at Delphi26 and legislates that Dionysus’ cult at Delphi should be celebrated with paians in the spring at the Theoxenia. This is certainly a religious innovation since prior to this point Dionysus’ cult at Delphi was celebrated by the singing of dithyrambs in the winter months.27 The paian opens not with a mimetic instruction to a choir but by invoking Dionysus as Διθύραμβε (Philod. Scarph. 1) and it is only in the refrain

division in line 36 between ἐς τρίς and Ἰὴ Παιών, signifying the transition between the sacred law and the first paian to Apollo visually as well as verbally 25. Furley & Bremer (2001a: 124-6) 26. The temple was destroyed in 373 BCE by an earthquake. See further Furley & Bremer (2001b: 74-5) 27. Furley & Bremer (2001a: 127-8); Fantuzzi (2010: 189-91)

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at the end of the first stanza28 that the hymn’s nature as a paian is revealed. As in the Paean Erythraeus, there is a move from orthodoxy (celebrating Dionysus with the dithyramb) to innovation. The last four stanzas of the paian follow a significant lacunaand attempt to replicate the performance:29 IX. ‘Ἐκτελέσαι δὲ πρᾶξιν Ἀμφικτύονας θ[εὸς] κελεύει τάχος, ὡ[ς ἐ]κάβολος μῆνιν ε[] κατάσχῃι. Εὐοῖ ὦ [ἰό β]ακχ’ ὦ ἰὲ Παιάν – δε[ῖξαι] δ’ ἐγ ξενίοις ἐτείοις θεῶν ἱερῷ γένει συναίμωι τόνδ’ ὕμνον, θυσίαν δὲ φαίνειν σὺν Ἑλλάδος ὀλβίας πα[νδ]ήμοις ἱκετείαις. Ἰὲ Παιάν, ἴθι σωτήρ, εὔ[φρ]ων τάνδε πόλιν φύλασς’ εὐαίωνι σὺν ὄλβῳ.’ X. ‘Ὦ μάκαρ ὀλβία τε κείνων γε[νεὰ] βροτῶν, ἀγήρων ἀμίαντον ἃ κτίσηι ναὸ[ν ἄ]νακ[τι] Φοίβῳ. Εὐοῖ ὦ Ἰόβακχ’ ὦ ἰὲ Π[αιάν] – χρύσεον χρυσέοις τύποις πα[]ν θεαι γ᾽κύκλοῦ[νται []δογ, κόμαν δ᾽ἀργαίνοντ’ ἐλεφαντί[ναν ἐν] δ’ αὐτόχθονι κόσμωι. Ἰὲ Παιάν, ἴθι [σωτήρ,] εὔφρων τάνδε πόλιν φύλασς’ εὐαί[ωνι] σὺν ὄλβωι.’ XI. ‘Πυθιάσιν δὲ πενθετήροις [π]ροπό[λοις] ἔταξε Βάκχου θυσίαν χορῶν τε πο[λλῶν] κυκλίαν ἅμιλλαν Εὐοῖ ὦ ἰό Βακχ’, [ὦ ἰὲ] Παιὰν – τεύχειν· ἁλιοφεγγέσιν δ’ἀ[ντ]ο[λαῖς] ἴσον ἁβρὸν ἄγαλμα Βάκχου ἐν [ζεύγει] χρυσέων λεόντων στῆσαι, ζαθέῳ τε τ[εῦ-] ξαι θεῶι πρέπον ἄντρον. Ἰὲ Παιάν, ἴθι σωτήρ, εὔφρων τάνδε πόλιν φύλασς’ εὐαίωνι σὺν ὄλβῳ.’

28. Philod. Scarph. 11-3 ‘Ἰὲ Παιάν, ἴθι σωτή[ρ, | εὔφρων τάνδε] πόλιν φύλασσ’ | εὐαίωνι σὺν [ὄλβωι.]’. 29. Philod. Scarph. 105-56. Text from Furley & Bremer (2001: 2.5).

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XII. ‘Ἀλλὰ δέχεσθε Βακχ[ιά]σταν Διόνυσ[ον, ἐν δ’ ἀγυι-] αῖς ἅμα σὺγ [χορ]οῖσι κ[ικλῄσκετε] κισσ[οχ]αίταις Ε[ὐοῖ ὦ ἰό Βακχ’ ὦ ἰὲ [Παιὰν] – πᾶσαν [Ἑλ]λάδ’ ἀν’ ὀ[λβί]αμ πανετεπολυσταναςρεπι. λωνιοεκυκλι[ Χαῖρ᾽ ἄ]ναξ ὑγιείας. Ἰὲ Πα[ιάν, ἴθι σωτήρ· εὔφρων] τάνδε πόλιν φύλασς’ [εὐαίωνι σὺν ὄλβωι.]’ IX. ‘The god orders the Amphiktyons to complete quickly,30 so that the farshooter may hold back his wrath – euhoi,oioBakchos,oiePaian! – and to present this hymn for his brother to the sacred family of the gods at the yearly feast of xenia (i.e. the Theoxenia), and to make a sacrifice at the common supplications of blessed Hellas. – IePaian, come o Saviour, and kindly guard this city in good fortune.’ X. ‘O happy and blessed is the generation of those mortals who found an ageless, undefiled temple for Lord Apollo – euhoi, o io Bakchos, o ie Paian! – a golden temple with golden sculptures [where] the goddesses surround [Paian], his ivory hair shining with a native decoration. – IePaian, come o Saviour, and kindly guard this city in good fortune.’ XI. ‘To the Pythian quadrennial attendants, the god has commanded a sacrifice for Bacchus and a circular contest of many choruses (i.e. dithyrambs) – euhoi,oioBakchos,oiePaian! – and to erect a splendid statue of Bakchos equal to the rising sunlight, and to place it in a yoke of golden lions and to arrange a cave fitting for the sacred god. – IePaian, come o Saviour, and kindly guard this city in good fortune.’ XII. ‘But welcome Bacchic Dionysus, and invoke in your streets with ivy-crowned choruses – euhoi, o io Bakchos, o ie Paian! across all of blessed Hellas (. . .. . .) dithyrambs… Greetings, Lord of Health. – IePaian, come o Saviour, and kindly guard this city in good fortune.’

These stanzas serve a similar function to the sacred law and mimetic opening of the Paean Erythraeus. The final stanza instructs the citizens directly to form choruses and worship Dionysus, providing a mimetic close to the paian as the refrain ‘euhoi,oioBakchos,oiePaian’ which has been heard throughout the hymn is incorporated into the description of the performances of the future choruses for Dionysus. This instruction to the citizens parallels the description of Dionysus’ divine reception amongst the gods at the start of the hymn31 and completes the description of Dionysus’ journey from heaven to earth. 30. This presumably refers to the reconstruction of the temple of Apollo although since the previous three stanzas are poorly preserved we cannot tell for certain. 31. Philod. Scarph. 1-4 [. . . . . . .] Διθύραμβε, Βάκχ’/ ε[ὐιε, Ταῦρε κ]ισσοχαῖ/τα, Βρόμ’, ἠρινα[ῖσ ἱκοῦ / ταῖσδ’] ἱεραῖς ἐν ὥραις.

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Meanwhile stanza IX directly supports the innovations in Dionysus’ worship with the authority of a divine pronouncement from Apollo (a tactic further helped by the prose subscription, reporting that Philodamus is to be honoured by the express command of the oracle). This divine command in stanza IX encompasses the completion of the temple to Apollo as well as the annual performance of τόνδ’ ὕμνον (note the deictic ensuring the specificity of this hymn to this site) at the Theoxenia. The divine prescription of the festival and the paian’s performance context are thus worked into the text. Stanzas X and XI build further on this replication of performance by describing the future cultic surroundings in which the paian will be performed. By 340/39 the naos of the new temple had been reconstructed and re-roofed although much of the decoration and sculpture was still under construction. Moreover, the Sack of Delphi by the Phocians and the subsequent disruption of the Third Sacred War (356-46 BCE) was an extremely recent memory.32 Philodamus’ description of the lavish statues of Apollo and Dionysus looks forward to a time when the building projects were finished and the full glory of the sanctuary had been restored. Philodamus thus extends the mimetic technique, composing a hymn which invokes not the present performance context but the hoped-for future one.33 The hope would be that, for readers in later generations, Philodamus’ description of the rite and the cult surroundings would ring true. 3.3 Isyllus’EpidaurianPaiantoAsclepius Isyllus’ paian meanwhile preserves the most extensive paratext among the inscribed hymns. The inscription is dated to either the late-fourth or early-third century BCE34 and features the following elements:

32. Furley & Bremer (2001b: 74-5, 78-9), LeVen (2014: 311-5), Vamvouri Ruffy (2004: 191-6). 33. D’Alessio (2004)’s analysis of what are often termed ‘encomiastic’ or ‘performative’ futures in Pindar provides a useful parallel for all the texts discussed in this paper. It is particularly apt for Philodamus’ anticipation of the completed temple and subsequent festival here. 34. An invasion by Philip of Sparta is mentioned which is commonly placed as Philip II’s invasion following Chaeronea (although some have argued for Philip III or Philip V). The other point of dispute is the identity of the παῖς in line 67. Is this Isyllus or his son? Finally was the inscription composed shortly after the invasion of Sparta or at a later date? For full discussion of the various theories see Kolde (2003: 257-301). Furley & Bremer (2001a: 233-7) prefer a date in the late 330s while, based on links with the language used to commemorate the Sôteria, Kolde (2003) argues that the text was

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i.

An introduction to the sacred law in trochaic tetrameters, which identifies Isyllus as the author with the help of the gods. ii. The sacred lawin dactylic hexameters legislating for a festival to be held in honour of Apollo and Asclepius. iii. Assertion of the primacy of Epidaurus’ cult of Asclepius and Apollo Maleatas. Composed in dactylic hexameters. iv. Prose description of the Delphic oracle’s support for Isyllus programme. v. The paian describing Asclepius’ Epidaurian genealogy. Composed in ionic metre. vi. An account of Asclepius’ protection of Sparta and healing of a young boy (either Isyllus or his son). Composed in dactylic hexameters. Isyllus’ inscription reinforces many of the phenomena observed in the Paean Erythraeus and that of Philodamus. The sacred law refers to the institution of a specific festival procession and provides the reader with the context the paian would be performed in.35 Moreover, combined with the attestation of support from the Delphic oracle, it provides Isyllus with the necessary divine support for his religious and political programme:36 ‘εἵμασιν ἐν λευκοῖσι δάφνας στεφάνοις ποτ’ Ἀπόλλω, ποὶ δ’ Ἀσκλαπιὸν ἔρνεσι ἐλαίας ἡμεροφύλλου ἁγνῶς πομπεύειν, καὶ ἐπεύχεσθαι πολιάταις πᾶσιν ἀεὶ διδόμεν τέκνοις τ’ ἐρατὰν ὑγίειαν, εὐνομίαν τε καὶ εἰράναν καὶ πλοῦτον ἀμεμφῆ, τὰν καλοκαγαθίαν τ’ Ἐπιδαυροῖ ἀεὶ ῥέπεν ἀνδρῶν, ὥραις ἐξ ὡρᾶν νόμον ἀεὶ τόνδε σέβοντας·’ ‘They are to process in holy fashion dressing in white, with garlands of laurel for Apollo and with shoots of cultivated olive for Asklepios and to pray that the gods always grant lovely health, good order, peace, and riches without reproach to all the citizens and their children. Moreover that kalokagathia always prevails among the men at Epidaurus, honouring this law for all time.’

inscribed in the 270s following the Celtic invasion of Greece. Letter forms are inconclusive, Furley & Bremer (2001a: 233) note that they match Epidaurian iamatafrom either dating. 35. Isyll. 19-25 36. For more on Isyllus’ political and religious aims see Fantuzzi (2010: 184-8), Kolde (2003), and Vamvouri Ruffy (2004: 168-71). Pace Fantuzzi that the divine support in Isyllus’ inscription is exceptional. It is certainly more lengthy than the Paean Erythraeus but the fact remains that the sacred law and Paian are inscribed on the same stone at Erythrae, albeit on opposite sides, thereby intimating at a similar level of divine support that Isyllus claims for his own project.

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Particularly telling here is the request that Apollo give τ’ ἐρατὰν ὑγίειαν, εὐνομίαν τε καὶ εἰράναν καὶ πλοῦτον to the citizens and their children (Isyll. 22-23). The request for health and prosperity was a common close in cult hymns. Indeed it echoes the end of Isyllus’ own paian, the opening and closing lines of which are printed here:37 ‘Ἰὲ Παιᾶνα θεὸν ἀείσατε λαοί, ζαθέας ἐνναέτα[ι] τᾶσδ’ Ἐπιδαύρου. Ὧδε γὰρ φάτις ἐνέπους’ ἤλυθ’ ἐς ἀκοὰς προγόνων ἀμετέρων, ὦ Φοῖβ’ Ἀπόλλων…’ ‘…κατιδὼν δ’ ὁ χρυσότοξος Φοῖβος ἐμ Μάλου δόμοις παρθενίαν ὥραν ἔλυσε, λεχέων δ’ ἱμεροέντων ἐπέβας, Λατῶιε κόρε χρυσοκόμα. σέβομαί σε· ἐν δὲ θυώδει τεμένει τέκετο ἶνιν Αἴγλα, γονίμαν δ’ ἔλυσεν ὠδῖνα Διὸς παῖς μετὰ Μοιρᾶν Λάχεσίς τε μαῖ’ ἀγαυά· ἐπίκλησιν δέ νιν Αἴγλας ματρὸς Ἀσκλαπιὸν ὠνόμαξε Ἀπόλλων, τὸν νόσων παύ[σ]τορα, δωτῆρ’ ὑγιείας, μέγα δώρημα βροτοῖς. Ἰὲ Παιάν, ἰὲ Παιάν, χαῖρεν Ἀσκλαπιέ, τὰν σὰν Ἐπίδαυρον ματρόπολιν αὔξων, ἐναργῆ δ’ ὑγίειαν ἐπιπέμποις φρεςὶ καὶ σώμασιν ἀμοῖς, ἰὲ Παιάν, ἰὲ Παιάν.’ ‘Ie Paian! Sing of the god, you people who inhabit this holy Epidaurus. Thus spoken did the tale came to the ears of our ancestors, o Phoibos Apollo….’ ‘… Now golden-bowed Phoibos saw her in Malos’ home and undid her virginity, entering her lovely bed. Golden-haired son of Leto, I worship you. Aigla bore a child in the fragrant sanctuary and Zeus’ son released the birth pains with the Fates and reverend Lachesis. Apollo called this child Asklepios (after his mother Aigla), reliever of diseases, giver of health, a great gift to mankind. Ie Paian, Ie Paian! Hail Asklepios! Be generous to your mother-city Epidaurus, send glowing radiant health to our minds and bodies. IePaian, IePaian!’

The paian closes with a request to ‘be generous to your mother-city Epidaurus, send glowing radiant health (ἐναργῆ δ’ ὑγίειαν) to our minds and bodies’, echoing the procession of the sacred law’s request for ἐρατὰν ὑγίειαν (Isyll. 60, 22). Moreover, the opening of the paian which addresses the people of Epidaurus and encourages them to praise Paian (Ἰὲ Παιᾶνα θεὸν ἀείσατε λαοί | ζαθέας ἐνναέτα[ι] τᾶσδ’ Ἐπιδαύρου) recalls the tactic of the Paean Erythraeus. Once again we see a move 37. Isyll. 37-40, 48-61

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from Apollo to Asclepius as well as a switch in voice after the opening of the paian. The speaker at the beginning of the paian uses the second person ἀείσατε but by the time he arrives at the account of Asclepius’ birth he has been absorbed into the chorus, addressing Apollo with the first person ‘σέβομαί σε’.38 Narrator and reader are absorbed into the hymn, even if the latter is reading it at a later date on their own. 3.4 Macedonicus’PaiantoAsclepius Finally, Macedonicus’ paian, inscribed in the Asklepeion at Athens and dated to either the first century BCE or CE demonstrates that the interest in mimetic openings to inscribed paians was preserved throughout the Hellenistic period. A short prose title states that Macedonicus composed the song on the god’s instructions, thereby granting a by-now familiar veneer of religious authority. The paian’s structure resembles that of Isyllus or the Paean Erythraeus, beginning with an invocation that exhorts the choir of young men to sing of Asclepius before moving onto a familiar narrative of his genealogy. By the end of the paian the speaking voice has been absorbed into the choir and addresses Asclepius directly with a prayer for health and the safety of the city.39 ‘Μακεδονικὸς Ἀμφιπολείτης ἐποίησεν τοῦ θεοῦ προστάξαντ[ος] Δήλιον εὐφαρέτραν Ζηνὸς υμνεῖτ᾽ἀργυρότ[οξον] εὔφρονι θυμῷ εὐφήμωι γλώσσηι ἰὲ Παιάν, ἱκτῆρα κλάδον ἐν παλάμηι θέτε καλὸν ἐλαΐνεον κ[αι δάφνης] ἀγλαὸν ἔρνος, κοῦροι Ἀθη[ναίων ἰὲ Παιάν, [κο]ῦρ[οι,] ἄμε[μπ]τος ὕμνος ἀείδοι Λητοΐδην ἑκατον, Μ[ουσῶν κλυτόν ἡ[γε]μον[ῆα] ἰὴ Παιάν…’ ‘… χαῖρε, βροτοῖς μέγ’ ὄνειαρ, δαῖμον κλεινότατε, [ἰὲ] ὢ [ἰὲ Παιάν,] Ἀσκληπιέ, σὴν δὲ δίδου σοφίαν ὑμνοῦντας ἐς αἰ[εὶ] θ[άλλειν] ἐν βιοτῇ σὺν τερπνοτάτῃ Ὑγιείᾳ, ἰὴ Παιά[ν]· σῴζοις δ’ Ἀτθίδα Κεκροπίαν πόλιν αἰὲν ἐπερχόμ[εν]ος, ἰὲ Παιάν. ἤπιος ἔσσο, μάκαρ, στυγερὰς δ’ ἀπερύκεο νούσου[ς], ἰέ, ὢ ἰὲ Παιάν.’ ‘Macedonicus from Amphipolis composed this at the god’s command. Hymn the Delian one, son of Zeus with the beautiful quiver and silver bow, with cheerful spirit and auspicious speeech. – IePaian! Place the suppliant branch, in your hand, fine olive and laurel a splendid shoot, o Athenian young men. – IePaian! Young men, let your blameless hymn praise to Leto’s son, the far-shooter, the renowned chorus-leader. – IePaian!…’ 38. Isyll. 37, 52. It is not uncommon for first person singulars to refer to a collective in choral poetry. See for instance Alcman’s Parthenia or the tricky problem of the first person in Pindar on which see D’Alessio (1994a). 39. Maced. 1-6, 16-20. Text from Furley & Bremer (2001a).

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‘… Greetings, Benefit to mortals, most renowned god. – IeoiePaian! Asclepius, allow those who hymn your wisdom to florish for all time in life with Health – the most delightful. – IePaian! May you keep Athens, the Kekropian city, safe, visiting for all time, be kind, Blessed one, and ward off hated diease – IeoiePaian!’

These attributes – the use of a paratext to supply a statement of divine approval, a mimetic opening address to the choir, the instructions to the young men about how the song should be performed, and the eventual joining of narrator and choir in a first person address to the god – seem to be a quality peculiar to inscribed paians. This is not to state that every paian includes these characteristics40 but there are no instances of inscribed hymns which do not include the paian cry and attempt a similar mimetic opening.41 Moreover, it is noticeable that paians which were inscribed several centuries after their original composition42 do not include any mimetic frames, further suggesting that this was a technique employed only by those poets who were composing directly for inscription. This shared use of inscribed mimeticism demonstrates that the question of how best to replicate performance context was something that composers of paians were already considering by the beginning of the Hellenistic age.

4. Mimeticism and Imagined Performance in Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo Callimachus’ HymntoApolloattempts to gives its audience a sense of the occasion under which it might be performed, employing similar strategies to the inscribed paians examined above. It’s important to note that this is tactic unique to HymntoApolloand that the other two hymns commonly labelled as ‘mimetic’ do not attempt anything similar. The mimetic openings in both the Baths of Pallas and the Hymn to Demeter, addressing participants in a cult situation (Call. Lav.Pall. 1-32; Cer.1-8), are clearly divided from the subsequent narrative/praise sections, which provide

40. Inscribed paians which don’t include any mimeticism include those of Aristonous, Limenius and Athenaeus at Delphi (Furley & Bremer 2001a: 2.4, 2.6.1, and 2.6.2). 41. E.g. The Palaikasto Hymn to Zeus, the hymns to Pan and All the Gods at Epidaurus, Aristonous’ hymn to Hestia at Delphi, and the Athenian hymns to Asclepius and Telesphorus inscribed in the imperial period. See Furley & Bremer (2001a: 1.1, 6.5, 6.6, 2.3. 7.6, and 7.7 respectively). 42. Sophocles’ paian to Asclepius in Athens and Ariphron’s paian to Hygieia at Epidaurus. See Furley & Bremer (2001a: 7.3 & 6.3) respectively.

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cautionary examples of young men who transgress against the goddesses.43 The hymns then close with a short address to the cultic practitioners and a prayer for prosperity (Call. Lav. Pall. 137-42; Cer. 118-38). In both hymns there is a clear distinction between the narrative sections and the address to the imagined performers at the beginning and end; for instance the BathsofPallasclearly indicates the transition to the story of Tiresias with the phrase μῦθος δ᾽οὐκ ἐμός, ἀλλ᾽ἑτέρων.44 Since the mimetic address at the beginning of both hymns describes the arrival of the goddesses’ cult statue (Call. Cer. 2; Lav Pall. 33-56), the deity is thus assumed to be present for the subsequent narrative and there is no need for a separate invocation. In the HymntoApollohowever, these distinctions in voice and between mimesis and narrative become much more ambiguous. Apollo is invoked indirectly in the opening description of the epiphany but also directly through the description of his appearance and attributes later in the hymn (Call. Ap.1-8,32-46).45 In between there is a mimetic address to a chorus to sing a hymn in praise of Apollo. The segue between the mimetic address to the audience and the narrative/praise section of the hymn is thus much more indistinct than in the Baths of Pallas or the Hymn to Demeter. Indeed the opening voice of the hymn constantly switches between second person addresses to the chorus, speaking with the chorus in the first person, and, narrating everything in the third person, standing completely outside the action.46 Thus, following the initial description of the epiphany, νέοι are instructed in the second person to prepare for song and dance (Call. Ap.8, οἱ δὲ νέοι μολπήν τε καὶ ἐς χορὸν ἐντύνασθε) but the voice then swiftly switches to a first person plural address to Apollo (Call. Ap.11, ὀψόμεθ’, ὦ Ἑκάεργε, καὶ ἐσσόμεθ’ οὔποτε λιτοί). In the very next line there is a statement that boys should not be silent with the lyre or by dancing if they wish to enjoy Apollo’s benefits. This statement comes in the third person and the voice now seems to be completely removed from 43. Vamvouri Ruffy (2004: 62). Vamvouri Ruffy also suggests a similar focus in Call. Ap.with the references to Achilles and Niobe however this is not the main focus of the hymn’s narrative element. 44. Call. Lav.Pall. 56. For a discussion of the mimetic frames and their relation to narrative in the BathsofPallasand HymntoDemetersee Harder (1992) and Vestrheim (2012: 40-62). 45. Cf. D’Alessio (2007: 78) who notes that the details of the ritual in the Hymn to Apolloare much vaguer than in the other two mimetic hymns. 46. Vestrheim (2012: 31-36). See also Bing (1993) and Morrison (2007: 123-37) on voice in the Hymn to Apollo. On the hymn’s mimetic frame more generally see Harder (1992); Calame (1993: 47-9); Depew (1993).

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the action (Call. Ap.12-3, μήτε σιωπηλὴν κίθαριν μήτ’ ἄψοφον ἴχνος / τοῦ Φοίβου τοὺς παῖδας ἔχειν ἐπιδημήσαντος). The voice then immediately switches back to a second person address, asking what is presumably the watching audience to remain silent while the hymn is sung (Call. Ap.17, εὐφημεῖτ’ ἀίοντες ἐπ’ Ἀπόλλωνος ἀοιδῇ) and, following the brief mention of Niobe, there is then a second person instruction to sing again (Call. Ap.25, ἱὴ ἱὴ φθέγγεσθε). Following this instruction, the ambiguity of voice disappears somewhat as the hymn arrives at what may (or may not) be the beginning of the narrative section.47 A long narrative section follows as the hymn moves from place to place48 before the narrator intrudes one last time. This time the voice returns to the first person plural, (Cal. Ap.97, ἱὴ ἱὴ παιῆον ἀκούομεν), as the narrator introduces the aetiology of the ritual cry. Thus, by the end of the hymn, narrator and chorus speak with one voice, echoing similar moves of inclusion at the close of the inscribed paians at Erythrae, Delphi, and Epidaurus. But what of the narrative section? Whether this begins following the second command to the chorus to sing (Call. Ap.25, ἱὴ ἱὴ φθέγγεσθε) is uncertain. As Bing (1993: 186-187) notes: “There can be no doubt that a choral song occurs in the subsequent course of the hymn, that it probably begins soon after the speaker’s command, and that it is evidently still in progress over 70 lines later at 97, when the speaker says that he hears the refrain. But in between these two more or less fixed points – i.e. between the injunction to sing at 25 and the reference to hearing the song at 97 – all is uncertainty. There are no introductory or closing formulae to set off reported speech, nothing comparable to quotation marks that could help us distinguish the voices. Still, there is clearly a shift away from the poem’s vivid mimetic frame to a more conventional hymnic narrative, and that may well be due to the chorus’ song.” Despite his best intentions (and acknowledgement that there is probably no correct answer), Bing does attempt to locate the precise division between the mimetic opening and the chorus’ song (as reported by the narrator), deciding upon the second address to the chorus (Call. Ap.25 ἱὴ ἱὴ φθέγγεσθε). By contrast, Frederick Williams (1978: 39) prefers to 47. Although note Call. Ap.30-1 οὐδ’ ὁ χορὸς τὸν Φοῖβον ἐφ’ ἓν μόνον ἦμαρ ἀείσει, / ἔστι γὰρ εὔυμνος· τίς ἂν οὐ ῥέα Φοῖβον ἀείδοι; This provides a very general statement about singing for Apollo and seems to return one final time to the narrative voice as a complete outsider. 48. See Calame (1993) for an analysis of the hymn’s use of place and profiling of Cyrene.

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see the middle narrative section of the hymn beginning with the description of Apollo’s appearance (Call. Ap.32 χρύσεα τὠπόλλωνι τό τ’ ἐνδυτὸν ἥ τ’ ἐπιπορπίς). Yet if one considers the fact that the description of Apollo from lines 32-41 could be referring to the cult statue of Apollo at Cyrene49 then, for those audiences who were aware of the Cyrenaean context, this section would be the concluding part of the mimetic frame and the choral song itself might not begin until line 42. It is clear that in the HymntoApollo the ‘voice oscillates’50 and it is thus impossible to pinpoint precisely either the speaker or the addressee. This ambiguity and oscillation of voice would evoke different performance scenarios for different audiences; for instance, a hypothetical performance at the Cyrenaean Carneia would render the description of Apollo’s cult statue superfluous and these lines function as the first part of an invocation of Apollo’s qualities. However for an audience familiar with the Carneia but not physically present in Cyrene, the description of the cult statuewould further evoke the spectacle and performance context of the festival. Another audience, entirely unfamiliar with Cyrenaean cult, might see the hymn as evoking a different festival to Apollo or not rooted in any one particular context at all. The Hymn to Apollo thus expands upon the mimetic technique of inscribed paians in order to provide a suitable memory or illusion of performance. While it is entirely possible that the hymn was composed with an eye to performance at a festival in Cyrene, this should not rule out an alternative performance intended for an audience interested in the hymn’s literary artifice. Moreover, the inclusion of the Paian cry several times in the HymntoApollo(Call. Ap.21, 25, 80, 97, 103)marks it as a paian for Callimachus51 and thus Callimachus would naturally have included other elements of the paian genre. By the third century BCE these included the mimetic frame found in inscribed paians that also show the same shift in voice (albeit with less ambiguity between opening invocation and narrative/praise) as the HymntoApollo.This shared strategy between inscribed paians and the Hymn to Apollo to explain the unique structure of Callimachus’ HymntoApollowhen compared to the BathsofPallasand the HymntoDemeter. 49. Acosta-Hughes & Stephens (2012: 9 n.40, 157-8). 50. Vestrheim (2012: 40). Vestrheim is primarily interested in this ‘oscillation’ as a method by which Callimachus’ own poetic voice can enter into the narrative, viewing it as an inheritance of Pindar. This is not surprising in itself but we must also be aware that the mimetic frame and ambiguity of speaking voice is also characteristic of inscribed paians. It should be noted that Pindar, Callimachus, and inscribed paians all share some interest in questions of reperformance. 51. See the discussion of P.Oxy2368 above.

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5. Paians on Stone and in Book Callimachus’ mimetic opening is much more extensive than the exhortations to the chorus found in the inscribed paians due to the different media which the texts are composed in. Thus, inscribed paians need only a short mimetic frame since they are surrounded by the wider context of the sanctuary they are inscribed in. Visitors to the sanctuary of Apollo and Asclepius at Erythrae would not need to have the cult statue and temple described in the paian they were reading on stone since they could see these things in front of their own eyes. What they would be missing however is the performance of the ritual and it is this that the paratextual sacred lawand the mimetic opening [Παιᾶνα κλυτό]μητιν ἀείσατε | κοῦροι [Λατοΐδαν Ἕκ]ατον (Pae Eryth. 1-2) attempt to conjure up. Philodamus’ paian, describing the golden statues of Apollo and Dionysus and the completed temple of Apollo, is an important exception to the general trend of mimeticism in inscribed paians. Its extended mimetic description is due to the fact that Philodamus was composing the paian at a time when Delphi was undergoing major building work. At the time of composition and inscription, Philodamus could not rely on the surroundings of the sanctuary to summon up the full glory of the paian’s performance. Besides serving as a handy hurry-up message to financiers on behalf of the Amphictyonic League,52 the description of the cult statues provides a reader in the 330s BCE with the full ritual context for the paian’s performance, thereby looking forward to the hymn’s performance in the correct, rebuilt surroundings. By contrast, Callimachus’ HymntoApollohas no physical surroundings whatsoever. This allows Callimachus to further expand on the mimetic frame and to create an opening that could point the audience towards several performance contexts, either real or imagined. By virtue of its extended mimetic opening, the hymn can be read or performed in any location and is not bounded temporally or spatially. Furthermore, unlike the Paean Erythraeus that also established itself in several locations, these contexts need not be within cult surroundings. The extended mimetic opening takes the place of the inscription’s surroundings; the god’s temple and sacred flora are included within Callimachus’ Hymn toApollowhile the ambiguous shift between the mimetic opening and the narrative sections further allows the audience to be caught up in the atmosphere of ritual performance that the hymn is trying to create. As 52. Furley & Bremer (2001b: 75)

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the voice of the reader, performer, or performers moves from second person to first person and back again, both the hymn’s reader/performer and the listener would be caught up in the dizzying description and excitement of the cult spectacle described.53 Finally, it is worth noting that the mimetic frame is not the only device which links Callimachus with inscribed paians and contemporary cult. Ivana Petrovic (2011) has noted that the famous sphragis that concludes theHymntoApollofeatures links to both sacred laws (especially the Cyrenaean Purity Law) and the records of divine approval in inscribed hymns. Many inscribed paians feature some reference to the inauguration of the rite or the composition and inscription being divinely approved of; the Paean Erythraeus is preceded by a sacred law,Isyllus provides both sacred law and approval from the Delphic oracle, and writing a short paian several centuries later, notes that he composed it at the behest of the god. Most importantly, as Petrovic (2011: 279-82) notes, Philodamus’ paian weaves the divine instruction that the Delphians should sing τόνδ᾽ ὕμνον to Dionysus into the broader surrounds of Apollo’s instructions for the establishment of the new festival.54 Petrovic’s arguments for the importance of divine approval and purity laws in Callimachus’ HymntoApolloare a reminder that Callimachus would have been closely connected to and well aware of contemporary religious practice. Petrovic’s argument can be extended further by noting that (as with mimeticism) the presence of paratexts indicating divine approval exists only within inscribed hymns which are paians.55 The choice therefore to include the sphragisat the end of the HymntoApollo rests not just on links to Cyrenaean religious practice but also the hymn’s status as a paian. Petrovic’s (2011: 285) conclusion that “in this hymn, religion and poetics are inseparable” holds true not just for understanding Callimachus’ aims in composing the sphragis but for the mimetic frame and questions of performance as a whole.

53. My approach here bears similarities with Gramps (this volume) who sees the Hymn toApolloas “an oscillation between two experientialframeswhich I will call ‘experiencereport’ and ‘performed-speech.’” 54. Stephens (2015: 75) notes the close parallels too between the sphragisand the end of Timotheus’ Persae (Tim. Pers. 202-240) in which Timotheus appeals to Apollo’s protection against accusations that he offended the older Muse with innovative poetry. This parallel further strengthens the links between Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo and fourth century BCE poetry. 55. Cf. Cheshire (2008) who demonstrates the continual presence of choral motifs in the sphragisand its links to the rest of the hymn.

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6. Conclusion This paper has suggested that Callimachus’ HymntoApollo uses a similar strategy to evoke a performance context as the composers of inscribed paians in the late-Classical and Hellenistic periods. Links to inscribed paians help explain the unique structure of the HymntoApolloas well as the inclusion of the sphragis, featuring Apollo’s divine authorisation, at the end of the hymn. Yet these inscriptions of paians on stone and in books should not be seen as emblematic of the loss of performance context and generic decline56 but an illustration of broader changes in literary culture due to social changes such as increasing literacy, the rise of the book-roll, and the canonisation of famous authors. It is clear from the inscribed paians considered above that new paians were still being produced and performed, albeit with more variety in occasion than they had previously enjoyed (indeed the reinscription of the Paean Erythraeus in Athens, Macedonia, and Egypt during the imperial period is testament to the success of some of these new compositions). The institution of new festivals meanwhile shows that performance of cult songs was still a vital part of religious practice. Yet the rise of inscribed paians and the experiments of Callimachus suggest a desire to explore new contexts and uses for hymns and religious poetry. This should not be surprising when one considers the literary and religious landscape of lateClassical Greece; fourth-century Greece saw the development of both new music and genres57 and new cults and religious practices,58 prefiguring later developments in the Hellenistic period. All of the texts examined in this paper leave open the possibility for performance. However by being inscribed on stone and in bookrolls, they display an awareness of the necessity to be reperformed and/or reread outside of their original ritual occasion. By using mimetic frames and blurring the line between speaker and chorus, these paians attempt to preserve the memory and illusion of performance in a religious context – even for a lone reader in Delphi, Alexandria, or twenty-first California.

56. Pace Rutherford (2001), 126-36 who claims that Callimachus is employing ‘generic allusion’ to make up for the loss of performance context. 57. See further Ford (2011); LeVen (2014). 58. E.g. the awarding of divine honours to Lysander (Plut. Lys.18) or the rise of the cult of Tyche at Athens, Thebes, Corinth and Megara in the fourth BCE (Johansen 2006).

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Acosta-Hughes, B. & S.A. Stephens, 2012, CallimachusinContext:FromPlato totheAugustanPoets. Cambridge Bing, P., 1993, “Impersonation of Voice in Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo”. TAPA123, 181-198 Bing, P., 1995, “Ergänzungsspiel in the Epigrams of Callimachus”. In: A&A41, 115-131 Calame, C., 1993, “Legendary narration and poetic procedure in Callimachus’ HymntoApollo”. In: Harder, M.A. et al. (eds), Callimachus(Hellenistica Groningana1). Leuven-Paris-Dudley, MA, 37-55 Cameron, A., 1995, CallimachusandhisCritics. Princeton Cheshire, K., 2008, “Kicking ΦΘΟΝΟΣ: Apollo and His Chorus in Callimachus’ Hymn2”. In: CPh103.4, 354-73 D’Alessio, G.B., 1994a, “First-Person Problems in Pindar”. In: BICS39, 11739 D’Alessio, G.B., 1994b, “The Greek Paean: Lutz Käppel: Paian: Studien zur GeschichteeinerGattung”. In: CR44.1, 62-5 D’Alessio, G.B., 2000, “Stephan Schröder, GeschichteundTheoriederGattung Paian”. In: BMCRev2000.01.24 D’Alessio, G.B., 2004, “Past Future and Present Past: Temporal Deixis in Greek Archaic Lyric”. In: Arethusa37.3, 267-94 D’Alessio, G.B., 2007, “Calllimaco:Inni,Epigrammi,Ecale.” Milan Day, J.W., 2000, “Epigram and Reader: Generic Force as (Re-)Activation of Ritual”. In: Depew, M. & D. Obbink, MatricesofGenre:Authors,Canons, andSociety. Cambridge, MA, 37-57. Depew, M., 1993, “Mimesis and aetiology in Callimachus’ Hymns”. In: Harder, M.A. et al. (eds), Callimachus(HellenisticaGroningana1). Leuven-ParisDudley, MA, 57-77 Depew, M., 2000, “Enacted and Represented Dedications: Genre and Greek Hymn”. In: Depew, M. & D. Obbink, MatricesofGenre:Authors,Canons, andSociety. Cambridge MA, 59-79. Engelmann, H. & R. Merkelbach, 1972, Die Inschriften von Erythrae und Klazomenai. Bonn Fantuzzi, M., 2010, “Sung Poetry: The Case of Inscribed Paeans”. In: Clauss, J.J. & M. Cuypers (eds.), ACompaniontoHellenisticLiterature. CirencesterMalden, MA, 181-96 Ford, A., 2006, “The Genre of Genres: Paeans and Paian in Early Greek Poetry”. In: Poetica38, 277-96 Ford, A., 2011, Aristotle as Poet: The Song for Hermias and its Contexts. Oxford Fraser, P.M., 1972, PtolemaicAlexandria. Oxford Furley, W.D. & J. M. Bremer, 2001a, Greek Hymns: selected cult songs from theArchaictotheHellenisticPeriod.VolumeI:TheTextsinTranslation. Tübingen Furley, W.D. & J. M. Bremer, 2001b, Greek Hymns: selected cult songs from the Archaic to the Hellenistic Period. Volume II: Greek Texts and Commentary. Tübingen Graf, F., 1971, NordionischeKulte. Rome

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Gramps, A., this volume, “Rethinking ‘mimetic poetry’ and Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo” In: Harder, M.A. et al. (eds.), Drama and Performance in HellenisticPoetry(HellenisticaGroningana12) Hanink, J., 2014, LycurganAthensandtheMakingofClassicalTragedy.Cambridge Harder, A., 1992, “Insubstantial Voices: Some Observations on the Hymns of Callimachus”. In: CQ42.2, 384-94 Johansen, N., 2006, “Tyche”. In: Brill’sNewPauly. Leiden Käppel, L.,1992, Paian  :StudienzurGeschichteeinerGattung. Berlin Käppel, L., 2002, “Ian Rutherford, Pindar’sPaeans:AReadingoftheFragments withaSurveyoftheGenre”. In: BMCRev 2002.10.38 Kolde, A., 2003, PolitiqueetreligionchezIsyllusd’Epidaure. Basel Kolde, A., 2010, “Les péans d’Érythrées, d’Isyllus et de Macedonicus: simples variations ou originalité?”. In: Goeken, J. (ed.), Larhétoriquedelaprière dansl’Antiquitégrecque. Turnhout, 125-39 LeVen, P., 2014, The Many-Headed Muse: Tradition and Innovation in Late ClassicalGreekPoetry. Cambridge Petrovic, A., 2013, “Inscribed Epigrams in Orators and Epigrammatic Collections”. In: Liddel, P. & P. Low (eds), InscriptionsandTheirUsesinGreek andLatinLiterature. Oxford. 197-213 Petrovic, I., 2007, VondenTorendesHadeszudenHallendesOlymp:ArtemiskultbeiTheokritundKallimachos. Leiden Petrovic, I., 2011, “Callimachus and Contemporary Religion: The Hymn to Apollo”. In: Acosta-Hughes, B. et al. (eds.), Brill’sCompaniontoCallimachus. Leiden, 264-85 Petrovic, I., 2012, “Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo and Greek metrical sacred regulations”. In: Harder, M.A. et al. (eds), GodsandReligioninHellenistic Poetry(HellenisticaGroningana9). Leuven-Paris-Dudley, MA, 281-306 Prauscello, L., 2011, “Digging Up the Musical Past: Callimachus and New Music”. In: Acosta-Hughes, B. et al. (eds.), Brill’sCompaniontoCallimachus. Leiden, 289-308 Pulleyn, S., 1999, PrayerinGreekReligion. Oxford Rutherford, I., 2001, Pindar’s Paeans: A Reading of the Fragments with a SurveyoftheGenre. Oxford Schröder, S., 1999, GeschichteundTheoriederGattungPaian. Stuttgart-Leipzig Sokolowski, F., 1955, Loissacréesdel’AsieMineure. Paris Stephens, S.A., 2015, Callimachus:TheHymns. Oxford Vamvouri Ruffy, M., 2004, Lafabriquedudivin  :lesHymnesdeCallimaque àlalumièredesHymneshomériquesetdesHymnesépigraphiques. Liège Vestrheim, G., 2012, “Voice and Addressee in the Mimetic Hymns of Callimachus”. In: SO86.1, 21-73 Wilamowtiz-Moellendorff, U. von, 1909, NordionischeSteine. Berlin Williams, F., 1978, Callimachus’‘HymntoApollo’:ACommentary. Oxford

READING AND PERFORMING DIDACTIC POETRY IN THE HELLENISTIC PERIOD Kathryn WILSON

1. Introduction: Orality and Interactivity in Didactic Poetry In his essays accompanying the editioprinceps of the Phaenomena, Ernst Maass argued that the proem, the so-called ‘Hymn to Zeus,’ showed evidence reflecting a performance of the poem by Aratus at a convivial gathering of poets.1 Mannfred Erren, seventy years later, rejected Maass’ idea of a specific historical performance, but nevertheless believed the proem was intended to simulate a hymn performed during a specific instance of a ritual dedicated of Zeus.2 In the fifty years since Erren’s monograph, however, there has been little continuation of the conversation about what the performative qualities of the proem, and the Phaenomenaas a whole, might mean. In this paper, I would like to leave behind unanswerable questions about specific performance contexts and simulated rituals, and focus on how these performative qualities pertain to the work as a didactic poem. After all, as any professor can attest, teaching is inherently performative, and that is reflected in poems that purport to depict an instance of educating.3 In this paper, I will consider the place of the Phaenomena, and other Hellenistic didactic poetry, in both ancient and modern discussions of the subject, using both the evidence within our surviving Hellenistic didactic poems, as well as two depictions of performances in which poetry is used to teach: the catasterism of Dike in Aratus’ Phaenomena and Orpheus’ song in Apollonius’ Argonautica.

1. Maass (1892: 317-320). He sees the address to Zeus, the “earlier generations” (Arat.16), and the Muses deriving from the triple invocation of the gods at a symposium. See also Kidd (1997: 172-173) on the complete history of readings of this passage. 2. Erren (1967: 9-16). 3. Many scholars have questioned the sincerity of almost every didactic poet’s desire to teach, going back to Seneca’s comment about Vergil’s Georgics, see Sen.Ep.86.15. Effe (1977: 28-31), uses it as his main rubric for classification. He defines three types of didactic, those teaching obliquely, like Aratus’ Phaenomena, (1977: 40-56), those teaching explicitly, like Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura, (1977: 66-79), and those focused on form, like the poems of Nicander, (1977: 56-67), in which he sees no true interest in teaching at all. However, even insincere depictions of teaching reveal the poet’s underlying beliefs about pedagogy, and so I have not addressed the issue in this paper.

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Didactic poetry has always been a difficult, and in many ways anachronistic, genre to define.4 The poems we classify as such, however, tend to be characterized by repeated imperative verbs, second person addresses, and deictic particles, all features that create a ‘conceit of a performance,’ as if these poems contain a transcript of a teacher lecturing.5 Katharina Volk, in her study of Latin didactic poetry, uses the term “poetic simultaneity” to describe this fictionally oral composition style.6 Volk does not restrict poetic simultaneity to didactic poetry, but instead sees it as a widespread phenomenon within poetic works that mark points in their performance, real or fictive, with explicit signposting.7 This simultaneity, in her view, is always meant to suggest performance, rather than written composition: “the poem that is coming into being as it evolves is conceived of as a song sung by the poet; we are hardly ever given the impression that we are looking over the poet’s shoulder as he is writing.”8 It represents, she argues, an attempt at replicating the effects of oral composition in a written poem. Although she acknowledges it is not unique to didactic poetry, Volk certainly sees poetic simultaneity as a crucial component to the genre. Scholars tend to attribute these features to the poets’ desire to imitate Hesiod and the oral tradition of poetic composition.9 For example, Floris Overduin has argued that in the Theriaca, Nicander is also aiming at an “associative” style to give an artificial patina of orality to his work.10 In the proem, Nicander offers two separate aitia, one of the origin of snakes and other venomous animals, and one of the Orion constellation, but the transition between them is very vague: Ἀλλ’ ἤτοι κακοεργὰ φαλάγγια, σὺν καὶ ἀνιγρούς ἑρπηστὰς ἔχιάς τε καὶ ἄχθεα μυρία γαίης Τιτήνων ἐνέπουσιν ἀφ’ αἵματος, εἰ ἐτεόν περ 4. On the genre of didactic poetry, and how much we can discuss it as an actual genre in the Hellenistic period, see Effe (1977: 22-26); Volk (2002: 25-68). In this paper, I use the term only in reference to our modern classification of the work, without implication that the poet would have applied the same term to his own work. 5. See Toohey (1996: 2-5). 6. Volk (2002: 12-24). As she explains, p. 13, Volk actually coined the term to refer to Ovid’s Fasti, rather than specifically for her discussion of didactic poetry. 7. Volk (2002: 13) gives the example of the poet’s address to the Muse in Homeric epic: “the speaker of the Homeric epics asks the Muse to sing, which implies that the song is starting ‘right now.’” 8. Volk (2002: 16), emphasis in the original. 9. The historical context of Hesiod’s poetry is still very much a contentious topic, see Nagy (2009: 273, n. 8). For the purposes of this paper, it does not matter whether poets were imitating these features with any understanding of how they arose. 10. Overduin (2014: 186). Overduin uses Volk’s theoretical framework as his own guideline in thinking about Nicander as a didactic poet.

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Ἀσκραῖος μυχάτοιο Μελισσήεντος ἐπ’ ὄχθαις Ἡσίοδος κατέλεξε παρ’ ὕδασι Περμησσοῖο. τὸν δὲ χαλαζήεντα κόρη Τιτηνὶς ἀνῆκε σκορπίον, ἐκ κέντροιο τεθηγμένον, ἦμος ἐπέχρα Βοιωτῷ τεύχουσα κακὸν μόρον Ὠαρίωνι, ἀχράντων ὅτε χερσὶ θεῆς ἐδράξατο πέπλων· αὐτὰρ ὅγε στιβαροῖο κατὰ σφυρὸν ἤλασεν ἴχνευς σκορπίος ἀπροϊδὴς ὀλίγῳ ὑπὸ λᾶι λοχήσας· τοῦ δὲ τέρας περίσημον ὑπ’ ἀστέρας ἀπλανὲς αὔτως οἷα κυνηλατέοντος ἀείδελον ἐστήρικται. (Nic.Ther.8-20) But truly, evil-doing spiders, and with them troublesome reptiles and vipers and the countless burdens of the earth, they say these are from the blood of Titans, if the Ascraean at the steeps of the remote Melisseeis, Hesiod, recounted truly, beside the waters of the Permessus. The Titanian daughter sent up the chilling scorpion, with its stinger whetted, when she attacked, fashioning an evil fate for the Boeotian Orion, after he grasped at her undefiled peplos. But this one struck him at the ankle of his mighty foot, the unseen scorpion, lying in wait under a little stone. And his illustrious sign, there under the unwandering stars, as if he were hunting, is set firm, blindingly bright.

Only the particle δέ marks the shift from the biological to the astronomical aitiology, and Overduin interprets this as an attempt by the poet to suggest that the first story merely reminded him of the next in the course of singing the poem. Volk argues for an increase in the use of poetic simultaneity in Hellenistic and Latin poetry, as actual performance of poetry decreased.11 Peter Toohey also sees an important shift in didactic poetry in the Hellenistic period. Toohey frames his history of the development of Greek didactic poetry around the shift from oral composition, represented by Hesiod, to a “semi-oral” style that Xenophanes, Parmenides, and Empedocles may have used, and finally to the triumph of writing and the book in the Hellenistic Age, as exemplified by Aratus and Nicander.12 Toohey, however, sees the poems of Aratus and Nicander as delighting in the fact that their poems are read, not heard, and deliberately eschewing any performative qualities in their writing.13 This is directly at odds with the dramatic qualities earlier scholars found in the opening of the Phaenomena.

11. Volk (2002: 20). This may be a false narrative, however, as poetic performance was still a thriving industry in the Hellenistic period, see Cinalli (this volume: 000). 12. Toohey (1996: 38-40; 43-48), on Parmenides, Empedocles, and the oral tradition, (1996: 49-51), on Aratus and Nicander and book culture 13. Toohey (1996: 76-77).

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In many ways, Aratus’ Phaenomenaseems to be perfect representation of the issues these scholars discuss. Aratus, if the vitae and Hipparchus can be trusted, based his poem on the prose written text of Eudoxus’ Phaenomena, something that Toohey connects to the fetishization of writing in Hellenistic didactic.14 Moreover, Aratus seems particularly interested in what the written word can do, especially in his interest in acrostics. Acrostics only work in written texts, and Aratus’ most famous and most secure, the λεπτή acrostic (Arat.783-87) is thematically important for the poem as a whole.15 The acrostic itself occurs in a relatively prosaic section on lunar weather signs, but it is preceded by a passage that gives the acrostic greater significance: πάντα γὰρ οὔπω ἐκ Διὸς ἄνθρωποι γινώσκομεν, ἀλλ’ ἔτι πολλὰ κέκρυπται, τῶν αἴ κε θέλῃ καὶ ἐσαυτίκα δώσει Ζεύς· ὁ γὰρ οὖν γενεὴν ἀνδρῶν ἀναφανδὸν ὀφέλλει πάντοθεν εἰδόμενος, πάντη δ’ ὅ γε σήματα φαίνων. (Arat.768-72) For we humans do not yet recognize everything from Zeus, but many things still lie hidden, which Zeus will quickly show if he wishes. Indeed, he aids mankind manifestly, visible from everywhere, and revealing signs in every way.

Aratus encourages his audience to look for signs, and then hides one in the text for them, a sign only available to an audience who are reading this work, not hearing it.16 Aratus’ acrostic utilized the benefits of text to teach a lesson, but the shift from a live performer to a written text has many disadvantages as well. There are features of the poem that work better when read aloud or performed, such as the pun on his name in the second line of the poem.17 But the most important problem is the loss of direct interaction between the teacher and student. Aratus is aware of the importance of that relationship, as is shown when he describes a teacher and a student looking at the Milky Way: Εἴ ποτέ τοι νυκτὸς καθαρῆς, ὅτε πάντας ἀγαυοὺς ἀστέρας ἀνθρώποις ἐπιδείκνυται οὐρανίη Νύξ, οὐδέ τις ἀδρανέων φέρεται διχόμηνι σελήνῃ, 14. On Aratus and Eudoxus, Kidd (1997: 14-18) provides an overview of the evidence; Toohey (1996: 49-51). 15. Hunter (1995). 16. After Jacques (1960), many other scholars have proposed other acrostics in the Phaenomena, see Hanses (2014:.609, n.2), for a complete bibliographic list of proposed acrostics. None of these have been as universally accepted as the original λεπτή acrostic. 17. Bing (1990).

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ἀλλὰ τάγε κνέφαος διαφαίνεται ὀξέα πάντα, εἴ ποτέ τοι τῆμόσδε περὶ φρένας ἵκετο θαῦμα σκεψαμένῳ πάντη κεκεασμένον εὐρέϊ κύκλῳ οὐρανόν, ἢ καί τίς τοι ἐπιστὰς ἄλλος ἔδειξεν κεῖνο περιγληνὲς τροχαλόν, Γάλα μιν καλέουσιν. (Arat.469-76) If ever on a clear night, when heavenly Night shows off the brilliant stars to men, and none are made faint by the mid-month moon, but they all shine out sharply through the dark, if ever then awe comes to your mind while looking at the heavens split wholly by a wide circle, or if someone else standing next to you pointed out that wheel spotted all over with eyes (περιγληνὲς), they call it Milky (Γάλα).

If someone is having difficulty finding the Milky Way, the poem cannot help her. There are things a teacher can do in person that Aratus’ Phaenomena, as a text,cannot. The contrast between Aratus’ putatively oral style and his exploitation of the written word were apparently a concern to other Hellenistic poets as well. Nicander perhaps highlights the contradiction by combining Aratus’ aural signature and his written acrostic by making an acrostic of his name.18 Apollonius’ response in the Argonautica is slightly more obtuse. After the Argonauts have successfully launched the ship, Jason orders the creation of an altar to Apollo Aktius and Embasius and utters a prayer: Κλῦθι ἄναξ Παγασάς τε πόλιν τ’ Αἰσωνίδα ναίων ἡμετέροιο τοκῆος ἐπώνυμον, ὅς μοι ὑπέστης Πυθοῖ χρειομένῳ ἄνυσιν καὶ πείραθ’ ὁδοῖο σημανέειν, αὐτὸς γὰρ ἐπαίτιος ἔπλευ ἀέθλων· αὐτὸς νῦν ἄγε νῆα σὺν ἀρτεμέεσσιν ἑταίροις κεῖσέ τε καὶ παλίνορσον ἐς Ἑλλάδα. σοὶ δ’ ἂν ὀπίσσω τόσσων ὅσσοι κεν νοστήσομεν ἀγλαὰ ταύρων ἱρὰ πάλιν βωμῷ ἐπιθήσομεν, ἄλλα δὲ Πυθοῖ, ἄλλα δ’ ἐς Ὀρτυγίην ἀπερείσια δῶρα κομίσσω· νῦν δ’ ἴθι, καὶ τήνδ’ ἧμιν, Ἑκηβόλε, δέξο θυηλήν, ἥν τοι τῆσδ’ ἐπίβαθρα χάριν προτιθείμεθα νηός πρωτίστην· λύσαιμι δ’, ἄναξ, ἐπ’ ἀπήμονι μοίρῃ πείσματα σὴν διὰ μῆτιν· ἐπιπνεύσειε δ’ ἀήτης μείλιχος, ᾧ κ’ ἐπὶ πόντον ἐλευσόμεθ’ εὐδιόωντες. (A.R.1.411-24) Hear me, lord who dwells in Pagasae and the Aesonian city named for my father, who promised to mark out for me the accomplishment and the limits of my journey, when I consulted your oracle at Pythia, for you were responsible for my ordeal. And now, come, lead the ship there and back to Greece, together with my companions, safe and sound.

18. Nic. Ther. 345-353. On Nicander’s acrostic, see Overduin (2014: 312-315).

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Afterwards, we will dedicate to you on this altar as many shining bulls as the number of us who return, and I will give countless other gifts to Pythia and in Ortygia. Now, come, Far-Darter, and receive our sacrifice, which we dedicate first of all to you for the safe passage of this ship. May I loose the cables, lord, with an auspicious fate, through you counsel. And may a propitious wind blow, by which we will pass over the sea with good weather.

As Selina Stewart has noted, an acrostic of the word ἄκτια occurs in lines 415-419.19 She argues that the acrostic cannot be accidental based on the proximity of the reference to Apollo Aktius.20 There are multiple Aratean references here. The line immediately preceding the acrostic begins with the verb σημανέειν, an important thematic verb in the Phaenomena, and one that Aratus uses twice in the proem.21 Jason also ends with a request for a μείλιχος wind, the same epithet Aratus uses for the Muses, in the same sedes at the end of the proem.22 These connect the passage to Aratus’ experimentations with text in the Phaenomena. It is therefore very interesting that Apollonius embeds his acrostic in the speech of one character, so that it is only available to the external audience, not the internal one, and only if that audience is reading the work, not listening to it. He replicates an oral acrostic in a textual format. The passage suggests that Apollonius is also highly conscious of the tension between oral performance and written poetry, as it pertains to the audience’s reception of each, and he uses Aratus’ Phaenomena as his model to think about the issue. In sum, modern scholars have repeatedly noticed the prominence of a performative quality in works we classify as didactic. It is clear that ancient authors also contemplated how the growing prominence of text impacted the role of poetry and their concerns touched specifically its role in education. In what follows, I will discuss two passages in Hellenistic poetry that depict performances of poetry that have a specific, educational effect, to suggest that the role of performance in teaching was well understood, and that audiences could take real pleasure in hearing these works as well. We should consider both the connection to orality and the educational value of interactivity to be equal components in the conceit of the performance in Hellenistic didactic poetry.

19. 20. 21. 22.

Stewart (2010). Stewart (2010: 401). A.R.1.414; Arat.6;16. A.R.1.424; Arat.17.

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2. Dike, the Didactic Goddess The first passage that provides a context of performing didactic poetry is Aratus’ story of the catasterism of Dike in the Phaenomena. The passage depicts the goddess Dike’s interaction with people and how it gradually changes over time, as Aratus shows us a spectrum of types of instruction: ἀμφοτέροισι δὲ ποσσὶν ὕπο σκέπτοιο Βοώτεω παρθένον, ἥ ῥ᾽ ἐν χερσὶ φέρει Στάχυν αἰγλήεντα. εἴτ᾽ οὖν Ἀστραίου κείνη γένος, ὅν ῥά τέ φασιν ἄστρων ἀρχαῖον πατέρ᾽ ἔμμεναι, εἴτε τευ ἄλλου, εὔκηλος φορέοιτο: λόγος γε μὲν ἐντρέχει ἄλλος ἀνθρώποις, ὡς δῆθεν ἐπιχθονίη πάρος ἦεν, ἤρχετο δ᾽ ἀνθρώπων κατεναντίη, οὐδέ ποτ᾽ ἀνδρῶν οὐδέ ποτ᾽ ἀρχαίων ἠνήνατο φῦλα γυναικῶν, ἀλλ᾽ ἀναμὶξ ἐκάθητο, καὶ ἀθανάτη περ ἐοῦσα. καί ἑ Δίκην καλέεσκον: ἀγειρομένη δὲ γέροντας, ἠέ που εἰν ἀγορῇ ἢ εὐρυχόρῳ ἐν ἀγυιῇ, δημοτέρας ἤειδεν ἐπισπέρχουσα θέμιστας. οὔπω λευγαλέου τότε νείκεος ἠπίσταντο οὐδέ διακρίσιος πολυμεμφέος οὐδέ κυδοιμοῦ, αὕτως δ᾽ ἔζωον: χαλεπὴ δ᾽ ἀπέκειτο θάλασσα, καὶ βίον οὔπω νῆες ἀπόπροθεν ἠγίνεσκον, ἀλλὰ βόες καὶ ἄροτρα καὶ αὐτή, πότνια λαῶν, μυρία πάντα παρεῖχε Δίκη, δώτειρα δικαίων. τόφρ᾽ ἦν, ὄφρ᾽ ἔτι γαῖα γένος χρύσειον ἔφερβεν. ἀργυρέῳ δ᾽ ὀλίγη τε καὶ οὐκέτι πάμπαν ἑτοίμη ὡμίλει, ποθέουσα παλαιῶν ἤθεα λαῶν. ἀλλ᾽ ἔμπης ἔτι κεῖνο κατ᾽ ἀργύρεον γένος ἦεν: ἤρχετο δ᾽ ἐξ ὀρέων ὑποδείελος ἠχηέντων μουνάξ, οὐδέ τεῳ ἐπεμίσγετο μειλιχίοισιν: ἀλλ᾽ ὁπότ᾽ ἀνθρώπων μεγάλας πλήσαιτο κολώνας, ἠπείλει δὴ ἔπειτα καθαπτομένη κακότητος, οὐδ᾽ ἔτ᾽ ἔφη εἰσωπὸς ἐλεύσεσθαι καλέουσιν: «οἵην χρύσειοι πατέρες γενεὴν ἐλίποντο χειροτέρην: ὑμεῖς δὲ κακώτερα τεξείεσθε. καὶ δή που πόλεμοι, καὶ δὴ καὶ ἀνάρσιον αἷμα ἔσσεται ἀνθρώποισι, κακὸν δ᾽ ἐπικείσεται ἄλγος.» ὣς εἰποῦσ᾽ ὀρέων ἐπεμαίετο, τοὺς δ᾽ ἄρα λαοὺς εἰς αὐτὴν ἔτι πάντας ἐλίμπανε παπταίνοντας. ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε δὴ κἀκεῖνοι ἐτέθνασαν, οἱ δ᾽ ἐγένοντο, χαλκείη γενεή, προτέρων ὀλοώτεροι ἄνδρες, οἳ πρῶτοι κακόεργον ἐχαλκεύσαντο μάχαιραν εἰνοδίην,23 πρῶτοι δὲ βοῶν ἐπάσαντ᾽ ἀροτήρων, καὶ τότε μισήσασα Δίκη κείνων γένος ἀνδρῶν 23. The precise meaning of this word is unclear. I have translated as “highway,” but see Kidd (1997: 229).

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ἔπταθ᾽ ὑπουρανίη: ταύτην δ᾽ ἄρα νάσσατο χώρην, ἧχί περ ἐννυχίη ἔτι φαίνεται ἀνθρώποισιν παρθένος, ἐγγὺς ἐοῦσα πολυσκέπτοιο Βοώτεω. (Arat.96-136) Below both the feet of Bootes, you can see the Maiden, who carries in her hand the shining star, Spica. Whether she is the offspring of Astraeus, whom they say is the ancient father of the stars, or of someone else, may she be borne along free from care! Another story circulates among people, that once she was in fact earth-bound, and came face to face with humans, and she never rejected the tribes of ancient men nor of ancient women, but she sat among them, even though she was immortal. They called her Dike, and assembling the chieftains either in the market-place or in the widewayed avenue, she sang them communal laws and encouraged them. Not yet did they understand painful strife, nor blameworthy disputes, nor the din of battle. And they lived in this way: the hard sea was unknown, and not yet did ships bring sustenance from far away, but cattle and ploughs and Dike herself, the queen of the people, supplied everything, the bestower of justice. This lasted as long as the earth nourished the Golden Race. But with the Silver Race, she mingled little, and not entirely eagerly, yearning for the customs of the ancient people. But nevertheless, she still consorted with them. She would come down alone from the echoing mountains in the evening, but she did not mix with anyone favorably anymore, but rather, whenever she had filled great slopes with people, she would threaten them, upbraiding them for wickedness and saying that she would no longer come openly among them, if they called her. “Such offspring your golden fathers bore, so much worse! And you will bear even worse children yourselves. And mankind will have wars and hostile bloodshed, and misery will come upon those evil men.” After she said this, she set off for the mountains and left the people looking around for her everywhere. And when they died, the Bronze Race arose, men more baneful than those before, who first forged the evil highway (εἰνοδίην) knife and who first tasted the plough-ox. And Dike, hating this race of men, flew up into the heavens and settled there, where even still she shines all night for mankind, near far-seen Bootes.

The passage provides the longest mythological narrative in the entire poem and has obvious programmatic importance for the work as a whole. Scholars have interpreted the passage in many ways, but most frequently in the context of its relationship to Hesiod’s ‘Myth of Ages’ in the Works andDays.24 Although it is not explicitly about poetry, the story creates a connection between the Phaenomena and the poetic tradition, with an emphasis on the instructional role of the poet. The details of the changes between the generations are significant. The Golden Age represents an idyllic time, and perhaps also an idyllic representation of archaic poetry. Aratus tells us specifically that Dike sings to the people living in the Golden Age, stressing the performance of poetry and the oral tradition. Dike’s instructions are focused on δημοτέρας… 24. See, for example, Porter (1946) and Fakas (2001).

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θέμιστας, ‘communal laws,’ much like the aphorisms in the Worksand Days.25 Other than the overall structure of the passage, the majority of the Hesiodic similarities come in the description of the Golden Age, such as the open communication between humans and gods and the absence of conflict and hard labor. The details of Dike’s relationship with her audience give us a picture of Aratus’ understanding of the ideal context for poetry. In this Golden Age, there is direct interaction between the singer and the audience. The interactions occur in the agora and in the streets, both public places but not ones specifically designated for the performance of poetry. Poetry is fully integrated into life, and audience and performer have a great deal of contact with one another. In the Silver Age, not only does the morality of the people change, but also Dike’s contact with them. She still performs her instruction, but in a less friendly manner, and she is no longer as connected to the humans she teaches. Aratus tells us that she does not associate with people anymore: that is, the performance has become less interactive. It is not as integrated into daily life as before, but it has become a specific event, with a designated time, the evening, and designated location, the hills, where the people sit and listen to her criticisms. Her performance has become increasingly stylized. The Bronze Age description gives us no further information about Dike’s role, but her final action, inspired by the wickedness of the people, is to retreat from the earth entirely, and become a constellation. This seems to mark a transition from the Bronze Age to the modern era, and Aratus now stresses her visibility in the sky, a similar sentiment to those he expresses about other constellations after telling their catasterism stories.26 She now can provide her lessons to a much wider audience, but the trade-off is that she no longer has any interaction at all with the people she instructs. Hesiod is certainly the most important poetic intertext in the passage, but not necessarily the only one. The fragmentary nature of the poetic works of Empedocles and Parmenides make any influence on the Phaenomenarather speculative, but not beyond the realm of possibility.27 Emma Gee reads Aratus’ use of νεῖκος and κυδοιμός as specific allusions to Empedocles’ use of those terms.28 Gee also interprets the detail about the 25. Arat.107. 26. See, for example, his discussion of the relative brightness of the two Bears, Arat.40-44. 27. We do have good evidence of Apollonius using Empedocles, see Kyriakou (1994), discussed later in this paper. 28. Arat.108-109. Gee (2013: 29-33).

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Bronze Age men eating the plough-ox as a reference to the Pythagoreanism and vegetarianism attributed to Empedocles.29 Connections to Parmenides are even more tenuous. Dike’s warning to the Silver Age is the only direct speech in the entire Phaenomena, and may be a nod to Parmenides’ PeriPhyseos, which was mostly given as a speech voiced by a goddess.30 Although the identity of Parmenides’ goddess in uncertain, Dike played an important role in the poem, appearing in the proem and in an important passage about the fact that his philosophy, or ὁδός, is unperishable.31 These references would suggest that Aratus is interested in the broader tradition of using poetry to instruct than just in Hesiod exclusively. In broad terms, Aratus constructs a chronology of didactic poetry in his progression through the metals, through these references. Hesiod represents the Golden Age, the Silver and Bronze Ages are characterized by less effective poetic performances, possibly of Parmenides and Empedocles, and the poem concludes with the catasterism, which I would suggest represents Aratus’ shift to teaching through written poetry. Aratus often blurs the lines between reading his poetry and ‘reading’ the constellations in the sky.32 Dike has transitioned from singing directly to her audience to shining in the night sky and letting them ‘read’ her from afar. She no longer has any interaction with her audience, but they have a much higher level of access to her. The move from interaction to accessibility is one that greatly interests Aratus. The same contrast, with specific reference to Hesiod, is also made in the catasterism of the Horse, who becomes a constellation after striking Mt. Helicon: Κεῖνον δὴ καί φασι καθ’ ὑψηλοῦ Ἑλικῶνος καλὸν ὕδωρ ἀγαγεῖν εὐαλδέος Ἱππουκρήνης. Οὐ γάρ πω Ἑλικὼν ἄκρος κατελείβετο πηγαῖς· ἀλλ’ Ἵππος μιν ἔτυψε· τὸ δ’ ἀθρόον αὐτόθεν ὕδωρ ἐξέχυτο πληγῇ προτέρου ποδός· οἱ δὲ νομῆες πρῶτοι κεῖνο ποτὸν διεφήμισαν Ἱππουκρήνην. Ἀλλὰ τὸ μὲν πέτρης ἀπολείβεται, οὐδέ τοι αὐτὸ Θεσπιέων ἀνδρῶν ἑκὰς ὄψεαι· αὐτὰρ ὅγ’ Ἵππος ἐν Διὸς εἱλεῖται, καί τοι πάρα θηήσασθαι. (Arat.216-224)

29. Gee (2013: 29), citing Emp.128. See also Kidd (1997: 229-230), on the role of Empedocles in the reference to the plow-oxen. 30. Parm.1. See Toohey (1996: 38). 31. Parm.1;8. Parm.8.2 also includes a reference to the importance of “σήματα,” another important term for Aratus. In addition, I am grateful to Professor Ambühl for the suggestion that Parmenides’ metaphor of philosophy as a ὁδός could explain Aratus’ term εἰνοδίην, which has long troubled scholars, see n.23. 32. See Volk (2012: 232-235).

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That one they say brought down from lofty Helicon the lovely water of fragrant Hippocrene. For not yet was the peak of Helicon dripping with springs, but then the Horse struck it, and all the water poured out from that spot at the blow of the first foot. And the first shepherds made famous the Hippocrene spring. But it trickled out of the rock, and so it was not seen far from the men of Thespis. But this Horse revolves in the realm of Zeus and you may see it next to him.

Just as the fountain has limited visibility compared to the constellation, Dike moves from a Hesiodic, more restricted scope to a higher level of accessibility when she becomes a constellation to be read, both in the sky and in the Phaenomena. In this way, Aratus’ relationship with Hesiod evinces both the admiring and competitive valences of aemulatio. Hesiod may have been first, but Aratus can reach more people. Like his use of the acrostic, this suggests that Aratus does not see the change from oral to written poetry to be an entirely negative one, especially in an educational context. The Golden Age is perhaps the most idyllic period in Aratus’ chronology, but his perspective on modern life is not as pessimistic as Hesiod’s. And the conclusion of the story, with Dike’s hopeful presence in the sky, highlights the main benefits of written over performed poetry: the greater number of people who can experience it, and, because Dike shines “ἐννυχίη,” their flexibility to experience it without restriction to a single point in time. In this passage, Aratus presents Dike as a representation of the educational role of poetry. As the generations of mankind progress, Dike’s role changes as well, in ways that reflect a changing role of poetry within Aratus’ chronology. She moves from having free exchanges with people to performing in front of them, to finally moving up into the night sky where people can see her on their own schedule. The entire passage demonstrates a particular interest with how poetry can be used for instruction, but only the middle option is portrayed unambiguously negatively. Both the Hesiodic and the Aratean styles, unsurprisingly, have their benefits. The rather disparaging Silver Age poetic performances may even be a justification for Aratus’ decision to follow Hesiod’s model in his own poetic style instead of that of the philosopher poets. 3. Orpheus’ Lesson The depiction of Orpheus in the Argonautica is complicated, as Murray (this volume) explores, but having such an important bard on board the Argo allows Apollonius to depict a wide range of poetic performances. Often these scenes depict the physical power of song, such as in Orpheus’

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‘battle’ with the Sirens, or when his music propels the Argonauts to row faster. Apollonius also shows Orpheus performing in a wide range of social situations, such as the propitiation of Rhea at Mt. Dindymon, the sacrifice after the battle with the Bebrycians, and outside the cave during the ‘marriage’ of Jason and Medea.33 He also performs at the embarkation feast, and this song offers another perspective on the instructional role of poetry: ἤειδεν δ᾽ ὡς γαῖα καὶ οὐρανὸς ἠδὲ θάλασσα, τὸ πρὶν ἐπ᾽ ἀλλήλοισι μιῇ συναρηρότα μορφῇ, νείκεος ἐξ ὀλοοῖο διέκριθεν ἀμφὶς ἕκαστα: ἠδ᾽ ὡς ἔμπεδον αἰὲν ἐν αἰθέρι τέκμαρ ἔχουσιν ἄστρα σεληναίη τε καὶ ἠελίοιο κέλευθοι: οὔρεά θ᾽ ὡς ἀνέτειλε, καὶ ὡς ποταμοὶ κελάδοντες αὐτῇσιν νύμφῃσι καὶ ἑρπετὰ πάντ᾽ ἐγένοντο. ἤειδεν δ᾽ ὡς πρῶτον Ὀφίων Εὐρυνόμη τε Ὠκεανὶς νιφόεντος ἔχον κράτος Οὐλύμποιο: ὥς τε βίῃ καὶ χερσὶν ὁ μὲν Κρόνῳ εἴκαθε τιμῆς, ἡ δὲ Ῥέῃ, ἔπεσον δ᾽ ἐνὶ κύμασιν Ὠκεανοῖο: οἱ δὲ τέως μακάρεσσι θεοῖς Τιτῆσιν ἄνασσον, ὄφρα Ζεὺς ἔτι κοῦρος, ἔτι φρεσὶ νήπια εἰδώς, Δικταῖον ναίεσκεν ὑπὸ σπέος: οἱ δέ μιν οὔπω γηγενέες Κύκλωπες ἐκαρτύναντο κεραυνῷ, βροντῇ τε στεροπῇ τε: τὰ γὰρ Διὶ κῦδος ὀπάζει. (A.R.1.496-511) He sang how the earth and the sky and the sea were previously fitted to each other in one shape, but then were divided from each other by destructive strife, and [he sang] how the constellations hold fast always and forever as a sign in the sky, as well as the moon and the paths of the sun, and [he sang] how the mountains and the roaring rivers, with their nymphs, rose up, and how all the creeping reptiles came to be. He sang how first Ophion and Eurynome, the daughter of Ocean, held power on snowy Olympus, and [he sang] how by force and arms he yielded the honor to Cronos, and she to Rhea, and then they ruled over the blessed Titan gods, while Zeus, still a child, still seeming infantile in his thought, was living in the Dictaean cave. Not yet had the earth-born Cylopes strengthened him with the thunderbolt, and thunder, and lightning. For these things give glory to Zeus.

Scholars have noted the Empedoclean associations of the song, specifically its first half.34 As Damien Nelis has demonstrated, the context of the performance is modelled on the feast of the Phaeacians in the Odyssey, with Orpheus in the role of Demodocus.35 This makes the song an intricate allusion to Homer, Empedocles, and to the allegorical readings of 33. A.R.1.1134-1138; 2.159-163; 4.1158-1160. 34. See Kyriakou (1994). 35. Nelis (1992: 153-159).

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Demodocus’ song about Ares and Aphrodite that connect it to Empedoclean cosmogony.36 But these readings neglect the second half of the song, which is not so definitively derived from the philosopher poet. This section of the poem seems to be more inspired by Hesiod, especially its focus on the dynastic succession of the gods and the reference to Eurynome, who is mentioned in the Theogony as one of the Oceanids.37 The song also bears the influence of Aratus. Apollonius refers to the cave in which Zeus was raised by the name Aratus uses, Dikte, instead of Hesiod’s Lyktus.38 Moreover, constellations acting as signs in the sky reflect the main theme of the Phaenomena, and the final line echoes Aratus’ sentiments in the ‘Hymn to Zeus.’ Thus Apollonius models Orpheus’ song on the tradition of poetry that runs from Hesiod to Empedocles to Aratus. In this context, the division between the two halves of the song may even reflect the bipartite structure these poems tend to adopt. Although not as explicitly as Dike’s lessons in the Phaenomena, Orpheus’ song is instructional. He is moved to sing in order to quell an argument between two of the Argonauts. Idmon objects to Idas’ boasts about his prowess and the success of the voyage, and they nearly come to blows before Jason restrains them and Orpheus begins to sing. The effect of the song on the Argonauts is almost instantaneous: ἦ, καὶ ὁ μὲν φόρμιγγα σὺν ἀμβροσίῃ σχέθεν αὐδῇ. τοὶ δ᾽ ἄμοτον λήξαντος ἔτι προύχοντο κάρηνα πάντες ὁμῶς ὀρθοῖσιν ἐπ᾽ οὔασιν ἠρεμέοντες κηληθμῷ: τοῖόν σφιν ἐνέλλιπε θέλκτρον ἀοιδῆς. οὐδ᾽ ἐπὶ δὴν μετέπειτα κερασσάμενοι Διὶ λοιβάς, ἣ θέμις, ἑστηῶτες ἐπὶ γλώσσῃσι χέοντο αἰθομέναις, ὕπνου δὲ διὰ κνέφας ἐμνώοντο. (A.R.1.512-18) He stopped, and silenced his lyre and his divine voice. And they all leaned their heads forward, even though he had ceased, and kept silent in rapture with ready ears. Such was the charm he left on them with his song. And not long after, mixing libations to Zeus as is customary, they piously poured them on their shining tongues and took thought of sleep in the dark.

36. Kyriakou (1994). 37. Hes.Th.358. 38. Arat.33; Hes.Th.477;482. There is a textual problem with the name of the mountain in the Phaenomena. Kidd (1997: 186-187) emends the manuscript reading (which he admits is unambiguous) from “Δίκτῳ” to read “Λύκτῳ.” Martin (1998: 72-93) retains the manuscript reading, seeing no reason to change it, arguing convincingly that it provides an etymological explanation of the reference to the Δικταίοι in Arat.35. It is not impossible that both Apollonius and Aratus are using a textual variant, as the L manuscripts of the Theogonyread ‘δίκτον,’ at Hes.Th.477, see Solmsen (1970: 25).

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Orpheus’ song has a strong effect on the Argonauts, and the scene provides yet another example of the power of poetry. The content of the song, however, is not as incongruous as it may appear. The dissension between the gods provides a parallel to the strife between the heroes. Idas and Idmon both make reference to the Aloadae, sons of Poseidon who attempted to overthrow Olympus. This generational conflict is echoed in story of Cronos overthrowing his father in Orpheus’ song.39 Orpheus’ song provides a warning about the dangers of discord and arrogant assumptions about one’s own power, an important lesson for a group of talented young men already jockeying for power. Apollonius focuses on the emotional impact of the song, and specifically on the pleasure the Argonauts feel in hearing his song, rather than the instruction they take from it. We are often skeptical that an audience could take pleasure from didactic poetry, but Orpheus’ song shows that the entertainment value of poetry is not limited to narrative poetic genres, and can even contribute to the educational value of the work. But again, Orpheus’ performance is interactive, just like the best version of Dike’s lesson. His choice of subject is dependent upon the context and contributes to make his song the effective. These scenes depicting oral poetry, however, are situated within the poems so as to highlight their thematic importance to the work as a whole. Both songs are specifically about the progression of time, and both performances are situated within a mythical past and refer to an even earlier period. Moreover, both passages offer contexts in which larger societal functions are strengthened by the performances: Orpheus resolves an argument, and Dike helps to create laws. In their depictions of poetic performances, both Aratus and Apollonius show a particular interest in the social value of performing poetry, and how it connects them to both a mythical and literary past. There are many similarities in Aratus’ and Apollonius’ idealized poetic performances. Both Dike and Orpheus perform to the most prominent members of society. Aratus tells us that Dike occasionally summoned γέροντας, ‘chieftains,’ for her songs in the Golden Age, and Orpheus sings to the Argonauts.40 Like Dike in the Golden Age, the poem is prompted by interaction between the performer and the audience. But Orpheus’ performance is not a planned event, and it is at a relatively private function, a feast at which only the Argonauts are in attendance. Incidentally, also unlike Dike’s performances, Orpheus’ poetry actually seems to be successful at creating the desired effect in 39. These references occur at A.R.1.481-483; 498-99. 40. Arat.105

READING AND PERFORMING DIDACTIC POETRY IN THE HELLENISTIC PERIOD

331

its audience. Whereas Dike’s instructions do not seem to have any effect on future generations, the goal of Orpheus’ song is to quell the fight, and he does so. In both passages, we can see the interest in a connection to archaic poetry, both that of Hesiod and Homer, and an interest in the oral tradition. However, in both passages, another key aspect informs the performance: interaction with the audience. This is equally important to the educational value of didactic poetry, and as Hellenistic poets played with the new possibilities of written poetry, they were also aware of what had been lost. It is difficult to know whether we can talk about a specific genre of didactic poetry at this point in the history of literature, but it is clear that poets had a keen awareness of the value of the value of performance to teaching, and that Aratus’ Phaenomena, and other Hellenistic poems, attempt to mitigate the limitations of text as an educational format.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bing, P., 1990, “A Pun on Aratus’ Name in Verse 2 of the Phainomena?”. HSCPh 93, 281-285. Effe, B., 1977, DichtungundLehre:UntersuchungenzurTypologiedesantiken Lehrgedichts. Munich. Erren, M., 1967, Die Phainomena des Aratos von Soloi. Untersuchungen zum Sach-undSinnverständnis. Wiesbaden. Fakas, C., 2001, DerhellenistischeHesiod.AratsPhainomenaunddieTradition derantikenLehrepik. Wiesbaden. Gee, E., 2013, AratusandtheAstronomicalTradition. Oxford. Hanses, M., 2014, “The Pun and the Moon in the Sky: Aratus’ ΛΕΠΤΗ Acrostic”. CQ 64, 609-614. Hunter, R., 1995, “Written in the Stars. Poetry and Philosophy in the Phaenomena of Aratus”. Arachnion 2. Jacques, J.-M., 1960, “Sur un acrostique d’Arate (Phénomènes 783-7)”. REA 62, 48-61. Kidd, D., 1997, Aratus:Phaenomena. Cambridge: CUP. Kyriakou, P., 1994, “Empedoclean echoes in Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica”. Hermes 122, 309-319. Maass, E., 1892, Aratea. Berlin. Martin, J., 1998, AratosPhénomènes. Paris. Nagy, G., 2009, “Hesiod and the Ancient Biographical Traditions”. In: F. Montanari et al. (eds), Brill’sCompaniontoHesiod. Leiden. Nelis, D., 1995, “Demodocus and the song of Orpheus (Ap. Rhod. Arg. I, 496511)”. MH 49, 153-170. Overduin, F., 2014, NicanderofColophon’sTheriaca:ALiteraryCommentary. Leiden. Porter, H.N., 1946, “Hesiod and Aratus”. TAPhA 77, 158-170. Solmsen, F., 1970, HesiodiTheogoniaOperaetDiesScutum. Oxford.

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Stewart, S., 2010, “‘Apollo of the Shore’: Apollonius of Rhodes and the Acrostic Phenomenon”. CQ 60, 401-405. Toohey, P., 1996, Epic Lessons: An Introduction to Ancient Didactic Poetry. London. Volk, K., 2002, ThePoeticsofLatinDidactic.Lucretius,Vergil,Ovid,Manilius. Oxford. Volk, K., 2012, “Letters in the sky: reading the signs in Aratus’ ‘Phaenomena’”. AJPh 133, 209-240.

INDEXES INDEX OF PASSAGES DISCUSSED

Aelianus VH 10.6: 260 Aeschylus Ag. 1241-1246: 184, 186 Ag. 1380-1394: 179, 183, 191 Pers. 931-1065: 120; Sept. 875-1004: 120 Alcaeus of Messene A.P.7.536: 25 Alcman Partheneion: 151-152 Alciphron 4.14.8 Granholm: 112 Alexander of Aetolia fr. 7 Powell = fr. 7 Magnelli = fr. 19 Lightfoot: 238 Antiphanes Sappho fr. 194: 244 Apollonius Rhodius 1.1-34: 202, 209-212, 213-217, 218-220 1.111-112: 208 1.247-260: 77-79 1.268-293: 79-82 1.295-305: 82-84 1.311-316: 84-86 1.411-424: 321-322 1.512-518: 329-330 2.468-497: 219 3.340-344: 208 4.1381-1382: 220 4.1773-1781: 202

Aratus 15-17: 91 17-18: 91 216-224: 326-327 469-476: 320-321 768-772: 320 96-136: 91-95, 323-327 Aristophanes Ach.1174-1189: 235 Ach. 497-556: 235 Av. 1372-1409: 259 Eq. 507-546: 237 Lys. 387-398: 111 Lys. 393: ?? Lys. 396: ?? Nub. 1-5: 32-34 Nub. 518-519: 34 n.78 Nub. 541-542: 33-34 Nub. 1369-1376: 33 Nub. 1399-1400: 33 Ran.354-357: 20 Ran. 771-83: 249 Ran.798-802: 258 Ran. 814: 232n.33 Ran. 819: 258 Ran. 939-944: 246, 247, 259 Ran. 1030-1036: 238 Ran. 1039-1098: 247 Ran. 1102: 258 Ran. 1109-1118: 242 Ran. 1119-1250: 235 Ran. 1365-1410: 246 Thesm.52-57: 258 Thesm. 855-919: 230-231 Thesm.870: 231 fr. 1 (Aeolosicon): 235 fr. 156 (Gerytades): 259 fr. 162 (Gerytades): 259 fr. 233 (Banqueters): 231-232 fr. 719: 258

334

INDEXES

Aristoteles Poet. 1452b 22-25: 120 Asclepiades 28 HE: 257 A.P.5.145: 6, 9 A.P. 5.181 (= 25 Gow-Page): 163167, 169-170 A.P.12.153: 2, 10 Athenaeus Deipn. 5.198a-c: 226 Deipn. 5.205a: 226 Deipn. 7.276c = FGrH 241 F 273 Deipn. 12.551a: 259 Bion of Smyrna EpitaphiusAdonis 1: 102-104 1-2: 104, 118 1-39: 101 3-5: 104, 118 5: 118 6: 102-104 7-8: 108, 118 7-11: 121 7-19: 103, 108 7-39: 106-108, 120 10-11: 108 11-14: 121 15: 102-104 19-27: 103, 104 19-39: 108 20: 108 23: 108 28: 104-105, 118 29-30: 118 31-37: 104, 118-119 32: 108-109 34: 108-109 35: 109 37: 118 38: 104, 118 40-67: 101, 103, 109-110, 120 42-50: 121 42-61: 103, 104, 109, 118 44-50: 110 54-55: 118-119 61: 118 63: 105, 118

65-66: 110 67: 102-104, 118 68-98: 101, 118 70-77: 104-105, 110 71: 118, 121 72-73: 121 72-75: 119 79-96: 103, 110, 120 80-86: 103, 104, 105, 110, 118 88-90: 118 89-90: 103, 118 89-95: 104, 110-111 91-93: 103 92-93: 118 94-95: 103 96: 119 97-98: 103-105, 118, 120 fr. 10 Reed: 121 Boiscus of Cyzicus SH 233: 240 Callimachus Aet.fr. 1.3-5: 246 Aet.fr. 1.9-12: 246, 256 Aet.fr. 1.20: 246 Aet.fr. 1.21-22: 242 Aet.fr. 1.23: 260 Aet.fr. 1.25-28: 239 Aet.fr. 1.30-32: 250 Aet.fr. 2: 250 Aet.fr. 43: 234 epigr.1 Pf. (= A.P. 7.89): 239 epigr.25 Pf. (= A.P.5.6): 9 epigr.63 Pf. (= A.P.5.23): 8 fr. 398: 256-258, 260 hymn2: 102, 129-155 hymn 2.1-46: 309-311 hymn 2.97-103: 296, 313-314 hymn 5: 102 hymn 6: 102, 219 iambi 1 fr. 191 Pf.: 22, 27-28 iambi 13 fr. 203 Pf.: 22, 27-28 Catullus 64.1-2: 214 CID 3 1, 2: 46, 63 T.11 a, b (Tab.I)

INDEX OF PASSAGES DISCUSSED

Crates Lamia fr. 21: 258 Cratinus Odysseus and Company fr. 152: 239 Daux 1939, 168-169: 62 T.3 (Tab.I) Daux 1949, 276-277 27: 63 T.12 (Tab. III); 286-287 35: 42 [Demetrius] OnStyle177: 247 OnStyle 190-239: 247 Dionysius of Halicarnassus DeImitat. 2.2.6: 119 Dioscorides A.P. 5.193: 111 EtymologicumMagnum 690. 41: 55 Eupolis Autolycus fr. 60: 239 Euripides Alc. 962-971: 219 Bacch. 111-114: 30-31 Bacch. 136-139: 30-31 Bacch. 746: 30-31 Elec. 945-946: 191-192 IA 1211-1214: 219 IA 798: 219 Ion184‒218 Ores. 26-27: 191 Tro. 353-364: 192 FD FDIII 1 273: 62 T.1 (Tab.I) FDIII 1 48: 63 T.13b FDIII 1 49: 62 T.10a FDIII 2 190: 41 FDIII 2 47: 46 FDIII 2 78: 62 T.6 (Tab.I) FDIII 3 124: 63 T.9 (Tab.I) FDIII 3 125: 63 T.13c.1 (Tab.III) FDIII 3 126: 63 T.13c.2 (Tab.III) FDIII 3 128: 62 T.8 (Tab.I)

FDIII FDIII FDIII FDIII FDIII FDIII

3 3 3 3 3 4

335

223: 62 T.5 (Tab.I) 224: 62 T.7(Tab.I) 249: 64 T.13e (Tab.III) 338: 62 T.4 (Tab.I) 86: 41 361: 63 T.13a (Tab.III)

Hedylus 5 HE: 239 Hermesianax Leontion fr. 7 Powell = fr. 3 Lightfoot: 236-238 Hermippus Basket-Bearers fr. 63: 233-234 Herodas 1: 121; 161-163, 165-166, 168-169 4: 121 5: 121 6: 121 6: 257 6.3-7: 17 7: 121 8: 248 8.1-7: 16-17, 32-34 8.8-9: 26-27 8.28-33: 28-29 8.41-47: 18-20, 31 8.59-60: 24 8.65-79: 16 n.6, 19, 21-23, 29, 30 Herodorus fr. 39.1-5: 221 Hesychius s.v. ἀδωνιασμός: 113 s.v. ἀδώνιδος κῆποι: 113 Homer Il. 18.52-64: 119; Il. 24.719-775: 119 Od.1.351-352: 239 Od. 8.521-531: 194-195 Od. 11.404-434: 182, 186-187 Od.23.296: 208 [Homer] Batrachomyomachia 1-3: 242

336

INDEXES

Homeric Hymns Hymn to Aphrodite 292-293: 205206 HymntoArtemis7-9: 206 HymntoHelios17-19: 206-207 HymntoHermes10-12: 206 HymntoSelene17-20: 206-207 ID1497: 64 T.16 (Tab.II) ID1506: 64 T.17 (Tab.II) ID2551: 64 T.15 (Tab.II)

Nicander Ther.8-20: 318-319 P.Oxy. 2368: 295-296 PaeanErythraeus 1-3: 298, 312 19-27: 298-299 Panocles fr. 1.19-22: 218

IGXI 4, 544: 64 T.14 (Tab.II) Isyllus 19-25: 305-306 37-61: 306-307 Leonidas of Tarentum A.P.7.408: 25 Livius 27.30: 43 Lucianus Herod.3: 47 Salt. 16: 54 Lycophron Alexandra 1-2: 88 Alexandra 1099-1199: 174-195 Alexandra 1461-1462: 87 Macedonicus 1-20: 307-308 Meleager 1 HE: 239-240 A.P.5.8: 1, 10 Menander Dysc.: 162, 164, 167 Epitr.:161, 163 Sam.: 162 Sam. 39-50: 111 Sam. 45: 114 Metagenes Philothytes fr. 15: 239

PeriodostoNicomedes 37-44: 219 Pherecrates Cheiron fr. 155: 237 Corianno fr. 84: 240 Pherecydes of Athens FGrH 3 F 26: 212 Philetas of Cos fr. 10 Powell = fr. 8 Lightfoot: 257n.144 Philicus of Corcyra SH 677: 240 Philip 1 HE: 240 Philodamus of Scarphea 1-4: 303 11-13: 302 105-156: 297, 302-4 Philostratus Imagines 2.10: 189-190 Pindarus P. 4.170-177: 209 P. 5.63-80: 211 Plato Ion 534b: 250 Phaedr. 276b: 116 Symp. 183a: 1

INDEX OF PASSAGES DISCUSSED

Plato Comicus LaconiansorPoets fr. 69: 258 Perialges fr. 115: 239 Plutarchus Alcib. 18.2-3: 113 Amat. 8.753B: 3 Posidippus A.P.5.213: 10 Quintus Smyrnaeus Fall of Troy (or Posthomerica) 12.553-557: 192-193 Robert 1938a 7, 1: 42 Robert 1938b, 15: 62 T.2 (Tab.I) Sannyrion Gelos fr. 2: 259 Sappho fr. 140A L.-P.: 114, 119-120 fr. 168 L.-P.: 114, 119-120 Sokolowski LSAM 24: 297-301 Sophocles El. 97-99: 190-191 fr. 493: 231 Strattis Cinesias fr. 21: 259 Suda s.v. Ἄδωνις: 113 Syll3 689 + Robert 1938d 38: 63 T.13d (Tab.III) Syll3703: 63 T.10b (Tab.I) Syll3737: 64 T.13f (Tab.III)

Teleclides fr. 42: 258 Theocritus 1.28: 239n.67 1.52-53: 257 1.64-145: 122; 2: 1, 10 7.47-48: 253 7.51: 257 11.63-64: 7 15: 111-112, 114 15.5: 280 15.22-23: 281 15.44: 280 15.52: 279 15.59: 280 15.66: 280 15.72: 280 15.78: 282 15.87-88: 282 15.96: 282 15.97: 111 15.100-144: 103-104, 111, 117 15.109-135: 114 15.113-114: 114 15.132-135 287 15.144: 283 15.147: 289 15.149: 283 17: 55 17.9-12: 219 A.P. 13.3: 25 Zenobius 1.49: 113

337

INDEX OF GREEK WORDS ἀγών: 44 (ἀ. γυμνικός; ἀ. μουσικός), 55 (τῷ θεῷ); 47, 48-49, 56, 60-61, Tab.I, III, IV ἀγωνίζομαι: 48, 55-56 αἰαῖ: 89, 101, 104, 110 ἆισμα (μετὰ χοροῦ): 41, 44, Tab.I ἀκρόασις: 42, 45, 53, 55, 58, Tab.I, II, IV ἄλγος: 82-83 Ἀλεξάνδρα: 88 ἀνάγνωσις: 52 (τῷ θεῷ), 55, 58, Tab. II, IV ἀοιδός: 52, Tab.II ἀπόδοσις: 274 ἀπολογισμός: 43, 58, Tab.I, IV ἀπτήν: 232 Ἀρχόμενος σέο Φοῖβε: 202-205, 207, 209 ἀσκωλιασμός: 18-19, 22-23, 31 ἀστρολόγος: 42, T.2 ἀσχόλημα: 274 αὐλητής: 39-40, 56 γράφω: 242 δείδω: 232n.33 διασκευή: 274 διδασκαλία: 42, 46, Tab.I δρᾶν: 100 δρώμενον: 100 ἐγκωμιάζω: 50, 57 ἐγκώμιον: 45 (λογικόν); 51, 59, Tab II; 55 (τὰ πεπραγματευμένα; ἐπικόν); 45, 56-58, Tab.I, II, IV (encomium) ἐνδυτόν: 29-31 ἐξ Ἀπόλλωνος: 209, 212, 216 ἐπεγράφετο: 160, 166-167, 169-70 ἐπιβρέμω: 232 ἐπίδειξις: 42, 46, 58, 61, Tab.I, IV; 39, 56, Tab.III (τῶι θεῶι) ἐπίδοσις (τῷ θεῷ): 60 ἐριβρεμέτης: 232 ἐσχάρα: 230 εὑρίσκω: 240 θασόμεναι τὸν Ἄδωνιν: 282

θέα: 274 ἱστοριογράφος: 45, Τ.9 ἰσχνότης: 247, 260 καθέλκω: 246, 248 καινότης: 240 καλόν: 287 καναχέω: 232 κιθαρῳδός: 39, 47-48, 61, Tab.III κλαίω: 81 κλέος: 79 κόρυμβος: 232 κωμαστής: 4 κῶμος: 3 κωμῳδοί 274 λαλέω / λάλος: 248 λέαινα: 184-185 μαγῳδία: 59 μαγῳδός: 42 μέλος: 54 μετάφρενον: 193-195 μνήσομαι: 202, 204, 207, 209, 215 μνησώμεθα: 209, 213, 215 μουσικός: 42, 53, Tab.I (anonymous μ.); 46, 53, Tab.II ὄχλoς: 280 παίγνιον: 274 παῖς: 43, 52, 58-59, Tab.I, II; 42 (χορευτής); 54 (πολιτῶν) παλίνορσος: 232 παρακλαυσίθυρον: 1, 3 παρθένος: 93 περίοδος: 39, 55, Tab.IV ποιητής: Tab.I, II; 51 (ἐπῶν); 42, 53, Tab.ΙΙ (μελῶν) ποιήτρια: 59 (ἐπέωμ) πρέπω: 192 προσόδιον: 53, Tab.II (ἐμμελές); 42, 47, 54, Tab.I, IV (prosodion) ῥάπτω: 257 σαλπιστής: 61 σελίς: 242, 244 σοφία: 245-6 σταδίον: 44, Tab.I; Tab.IV (stadium) συνέριθος: 232

340 σχολή: Tab.I τελεῖν: 100 τελετή: 100 τέχνη: 245-6 τορός / τορῶς: 257, 258 τραγῳδός: 48-49, 60, Tab.III, 274 τρυγῳδία: 236 ὕδραυλις: 49

INDEXES

ὕδραυλος: 48, 59, Tab.III ὑμνέω: 53, 57 ὕμνος: 41 (τοῖς θεοῖς); 41-43, 47, 52, 55, 57, Tab.I, II, Tab.IV (hymn) χαίροντας: 283 χοροψάλτρια: 48, T.13d (from Kyme) χωλά: 160, 166 ὥρα: 289

INDEX OF NAMES AND SUBJECTS

Acrostics: 241n.71, 320-322 Adonia: 103-104, 107, 111-114, 116117, 273, 278, 283 adoniazein: 273 Adoniazusae: 273, 278, 287 Adonis: 99-127, 273, 278-280, 282-287. Aeschylus, reception of -: 175, 185; as an unCallimachean poet: 245-246, 248-250 Agamemnon: 173-195 agon: 288 Alcimédé / Alcimede: 77-83, 85 Alexander of Aetolia: 236, 238 Alexander the Great, as model for the Ptolemies: 227-228n.14 Alexandra: 173-195 Alexandria: 281-283, 286-289 Alexandrian footnote: 213-218 Allusion: 230-232, 245-250, 254; – to Homeric hapax legomena: 231232; – oppositio in imitando: 249250, 259-261; – variatio: 232n.33 Amphictyony: 43 Amphikles from Rhenaea: 53-55, 58-60, T.16, Tab.II Amphiklos from Chios: 39, 44, Tab.II Antimachus, Lyde: 256-258 Antipatros from Eleutherna: 48-49, 61, T.13f, Tab.III Antiphanes, Sappho: 244 Antirrhodos: 282 Anyte: 75 aphasie / aphasia: 84-85 Apollo: 41-42, 46, 49-50, 53; 56, Tab. II (Archegetes); Tab. I, IV, 77, 84-85, 89-90, 176, 191, 321-322 Apollo: passim (belioti? cinalli?) Apollonia-Athenaia: 54, 56, 60, Tab II, IV Apollonios from Aigira: 42, T.5, Tab. I Apollonios from Kaystrianos: 52-53, 58, T.15, Tab. II Apollonius of Rhodes: 321-322; 327330; Argonautica: 225, 235

Aratus: 317; 320-322; 323-327 Ariston from Fokaia: 52, 55-56, 58, T.17, Tab. II Aristonoos from Corinth, hymnographer: 41, Tab. I Aristophanes: 17, 20, 32-34, 35; - as a proto-Hellenistic poet: 229-232, 232n33, 235, 237-239, 241-245; Clouds: 243-244, 256, 259; Frogs: 245-250, 256; Gerytades: 248n.97, 255, 259 Aristotheos from Trezene: 45, T.9, Tab. I Aristotle: 195 Aristys and Damokles from Aigion: 49, T.13c, Tab. III Arsinoe II: 75, 111, 273, 282 Arsinoe III: 273 Asclepiades: 157-170 Athanadas from Rhegion: 47, 57, 60, T.12, Tab. III Athenaios(?): 46-47, 58, T.11a, Tab. I Austin, J.L.: 105 authorial narrator: 279 Basileia: 285 Berenice II: 75 Bing, Peter: 229, 236-237, 240, 242 Biography: 24-25 Bion of Smyrna: 99-127 Blindness: 183-184 Book Culture: 241-243 Boukatios: 45 boukoloi: 282 Broucheion: 282 Butler, J.: 106 Callimachus: 22, 26, 27-28; - as dramatist?: 227; Aetia: 234, 235, 236, 245-250; Hecale: 225; Hymn to Apollo: 253; Iambi: 233, 235-236, 248, 253-254, 257; Pinakes: 236; BathsofPallas: 308-309; Hymnto Apollo: 293-297, 308-314: sphragis,HymntoApollo:296, 313-314; HymntoDemeter: 308-309

342

INDEXES

Canon (literary): 236-238 Cape Lochias: 282 Carneia, Cyrenaean: 294, 311 Cassandre / Cassandra: 75, 86-90, 95-96, 173-195 Catalogue: 201, 204, 208-213, 215, 218-221 Charis: 204-205, 207 chorodidaskalos: 43 chorus: 49 (χορός); 54, 55, 59 (of παῖδες); Tab.I Clytemnestra: 173, 177, 179-185, 190191, 194 communication / communication: 78, 94 comparaison / simile: 80, 81, 84 Contest of Homer and Hesiod: 249 Controversy: 212-213, 216-217, 220 convention (with spirit of competition): 48-49, 56, 60, Tab.III, IV Craftsmanship (poetic): 257-259 Cratinus: 233, 237, 239, 252, 256; – as a writing poet: 242; Archilochoi: 238, 251; Dionysalexandros: 233; Pytine: 242, 252 Daphnis: 122 deixis/deictic: 132, 136-37, 147, 151 Dekmos Iounios from Rome: 42, T.3, Tab. I Delphi: 301-304 Demoteles from Andros: 51-52, 59, T.14, Tab.II diegetic: 102, 105, 110-111, 120-121 Dieting (metapoetic): 246-247, 246n.87, 259 Dikè / Dike: 91, 93-96, 323-327 Dionysos: 15-16, 18-20, 21, 23, 28-31, 34, 35, 41, 45, Tab. I, IV; 44-45, Tab.I (ἆισμα) Dioscorides: 227, 248 Dioskourides from Tarsos: 59 dithyramb: 42 Drama, Hellenistic vitality of -: 225227 dramatic illusion: 104, 109-110 dramatic poetry: 2, 5-6, 12 dream: 121 eidyllion: 282 ekklesia: 43, Tab.I, IV ekklesiasterion: 55, 58, Tab.II, IV

Ekkuklema:179-180, 189 ekphora: 115-116 Electra: 190-191 Empedocles: 319; 325-326; 328-329 Enargeia:193 encomium: 114, 116 énonciation masculine / male utterance: 77, 88, 91 Envy: 246, 253 Epidaurus: 304-307 epiphany: 137-152 epitaphioi: 113 erômenos: 114 eroticism: 111-112, 114, 117, 121 Erythrae: 297-301 Estevez, V.A.: 101 Eukles from Tenos: 45, 50-51, Tab.II Euphorion, Hesiod: 236-237 Euripides: 29-31, 44, Tab. I (Bacchae); 57, Tab.IV; - as a proto-Hellenistic poet: 245-247, 249-250; Helen: 230-231 exclususamator: 2-3, 6-7, 11-12 Femme / Woman, femmes / women: 76-79, 82, 84-86, 94, 96-97 FragmentumGrenfellianum: 121 gender: 106 Generic mixing: 233-236 gooi: 119-120 grammatikos: 42, 59, T.4 gymnasion: 42-43, 58-59, Tab.IV Harder, A.: 102 Hegesias: 287 Herakleitos from Kalchedon: 52, Tab II Hermesianax, Leontion: 236-238 Hermokles from Chios: 43-44, 51, 57, 59, T.7, Tab. I Herodas: 13-35, 157-170, 248, 257 Hesiod: 319, 323-327, 329 Hestia: 41, Tab. I hetairai: 283 hieromnemon: 43-44, 51, 57, 59, Tab. I, II Hipponax: 15, 16, 22-28, 34, 35 Homeric hapaxlegomena: 231-232 Hopkinson, N.: 105 Hymns: 202-208 hyporchema: 47, 55, Tab. I, IV inscribed hymns: 294-308, 312-314 Inspiration (poetic): 250

IINDEX OF NAMES AND SUBJECTS

Intertextuality: see allusion Iphias: 84-86 Isyllus: 297, 304-307, 313 Jason: 77-86, 321-322; 327-329 Jesus: 113-114 Kitharôidia: 203, 211-213, 218 Kleochares from Athens: 42, 44, 46-47, 54, 59, T.6, Tab. I kommos: 120 lagynophorein: 273 lagynophoria: 273 lament(ation): 1-3, 6-7, 9-10, 12, 76-83, 101-111, 114-116, 118-122, 190-191, 194 leptotes: 246, 256, 259-261 Limenios: 46-47, 58, Tab. I, T.11b Literary criticism as an influence on poetry: 247-248 locusApollineus: 39, 42, 57-58, 60-61 Locuteur / Speaker: 76, 87-89 Lycophron: 173-195 Macedonian war: 43 Macedonicus: 307-308, 313 Menalkes: 39, 48, T.13a, Tab. III Menandros / Menander: 42, T.4, Tab. I; 161-164, 167-168 Messenger Speech: 190-191, 194 Metabasis: 204-205, 207 Metagenes, Thourio-Persians: 243 metalepsis: 148 metatheater, imitation of: 165-170 mime: 2, 5-7, 10-11 mimêsis: 113 mimetic: 100, 102, 105, 110, 120-121, 123 mimetic poetry: 131-133, 141-143 mimeticism, in Callimachus’ Hymnto Apollo: 308-314; in inscribed hymns: 297-308, 312-314; scholarly discussions of -: 294-295 Mithridatic war: 42 mnemopoetic: 59 monoidia: 279 monologue: 87 Mouseion: 282, 285 Muse: 77, 91 narrateur / narrator: 75-76, 78, 84, 91, 94, 96 narratology: 146-148 Nicander: 318-319; 321

343

Nicophon, Sirens: 243 Nikandros of Kolophon: 41 Nikon: 48-49, 60, T.13b, Tab. III Nossis: 75 Novelty, literary: 238-240; metrical: 240 obscurité / obscurity: 88, 90 Old Comedy, as a model for Hellenistic Poetry: 245-262; as a precedent for Hellenistic Poetry: 229-245, 261 Orpheus: 327-331 Orpheus’ parentage: 212-213, 215-218 Osiris: 112, 286 Paean Erythraeus: 296, 297-301, 314 paean: 41, 42, 46, 47, Tab.I, IV; paian cry: 311; -, discussions of genre: 295-297 parabasis: 252-253 paraklausithyron: 1-4, 6-12, 121 parole / speech: 75-96 ‘pathetic fallacy’: 109 pathétique / pathos: 80, 85 performance: 2-8, 11-12, 100-101, 116, 122, 173-195, 273-274, 277 performance levels: 99, 101-111, 116, 122-123 performance of poetry: 13-15 performance of ritual: 19-21 ‘performative utterances’: 105 performativity: 101-102, 123 personae: 228, 239, 252-254, 256 pharos: 282 Philadelphus: 282 Philetas of Cos: 236, 257, 260 Philicus of Corcyra: 226, 240 Philodamus of Scarpheia: 41, Tab. I, 297, 301-304, 312-313 Pindar: 119 plainte: see lament pleurs / cry: 80, 83, 96 poeti vaganti: 39, 42, 45, 50, 57-59, 61 Polemon: 61 Polygnota from Thebes: 48, T.13e, Tab. III prophétie / prophecy: 87-90 prothesis: 110, 115, 118, 119, 120 Ptolemaia: 285 Ptolemies and drama: 226-227 Ptolemy II: 273, 282

344

INDEXES

Ptolemy III: 273 Ptolemy IV, Adonis: 226-227 Pythais: 46, Tab.I, IV Pythia: 44-45, 47-48, 60, Tab. III, IV Pythokles from Hermione: 40 quasi-dramatic poetry: 158-160 ‘quasi-dramatic’ techniques: 288 reperformance: 57, Tab. IV, readers, dramatic expectations of -: 161-165, 294-295, 299-300, 312314 Rhapsôidia: 203-205, 207, 209, 211, 221 rhetor: 42, Tab. I Rhomaia: 61 ritual: 100-101, 114-117, 123-124 ‘ritual poetics’: 101, 124 Roilos, P.: 101 sacred laws: 296-298, 300-301, 305, 313 Salmakis inscription: 237 Satyros from Samos: 39, 44-45, 57, 58, 60, T.8, Tab. I Scholar-poet: 202-203, 207-208, 212216, 218, 221 Sema: 282 Siblings from Aigira: 46, T.10a, Tab. I Siblings from Pheneos: 46, 58-59, T.10b, Tab. I silence: 83-86 Simile: 187-195 Soma: 282 song-within-a-poem performance: 280 song: 280-281, 283-286; Adonis song: 279; lamentation song: 287; mourneful song: 279; song culture versus book culture: 287; wedding song: 287

Soteria: 39, 42, 47-48, 61, Tab. III, 285 Speaking Poetry Books: 244 StabatMater: 109 Tammuz: 112, 123 team: 57, 48, Tab. IV technites: 40, 46, 58, 61, Tab. IV Telchines: 245-246, 253-254; as parodic inversion of ideal poet: 254 Teleclides, Hesiodoi: 238 Textuality: 243-244 theater: 42, 55, 58, Tab. I, II, IV theatricality: 101, 102, 106, 109, 111, 120-123, 173-195 Theocritus, Idyll 2: 234 Theoxenia: 43-44, 54, 60, Tab. I, IV thrênoi: 119-120 Timon of Phlius, Silloi: 234, 237 Toil (poetic): 257 Tragic Scholia: 180 vieille / old woman: 81, 84-85 Violence: 173-195 Vision: 173-195 Voix / voice: 75-78, 80, 82, 84, 86-90, 96 Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U. von: 106 Wood as metapoetic metaphor: 214, 219 Wright, Matthew: 228n.17, 231, 233, 235, 241-243, 256, 260 Xenotimos from Boeotia: 41, 44, 58, Tab. I Yatromanolakis, D.: 101 Young poet from Skepsis: 42, 58, T.1, Tab. I Zenobios, herald: 39 Zeus Basileus: 285

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