Emotions and Narrative in Ancient Literature and Beyond: Studies in Honour of Irene de Jong 9004506047, 9789004506046

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Emotions and Narrative in Ancient Literature and Beyond

Mnemosyne Supplements monographs on greek and latin language and literature

Executive Editor C. Pieper (Leiden University)

Editorial Board K.M. Coleman (Harvard University) C.C. de Jonge (Leiden University) Anna Heller (University of Tours) T. Reinhardt (Oxford University)

volume 451

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

Irene de Jong, 2016 picture taken by caroline van der vecht

Emotions and Narrative in Ancient Literature and Beyond Studies in Honour of Irene de Jong

Edited by

Mathieu de Bakker Baukje van den Berg Jacqueline Klooster

leiden | boston

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Bakker, Mathieu de, editor. | Van den Berg, Baukje, editor. | Klooster, Jacqueline, editor. | Jong, Irene J. F. de, honouree. Title: Emotions and narrative in ancient literature and beyond : studies in honour of Irene de Jong / edited by Mathieu de Bakker, Baukje van den Berg, Jacqueline Klooster. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2022] | Series: Mnemosyne supplements. Monographs on Greek and Latin language and literature, 0169-8958 ; volume 451 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2021057494 (print) | lccn 2021057495 (ebook) | isbn 9789004506046 (hardback ; acid-free paper) | isbn 9789004506053 (ebook) Subjects: lcsh: Classical literature–History and criticism. | Emotions in literature. | Narration (Rhetoric) | lcgft: Literary criticism. Classification: lcc pa3015.e46 e46 2022 (print) | lcc pa3015.E46 (ebook) | ddc 880.9/353–dc23/eng/20211210 lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021057494 lc ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021057495

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill‑typeface. issn 0169-8958 isbn 978-90-04-50604-6 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-50605-3 (e-book) Copyright 2022 by Mathieu de Bakker, Baukje van den Berg, and Jacqueline Klooster. Published by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau and V&R unipress. Koninklijke Brill nv reserves the right to protect this publication against unauthorized use. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill nv via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Editorial Note xiii Acknowledgements xiv Notes on Contributors xv Introduction: The Narratology of Emotions in Ancient Literature 1 Mathieu de Bakker, Baukje van den Berg, and Jacqueline Klooster

part 1 Archaic Epic 1

A Narratology of the Emotions: Method, Temporality, and Anger in Homer’s Iliad 27 Ahuvia Kahane

2

Narrative and Emotion in the Iliad: Andromache and Helen Angus Bowie

3

Fear and Loathing at the Xanthus Evert van Emde Boas

4

Metaleptic Apostrophe in Homer: Emotion and Immersion Rutger Allan

78

5

In Mortal Danger: The Emotions of Two Fighters in the Iliad Marina Coray and Martha Krieter

94

6

Poseidon’s Anger in the Odyssey Sebastiaan van der Mije

7

Emotions and Politeness in Homer’s Odyssey Robert Kirstein

8

Emotionally Reunited: Laertes and Odysseus in Odyssey 24 Bruno Currie

9

Love and Anger: Emotions in Hesiod Hugo Koning

48

62

107

153

119

135

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part 2 Archaic Epic and Beyond 10

The Text as Labyrinth 169 Françoise Létoublon

11

Narrating Pity in Greek Epic, Lyric, Tragedy, and Beyond P.J. Finglass

181

12

Deixis in Teichoscopy as a Marker of Emotional Urgency Albert Rijksbaron

197

13

Exercises in Anger Management: From Achilles to Arginusae Christopher Pelling

14

Sunt lacrimae rerum: Emotions at the Deaths of Troilus, Priam, and Astyanax in Athenian Black-Figure Vase-Painting 230 Geralda Jurriaans-Helle

15

What the Greeks Left Us: Perspectivation as a Tool in the Pursuit of (Emotional) Knowledge 255 Willie van Peer

214

part 3 Early Lyric, Tragedy, and Biblical Poetry 16

Passion versus Performance in Sappho Fragments 1 and 31 André Lardinois

275

17

Prometheus Bound as ‘Epic’ Tragedy and Its Narratology of Emotion 287 Anton Bierl

18

Self-Description of Emotions in Ancient Greek Drama: A First Exploration 307 Gerry Wakker

19

Retelling the War of Troy: Tragedy, Emotions, and Catharsis Sofia Frade

324

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20

Body and Speech as the Site of Emotions in Biblical Narrative Ilse Müllner

337

part 4 Greek Prose of the Classical Period 21

Herodotean Emotions: Some Aspects Richard Rutherford

353

22

Herodotus, Historian of Emotions Mathieu de Bakker

23

Emotions in Thucydides: Revisiting the Final Battle in Syracuse Harbour 381 Tim Rood

24

The Dark Side of a Narrative: The Power of Emotions, Digressions, and Historical Causes in Hellenica Oxyrhynchia 397 Antonis Tsakmakis

25

Cyrus’ Tears: An Essay in Affective Narratology and Socratic History 411 Luuk Huitink

26

The Joys and Sorrows of the Argument: Emotions and Emotional Involvement in Plato’s Narratives of Philosophical Reasoning 428 Margalit Finkelberg

27

The Arousal of Interest in Plato’s Protagoras and Gorgias Michael Lloyd

28

Socratic Emotions 454 Kathryn A. Morgan

368

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part 5 Hellenistic Literature 29

Heracles’ Emotions in Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica Silvio Bär

471

30

Away with ‘Angry Young Men’! Intertextuality as a Narratological Tool in the Quarrel Episodes in the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius 479 Annette Harder

31

Theocritus and the Poetics of Love Jacqueline Klooster

32

Characters, Emotions, and Enargeia in Second Maccabees Jan Willem van Henten

493

508

part 6 Latin Literature 33

Common Ground and the Presentation of Emotions: Fright and Horror in Livy’s Historiography 523 Lidewij van Gils and Caroline Kroon

34

Dramatic Narrative in Epic: Aeneas’ Eyewitness Account of the Fall of Troy in Virgil Aeneid 2 540 Stephen Harrison

35

Unhappy Dido, Queen of Carthage Suzanne Adema

36

Emotional Apostrophes in Silius Italicus’ Punica 6 Pieter van den Broek

37

Metalepsis on the Argo: Debating Hercules in Valerius Flaccus (Arg. 3.598–725) 582 Mark Heerink

554

569

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part 7 Greek Prose of the Imperial Period 38

Emotion and the Sublime Casper de Jonge

603

39

The Role of Anger in Epictetus’ Philosophical Teaching Gerard Boter

40

Emotions and Narrativity in the Greek Romance Tim Whitmarsh

41

Another Tale of Anger, Honour, and Love: Achilles in Philostratus’ Heroicus 650 Kristoffel Demoen

619

633

part 8 Late Antiquity and Beyond 42

Claudian’s De raptu Proserpinae: Grief, Guilt, and Rage of a Bereaved Mother 667 Piet Gerbrandy

43

A Desire (Not) to Die for: Narrating Emotions in Pseudo-Nilus’ Narrations 682 Koen De Temmerman

44

From Myth to Image to Description: Emotions in the Ekphrasis Eikonos of Procopius of Gaza 697 Berenice Verhelst

45

How to Write and Enjoy a Tale of Disaster: Eustathios of Thessalonike on Emotion and Style 712 Baukje van den Berg

46

A Lawyer in Love: Hugo Grotius’ Erotopaegnia (1608) Edwin Rabbie Epilogue 743 Mieke Bal

728

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Publications of Irene de Jong (until 2021) Glossary 758 General Index 760 Index of Passages 770 Tabula Gratulatoria 808

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Editorial Note It is with great joy and gratitude that the board of Mnemosyne and its publisher present this volume to mark Irene de Jong’s retirement from her professorship. Irene was a member of the editorial board of the journal Mnemosyne and these Mnemosyne Supplements from 1999 until 2019. During these twenty years she wrote countless peer reviews (on Homeric, narratological, and other articles) and peer reviewed a substantial number of volumes for the book series. Her academic integrity, clear judgment, and honest, yet always constructive criticism have been a model for all who have had the pleasure to work with her. She is tireless when it comes to defending the academic standards she believes in: clarity in the methodological approach, lucidity of writing and, last but not least, her credo that proper editing of a volume (especially an edited volume with several authors) is a major task that requires precision and firmness with the contributors. Apart from this academic work, Irene’s membership in the board will also not be forgotten for her engaged and entertaining presence at the annual board meetings—during the official program and the following dinner. Sitting next to Irene on such occasions means leaving the table with a whole range of new and entertaining anecdotes drawn from her rich experience. Truly, there are few classical scholars that are so curious about the ins and outs of the world of Classics and classical scholars as Irene. The members of the board and the editorial staff at Brill warmly thank Irene de Jong for her dedication, enthusiastic engagement, and good humour over these two decades. We are pleased to learn that she will continue her editorship for the Mnemosyne Supplements subseries Narratological Commentaries on Ancient Texts and the Brill series The Language of Classical Literature, so that we can still benefit from her editorial experience and exemplary scholarship. We wish her all the best for the future and we hope that this rich volume, which testifies to her huge academic network and interests, will please her as a token of our gratitude. Christoph Pieper, executive editor Mnemosyne and Mnemosyne Supplements Mirjam Elbers, senior acquisitions editor Classical Studies, Brill

Acknowledgements This volume has been compiled as a tribute to Irene de Jong on the occasion of her retirement as Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Amsterdam. As editors, we were overwhelmed by the large number of positive reactions that we received upon dispatching our call for papers. These reactions were accompanied by warm words about Irene, praising her academic work as well as her vibrant personality. We want to express our gratitude to all contributors for producing and revising their chapters within strict deadlines and, at times, under far from ideal conditions due to Covid19-related restrictions. Their quick and efficient responses enabled us to bring this project to a timely and satisfactory completion. We also wish to thank the many colleagues who wanted to contribute, but were unable to do so due to various constraints. Their names have been listed in a tabula gratulatoria inserted in the volume. Further thanks go to Mirjam Elbers, Giulia Moriconi, Noortje Maranus, and other colleagues at Brill for supervising the production of this volume and allowing us to change our time schedule more than once. We are also very grateful to the anonymous reviewer of the manuscript for the many supportive and incisive comments, and speedy reviewing of this large manuscript, which gave us urgently needed additional months to complete the volume. Lola Bos, Elianne Bruin, and Elbert van Wijk expertly revised all chapters in their final stages and solved numerous problems that we had overlooked. We also thank Lola Bos, Sil Hooijsma, and Kyle Fitzsimons for their patient help with the indices. Luuk Huitink, apart from contributing, kindly assisted in completing one of the other chapters. We save our final words of gratitude for Irene, whose vast oeuvre will continue to inspire students and scholars of ancient literature, and whose name will always be connected to the introduction of narratology in the field of Classics. Throughout her career, Irene has been an inspiring and dedicated lecturer, supervisor, reviewer, and colleague. She has taught us that, to make a true academic, one needs to have more than expert hands. To quote Pindar: χεῖρες καὶ ἦτορ ἴσον. The editors, March 2022

Notes on Contributors Suzanne Adema is Assistant Professor of Latin and research fellow at Leiden University. Her current research project takes a cognitive narratological approach to Virgil’s Aeneid. It is part of the research program Anchoring Innovation of the Netherlands National Research School in Classical Studies (OIKOS), which is supported by a 2017 Gravitation Grant of the Ministry of Education of the Netherlands (NWO). Rutger Allan is a Lecturer in Ancient Greek at the Vrije Universiteit (VU) Amsterdam. He has published on a variety of topics in Ancient Greek linguistics relating to verbal semantics, discourse analysis, and pragmatics. He has a special interest in cognitive linguistic and narratological approaches to Greek literary texts. He is the author of The Middle Voice in Ancient Greek. A Study in Polysemy (Amsterdam 2003) and co-editor of the volumes The Language of Literature (Leiden / Boston 2007) and The Greek Future and its History (Leuven 2017). Mathieu de Bakker is a Lecturer in Ancient Greek at the University of Amsterdam. He has published on the Greek historians and orators, is co-author of The Cambridge Grammar of Classical Greek (Cambridge 2019), and co-editor of the volumes Myth, Truth and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford 2012) and Speeches in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2021). Mieke Bal is author of 45 books. As cultural theorist, critic, video artist and curator, Mieke Bal writes in an interdisciplinary perspective on cultural analysis, literature and art, focusing on gender, migratory culture, the critique of capitalism, and political art. As a filmmaker, she has made a number of experimental documentaries, and “theoretical fictions”. After Madame B (2014), Reasonable Doubt, on René Descartes (2016), she made a 16-channel video-installation Don Quijote: Sad Countenances (2019) and a short essay film It’s About Time! Reflections on Urgency (2020). www.miekebal.org Silvio Bär is Professor of Classics at the University of Oslo. His research areas and interests include Greek hexameter poetry, tragedy, lyric, the novel, mythology, rhetoric,

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the Second Sophistic, intertextuality, transtextuality, diachronic narratology, and the reception of antiquity in English literature and popular culture. He has published widely on Quintus of Smyrna’s Posthomerica, on the genre ‘epyllion’, and on the character of Heracles in Greek epic and beyond. One of Bär’s principal publications is his monograph Herakles im griechischen Epos. Studien zur Narrativität und Poetizität eines Helden (Stuttgart 2018). Baukje van den Berg received her PhD in 2016 from the University of Amsterdam and is currently Assistant Professor of Byzantine Studies at Central European University, Vienna. Her main research interests are Byzantine scholarship, Byzantine education, and the role of ancient literature in Byzantine culture. She has published various articles on Eustathios of Thessalonike and John Tzetzes as scholars and teachers and is completing a monograph on Eustathios’ Commentary on the Iliad for OUP. Anton Bierl is Professor of Greek Literature at the University of Basel (since 2002). He was Senior Fellow at Harvard’s Center for Hellenic Studies (2005–2011). He is director and co-editor of Homer’s Iliad: The Basel Commentary and series-editor of MythosEikonPoiesis. His research interests include Homeric epic, drama, song and performance culture, the ancient novel, Greek myth and religion. His books include Dionysos und die griechische Tragödie (Tübingen 1991); Die Orestie des Aischylos auf der modernen Bühne (Stuttgart 1996); Ritual and Performativity (Washington 2009); Sappho, Text, Translation, Commentary, Detailed Afterword (Stuttgart 2021); and the co-edited volumes Literatur und Religion i–ii (Berlin / New York 2007); The Newest Sappho (Leiden / Boston 2016). Gerard Boter is Professor emeritus of Greek at the Vrije Universiteit (VU) Amsterdam. In his research he concentrates on the textual transmission and interpretation of Plato, Epictetus, and Philostratus. Recent publications include ‘From Discourses to Handbook: the Encheiridion of Epictetus as a Practical Guide to Life’, in M. Formisano, Ph. van der Eijk (eds.), Knowledge, Text and Practice in Ancient Technical Writing (Cambridge 2017) 163–185; ‘Editing Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana’, in L. Ferroni (ed.), Tempus Quaerendi: Nouvelles expériences philologiques dans le domaine de la pensée de l’ Antiquité tardive (Paris 2019) 35–57.

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Angus Bowie was Lobel Praelector in Classics and CUF Lecturer at The Queen’s College, Oxford until 2016. His main publications are The Poetic Dialect of Sappho and Alcaeus (New York 1981), Aristophanes: Myth, Ritual and Comedy (Cambridge 1996), and commentaries on Herodotus 8 (Cambridge 2007), Odyssey 13–14 (Cambridge 2013), and Iliad 3 (Cambridge 2019). He is currently completing a commentary on Iliad 21–24. Pieter van den Broek is research affiliate at the University of Amsterdam. He has recently finished his PhD dissertation on embedded narratives in Silius Italicus’Punica under supervision of Irene de Jong and Mark Heerink. His publications include articles on Ovid and Statius. Besides his academic activities, he is a teacher of Classics at the Stedelijk Gymnasium Schiedam. Marina Coray (Dr. Phil.) works at the University of Basel, Department of Classics. Her (co-) publications include Homers Ilias: Gesamtkommentar Bd. vi: 19. Gesang, Fasz. 2: Kommentar (Berlin / Boston 2009, English version 2016) and Homers Ilias: Gesamtkommentar Bd. xi: 18. Gesang, Fasz. 2: Kommentar (Berlin / Boston 2016, English version 2018). Bruno Currie is Professor of Greek Literature at Oxford University. He is the author of Pindar and the Cult of Heroes (Oxford 2005) and Homer’s Allusive Art (Oxford 2016). Kristoffel Demoen is Professor of Greek Literature at Ghent University. Most of his publications deal with the reception of the classical tradition in imperial, late antique, and medieval Greek literature (notably Philostratus, Gregory of Nazianzus, Byzantine poetry). Koen De Temmerman is Professor of Classics at Ghent University. He is the author of Crafting Characters: Heroes and Heroines in the Ancient Greek Novel (Oxford 2014), the editor of the Oxford Handbook of Ancient Biography (Oxford 2020), and the co-editor of Writing Biography in Greece and Rome: Narrative Technique and Fictionalization (Cambridge 2016, with K. Demoen) and Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018, with E. van Emde Boas). He was the Laureate of the Prize for Humanities of the Belgian Royal Academy (2017) and is the recipient of two European Research Council grants (2013, 2018).

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Evert van Emde Boas is Associate Professor in Classical Philology at Aarhus University. He previously held posts at the University of Oxford and at various universities in the Netherlands. His research focuses on the application of modern linguistic and cognitive approaches to Greek literature. He is the lead author of The Cambridge Grammar of Classical Greek (Cambridge 2019), author of Language and Character in Euripides’ Electra (Oxford 2017), and co-editor of Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018). P.J. Finglass is Henry Overton Wills Professor of Greek at the University of Bristol. Currently he holds a Leverhulme Major Research Fellowship whose goal is a new edition with commentary of Sappho and Alcaeus. He has published a monograph Sophocles (2019) in the series Greece and Rome New Surveys in the Classics; has edited Sophocles’ Oedipus the King (Cambridge 2018), Ajax (Cambridge 2011), and Electra (Cambridge 2007), Stesichorus’ Poems (Cambridge 2014), and Pindar’s Pythian Eleven (Cambridge 2007) in the series Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries; has co-edited six books, including (with Adrian Kelly) The Cambridge Companion to Sappho (Cambridge 2021) and Stesichorus in Context (Cambridge 2015), and (with Lyndsay Coo) Female Characters in Fragmentary Greek Tragedy (Cambridge 2020); and edits the journal Classical Quarterly. Margalit Finkelberg is Professor emerita of Classics at Tel Aviv University and a member of the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities. Her most recent books are The Gatekeeper. Narrative Voice in Plato’s Dialogues (Leiden / Boston 2019) and Homer and Early Greek Epic. Collected Essays (Berlin / Boston 2020). Sofia Frade is an Assistant Professor at the Department for Classical Studies at the School of Arts and Humanities at the University of Lisbon. Her research focuses on Attic tragedy, especially Euripides, and its relation to Athenian politics as well as on the reception and performance of ancient drama in contemporary Portugal. Her book Heracles and Athenian Propaganda: Politics, Imagery and Drama is currently under contract with Bloomsbury Publishing. Piet Gerbrandy classicist and poet, teaches Classical and Medieval Latin at the University of Amsterdam. His research focuses on late antique and medieval Latin

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poetry. He translated Quintilian, Synesios’ Hymns, Boethius’ Consolation, and Andreas Capellanus’ De amore into Dutch. Lidewij van Gils is Assistant Professor of Latin Language and Literature at the University of Amsterdam. She has recently co-edited volumes on Latin linguistics (Lemmata Linguistica Latina. Vol. 2: Clause and Discourse, Berlin / Boston 2019) and ancient narrative (Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative, Leiden / Boston 2018) and has published on Cicero’s speeches and letters. Currently, she investigates common ground management in Cicero’s letters within the research programme Anchoring Innovation. Since 2020, she is also responsible for initiatives and developments in the field of didactic research in the field of Classics as national coordinator of Meesterschap Klassieke Talen. Annette Harder is Professor emeritus of Ancient Greek at the University of Groningen. She has published on Greek tragedy, Greek literary papyri, and particularly on Hellenistic poetry. Since 1992 she has organized the biennial Groningen Workshops on Hellenistic Poetry and edits the series Hellenistica Groningana. Her main publications are: Euripides’ Kresphontes and Archelaos (Leiden 1985); Callimachus Aetia (Oxford 2012). Stephen Harrison is Senior Research Fellow of Corpus Christi College, Oxford and Professor of Latin Literature in the University of Oxford. He is author and/or editor of many books on Latin literature and its reception, including a commentary on Horace Odes 2 (Cambridge 2017) and a monograph on Victorian Horace: Classics and Class (London 2017), and co-edited volumes on Intratextuality and Latin Literature (Berlin / Boston 2018), The Poetics of the Weaker Voice in Latin Literature (Oxford 2019), Roman Receptions of Sappho (Oxford 2019), Seamus Heaney and the Classics (Oxford 2019), and Cupid and Psyche: The Reception of Apuleius’ Love Story since 1600 (Berlin / Boston 2020). Mark Heerink is Associate Professor of Latin literature at the University of Amsterdam. He is the author of Echoing Hylas: A Study in Hellenistic and Roman Metapoetics (Madison, WI 2015) and co-editor of Brill’s Companion to Valerius Flaccus (Leiden / Boston 2014). He is currently revising J.H. Mozley’s 1934 edition and translation of Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica for the Loeb Classical Library.

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Jan Willem van Henten is Professor of Religion, in particular Ancient Judaism and Ancient Christianity, at the University of Amsterdam. He is also extra-ordinary Professor of Old and New Testament at Stellenbosch. He is the author of Martyrdom and Noble Death (Florence 2002; with Friedrich Avemarie) and co-editor of Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives (Amsterdam 2020; with Ihab Saloul). His commentary on Josephus, Antiquities 15, was published in 2014 in the Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary series (edited by Steve Mason, Leiden / Boston). He is preparing a commentary on 2Maccabees for the Anchor Yale Bible series. Luuk Huitink is Assistant Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Amsterdam. He specializes in linguistic, cognitive, and narratological approaches to Greek prose, in particular historiography. He is one of the authors of the Cambridge Grammar of Classical Greek (Cambridge 2019) and, together with Tim Rood, of a commentary on Xenophon, Anabasis iii (Cambridge 2019). Most recently he co-edited Experience, Narrative, and Criticism in Ancient Greece (Oxford 2020). Casper de Jonge is Professor of Greek Language and Literature at Leiden University. His research concentrates on ancient rhetoric, literary criticism, and Greek literature in the Roman world. He received funding from the Netherlands Organization of Scientific Research (NWO) for research projects on ‘The Sublime in Context’ (2010–2013) and ‘Greek Literary Criticism and Latin Literature’ (2014–2019). His monograph Between Grammar and Rhetoric: Dionysius of Halicarnassus on Language, Linguistics and Literature was published in 2008 (Leiden / Boston). With Richard Hunter he edited the volume Dionysius of Halicarnassus and Augustan Rome: Rhetoric, Criticism and Historiography (Cambridge 2019). Geralda Jurriaans-Helle studied Classical Languages and Classical Archaeology at the University of Amsterdam. From 1988 until 2021 she was curator of the Greek and Near Eastern Collections of the Allard Pierson Museum, the archaeological museum of the University of Amsterdam. In this period she wrote many articles and participated in many exhibitions on various subjects. In 2011 she decided to complete her research on the pictorial language of Athenian black-figured vases, with Irene de Jong as supervisor. In 2017 she defended her doctoral thesis on ‘Composition in Athenian Black-figure Vase-painting: The “Chariot in Profile” Type Scene’ at the University of Amsterdam.

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Ahuvia Kahane is Fellow of Trinity College Dublin where he is Regius Professor of Greek (1761) and A.G. Leventis Professor of Greek Culture (2017). He is interested in evolutionary genealogies of consciousness, values, and historical traditions, in questions of time, stochastic movement, emergence and complexity in discourse, and in the ethics and ontology of literary form. His book Epic, Novel and the Progress of Antiquity (London forthcoming) considers the phenomenology of historical time, literary history, and genre. He is completing a book on orality and complexity in archaic verse (Berlin / Boston). He teaches in Trinity College Dublin and supervises PhD Students at TCD, The Royal College of Art, and Royal Holloway, University of London. Robert Kirstein was educated at the University of Bonn, Oxford University, and the University of Münster (PhD). He is a former Feodor-Lynen-Fellow of the Alexander von Humboldt-Stiftung. Currently he holds the chair of Latin Literature at the University of Tübingen. Research interests are Greek and Latin poetry, especially of the Hellenistic Age; the History of Classical Scholarship, especially of the nineteenth and early twentieth century; the Greek and Latin epigram; Ovid and narratology. He is author of Junge Hirten und alte Fischer. Die Gedichte 27, 20 und 21 des Corpus Theocriteum (Berlin 2007). Jacqueline Klooster (PhD 2009, University of Amsterdam) is an Assistant Professor of Greek at the Rijksuniversiteit Groningen. She has published on Hellenistic Poetry (Poetry as Window and Mirror. Positioning the Poet in Hellenistic Poetry, Leiden / Boston 2011) and is one of the editors of the Hellenistica Groningana series. She was a Marie Curie Fellow at Ghent University (2012–2015) and a NIAS Fellow (2021– 2022). Edited works include: Homer and the Good Ruler in Antiquity and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2018, with Baukje van den Berg), After the Crisis. Remembrance, Re-anchoring and Recovery in Ancient Greece and Rome (London 2020, with Inger Kuin). Hugo Koning is a teacher of Ancient Greek at the University of Leiden. In 2010 he published The Other Poet, a monograph on the ancient reception of Hesiod. He is currently working, together with Glenn Most, on a collection and translation of ancient and Byzantine exegetical texts on the Theogony.

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Martha Krieter is Dr. Phil. at the University of Basel, Department of Classics. She is co-editor of Homers Ilias: Gesamtkommentar: Bd. iii: 3. Gesang, Fasz. 2: Kommentar (Berlin / Boston 2009, English version 2015) and Homers Ilias: Gesamtkommentar: Bd. x: 14. Gesang, Fasz. 2: Kommentar (Berlin / Boston 2015, English version 2018). Caroline Kroon is Professor of Latin Language and Literature at the University of Amsterdam. She is the author of Discourse Particles in Latin (Amsterdam 1995) and has published on a variety of topics in Latin linguistics. Recently she has coedited volumes on ancient narrative (Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative, Leiden / Boston 2018) and on Latin linguistics (Lemmata Linguistica Latina. Vol. 2: Clause and Discourse, Berlin / Boston 2019). Her research is characterized by an interdisciplinary approach crossing the border between linguistics and literary studies, with a focus on discourse linguistic analyses of literary texts (e.g. Catullus, Ovid, Virgil, Horace; Latin historiography). André Lardinois is Professor of Ancient Greek Language and Literature at Radboud University in Nijmegen, the Netherlands. He obtained his PhD degree from Princeton University in 1995, after studying Classics at the Vrije Universiteit (VU) Amsterdam and Utrecht University. His main field of study is early Greek poetry. Among his publications are Making Silence Speak: Women’s Voices in Greek Literature and Society (Princeton 2001), edited with Laura McClure; Sappho: A New Translation of the Complete Works (Cambridge 2014), with Diane Rayor; and The Newest Sappho: P. Sapph. Obbink and P. GC inv. 105, frs. 1–4 (Leiden 2016), edited with Anton Bierl. Françoise Létoublon is Professor emerita of Greek Literature and Linguistics at the University Grenoble Alpes. She published Les lieux communs du roman (Leiden 1993), ‘The Magnetic Stone of Love. Greek Novel and Poetry’, and ‘Greek Novel and Theater’ in A Companion to the Ancient Novel (Chichester 2014), ‘The Decisive Moment in Mythology: The Instant of Metamorphosis’, in Time and Space in Ancient Myth (Berlin 2017), ‘War as Spectacle in the Iliad’, in Gaze, Vision and Visuality in Ancient Greek Literature (Berlin 2018), ‘How to Talk about Death’, in The Upper and the Under World in Homeric and Archaic Epic (Ithaca, NY 2020).

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Michael Lloyd is Professor of Greek Language and Literature at University College Dublin. He is the author of The Agon in Euripides (Oxford 1992), Euripides’ Andromache: with Introduction, Translation, and Commentary (Warminster 1994, 2nd edn. 2005), a companion to Sophocles’ Electra (London 2005), and articles on Homer, Herodotus, and Greek tragedy. He is also the editor of Aeschylus in the Oxford Readings in Classical Studies series (Oxford 2007). He contributed to three volumes in the series Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative (Leiden / Boston). A chapter on realism in Euripides appeared recently in Brill’s Companion to Euripides (Leiden / Boston 2020). His current research focuses on pragmatics, especially politeness theory. Sebastiaan van der Mije studied Classics at the University of Amsterdam contemporaneously with Irene de Jong. He contributed several entries to the Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos, a.o. that on Poseidon, and published some ‘exegetical’ journal articles on Homer, a.o. on the simile in Il. 22 comparing Hector to a snake, on the omen of the eagles in Od. 2, and on the fate of the Phaeacians in Od. 13. He has also published on the Homeric words for heart/mind/spirit. Kathryn A. Morgan is Professor of Classics at the University of California, Los Angeles. Her research interests range broadly over Greek literature of the fifth and fourth centuries bce, from Pindar, Greek lyric, and Attic tragedy to Plato. Recent articles and book chapters have focused on Simonides, Platonic narratology, and Platonic metaphor. Her most recent book, Pindar and the Construction of Syracusan Monarchy in the Fifth Century b.c. (New York 2015), examines Pindar’s victory odes for Hieron of Syracuse and the programme of tyrannical selfrepresentation to which they contributed. Ilse Müllner is Catholic theologian and Professor of Old Testament Studies at the University of Kassel. Her main areas of interest are biblical narratology, gender studies, biblical studies as cultural studies, and biblical ethics. She is currently working on a commentary on the Second Book of Samuel (in the Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament series). Willie van Peer is Professor of Literary Studies and Intercultural Hermeneutics at the University of Munich; former president of IGEL (International Association for the

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Empirical Study of Literature) and former Chair of PALA (Poetics and Linguistics Association). He is the author of several books and articles on poetics and the epistemological foundations of literary studies. His publication Stylistics and Psychology. Investigations of Foregrounding (London 1986) marks the beginning of the empirical study of foregrounding theory. He is also the founding General Editor of the journal Scientific Study of Literature. Together with his wife he has co-founded the development project Mali-ka-di (www.malikadi​ .org). Christopher Pelling is emeritus Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford University. His recent books include Twelve Voices from Ancient Greece and Rome (Oxford 2014, with Maria Wyke), Herodotus and the Question Why (Austin TX 2019), and commentaries on Plutarch, Caesar (Oxford 2011), Herodotus 6 (Cambridge 2017, with Simon Hornblower), and Thucydides 6 and 7 (both volumes forthcoming in 2022). He is now working on a commentary on Plutarch, Alexander for the Clarendon Ancient History series. Edwin Rabbie studied Classics at the University of Amsterdam (MA, 1982; PhD, 1986) and Dutch law at Leiden University (LLM, 1994). Currently, he is a judge in the criminal division of the Rotterdam District Court. From 2013–2020 he also held an endowed professorship of intellectual history and Erasmus studies at Erasmus University Rotterdam. He is the author of an edition of Grotius’ Latin poetry of the years 1604–1608 (Assen 1992) and has edited several works for the Amsterdam edition of Erasmus’ Opera omnia (Amsterdam / Leiden, 1969–…). Albert Rijksbaron is Professor emeritus of Ancient Greek Linguistics at the University of Amsterdam. His publications include highly acclaimed and widely used Greek linguistic titles as well as numerous articles. He has edited and co-edited collaborative works in this field. Tim Rood is Professor of Greek Literature and Dorothea Gray Fellow and Tutor in Classics at St Hugh’s College, Oxford. His main research interests are Greek historiography and its reception. He is the author of Thucydides: Narrative and Explanation (Oxford 1998); The Sea! The Sea! The Shout of the Ten Thousand in the Modern Imagination (London 2006); American Anabasis: Xenophon and the Idea of America from the Mexican War to Iraq (London / New York 2010);

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and Anachronism and Antiquity (London 2020, with Carol Atack and Tom Phillips). With Luuk Huitink he has edited Xenophon: Anabasis Book iii (Cambridge 2019) for the Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics series. Richard Rutherford is Tutor in Greek and Latin Literature at Christ Church, Oxford University, where he has taught and lectured since 1982. Among his publications are The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius: A study (Oxford 1989), commentaries on Homer, Odyssey 19 and 20 (Cambridge 1992) and Iliad 18 (Cambridge 2019), and Greek Tragic Style: Form, Language and Interpretation (Cambridge 2012). He is currently working on a more general book on style in classical literature. Antonis Tsakmakis is Associate Professor of Greek in the Department of Classical Studies and Philosophy, University of Cyprus. He is the author of Thukydides über die Vergangenheit (Tübingen 1995), and co-editor of the volumes Όρνιθες. Όψεις και αναγνώσεις μιας αριστοφανικής κωμωδίας (Athens 1997), Brill’s Companion to Thucydides (Leiden 2006, Greek translation 2011), Thucydides between History and Literature (Berlin / New York 2013), and Framing the Dialogues. How to Read Openings and Closures in Plato (Leiden 2020). He has also produced a series of textbooks for teaching Greek in High School (in modern Greek). Berenice Verhelst studied Classics and Dutch at the University of Ghent and is now Assistant Professor of Greek at the University of Amsterdam. She specializes in late antique epic poetry, especially Nonnus’ Dionysiaca and the epyllia and ekphrastic poems of the so-called Nonnian poets. She is the author of Direct Speech in Nonnus’ Dionysiaca (Leiden / Boston 2016) and editor of Greek and Latin Poetry of Late Antiquity: Form, Tradition and Context (Cambridge forthcoming, co-editor: Tine Scheijnen) and Nonnus in Context iv: Poetry at the Crossroads (Leuven forthcoming). Gerry Wakker is Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Groningen. She is also scientific director of the national research school OIKOS. She specializes in Ancient Greek linguistics and discourse analysis, e.g., Conditions and Conditionals. An Investigation of Ancient Greek (Amsterdam 1994) and ‘The Gnomic Aorist in Hesiod’, in M. Janse, K. Bentein, J. Soltic (eds.), Variation and Change in Ancient Greek Tense, Aspect and Modality (New York / Leiden 2017) 84–99.

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Tim Whitmarsh is the A.G. Leventis Professor of Greek Culture at the University of Cambridge and Fellow of the British Academy. He is the author of over 80 articles and 9 books, including Battling the Gods: Atheism in the Ancient World (London 2015) and Dirty Love: The Genealogy of the Ancient Greek Novel (New York 2018). He is general editor of the Oxford Classical Dictionary (Oxford 5th edition). He has often contributed to newspapers such as The Guardian, the Times Literary Supplement, and the London Review of Books, as well as to BBC radio and TV. He is currently editing a collected volume of translations of the Greek epic poets of the Roman Empire.

introduction

The Narratology of Emotions in Ancient Literature Mathieu de Bakker, Baukje van den Berg, and Jacqueline Klooster

As a PhD student, Irene de Jong sounded out the depths of the narratorial voice of Homer, and charted in detail what other specialists had only recently begun to acknowledge: the thoroughly emotional engagement of this voice with the narrated events and, in particular, with the characters that shape them.* Far from being neutral, objective, and impersonal, the Homeric narrator was shown by her to be deeply involved in, and touched by, the struggles of his heroes, and expert at eliciting emotional responses from his narratee.1 De Jong’s fruitful application of the narratological model of Genette-Bal to the Homeric epics ushered in an approach to ancient texts in which—to use her own imagery—a more traditional ‘microscopic’ focus upon textual problems was counterbalanced by a more ‘telescopic’ evaluation of a text as a whole.2 How is the story told, which information is selected, omitted, or highlighted, how is it distributed, and what effects do these choices have upon its recipients? In applying these questions to ancient texts, De Jong facilitated comparative research and thereby helped to redefine the place of the ‘Classics’ in the study of European literature.3 With this volume we wish to mark Irene de Jong’s transition to emeritus Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Amsterdam in the Fall of

* We are very thankful to Douglas Cairns for his incisive comments and observations on an earlier version of the introduction, and for drawing our attention to important aspects of the scholarly debate on emotions that we had overlooked. We also thank our contributors for their useful stylistic feedback, and in particular André Lardinois and Willie van Peer for sending us a valuable list of corrections and suggestions. Finally, we thank Hannah Kousbroek for English corrections. 1 De Jong [1987] 20042: 221–229. 2 We owe the imagery to De Jong, who used it in her public address at her appointment as a fellow of the Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences. Of course De Jong was not the first to focus on ancient texts, but she innovated the traditional commentary format in her narratological commentary on the Odyssey (2001). For her methodological choices, see De Jong 2002. 3 For comparative literary analysis in particular the series Studies of Ancient Greek Narrative (SAGN) should be mentioned, of which five volumes have so far appeared (narrators, narratees, and narrative: 2004; time: 2007; space: 2012; characterization: 2018; speech: 2021). De Jong initiated the project and (co-)edited four of these volumes.

© M. de Bakker, B. van den Berg, and J. Klooster, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506

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2021. Without a doubt, her academic work will thereby not come to an end; rather, it might in fact increase, as administrative demands will no longer be a source of distraction. Nonetheless, we feel that this is the right moment to commemorate the important changes in the directions of our field that De Jong helped to bring about. For over three decades, she has left her mark with a steady stream of books, commentaries, and articles which bear the hallmarks of her scholarly style: a clear structure, rigorous argumentation, and a brisk and transparent idiolect. Her publications have inspired scholars around the world and provided an important impetus to the narratological analysis of ancient literature, as the contributions to this volume will attest.4 For the topic of this volume we return to De Jong’s doctoral thesis Narrators and Focalizers and take the emotional involvement of the narrator of Homer’s Iliad as our point of departure. It inspires us to think more generally about the ways in which emotions are presented in ancient literature and how they can be studied from a narratological angle, on the level of the narrator as well as the characters in the narrative. From Homer’s lengthy, ‘externalized’ descriptions of the emotions of his heroes to the subtle ways in which Socrates hides emotions behind a mask of irony, the emotions of literary characters can be portrayed in divergent ways. As Auerbach has argued in his Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature, there are major differences in the ways in which emotions are described, voiced, portrayed, and implied in (ancient) literature, which can teach us about characters’ thought-worlds and the contexts in which they play a role.5 Below we will briefly sketch ancient and current approaches towards emotions and explain why we believe it makes sense to apply narratological analysis to emotions as presented in the narratives of the ancient world. We thereupon give the floor to a group of colleagues who, inspired by De Jong’s work, have taken it as their starting point for a discussion of emotions within a specific author, work, or genre. We hope that this volume will serve as an anthology of readings that take their cue from narratology, and will thereby provide further insights into the vast and fascinating subject of emotions in the ancient world and beyond.

4 An overview of De Jong’s publications can be found at the end of this volume. 5 Auerbach [1946] 1953.

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Emotions in the Ancient World Achilles’ anger at Agamemnon, Penelope’s relief upon the discovery of Odysseus’ return, Phaedra’s shame at falling in love with her stepson, Croesus’ pity for Adrastus, Clearchus’ tears in front of the audience of the Ten Thousand, or Dido’s ecstatic grief on seeing Aeneas depart: part of the appeal of the literature of the ancient world lies in the vivid and explicit description of the emotions of its characters. Homer set the standard in his epics by giving insight into the rich inner life of his heroes, frequently connecting their thoughts and feelings to their actions on the battlefield and to the words that they direct at others. Throughout history the issue of how to define emotions has been problematic, as they can be, and have been, studied from many different angles, ranging from the psychological to the neuroscientific—we will return to this below.6 The word ‘emotion’ itself originates from Latin, though our current understanding of the term as referring to a (strong) feeling only came en vogue in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.7 The ancient Greek equivalent is commonly considered to be pathos, although this can be understood as anything that ‘affects’ someone, and in this sense more closely relates to Latin affectus than emotio. We are not aware of the existence of treatises on emotions among the Greeks before the fourth century bce, but they knew how to indicate and distinguish them and often described them in terms that seem akin to our own experiences of emotions. Numerous speeches in epic, historiography, and oratory concern emotions that are discussed and thematized in the public arena, and this is certainly not just literary convention. The early Greek states were violent and dangerous places, and many of them, Athens included, were essentially militaristic societies where honour (timê) and public image mattered most; anger, fear, and shame were never far away, and appear to have been overtly acknowledged in public debate, in particular when they were concerned with compensation and revenge.8 6 For discussions of definition, see Griffiths 1997; Deigh 2009; Harbsmeier et al. 2009; Mulligan and Scherer 2012. The Emotion Review volume 4 (2012), issue 4 is entirely dedicated to the question of how to define emotion. In relation to the ancient world, see Cairns and Fulkerson 2015: 1–11. 7 See Dixon 2003 on the shift from ‘passions’ to ‘emotions’ in the first half of the nineteenth century. 8 Cf. Ludwig 2009. Well-known examples of such debates are the gathering of the bereaved Ithacesians (Od. 24.426–464), the embassy of Spartans and Athenians at the court of Gelon previous to Xerxes’ invasion (Hdt. 7.157–162), the debate on the revenge upon Mytilene in the Athenian Assembly (Thuc. 3.36–49, see Pelling in this volume), and Aeschines’ Speech

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It is no surprise, then, to see emotions discussed in the works of the philosophers. Gorgias is the first of whom we know that he discusses the ‘affective’ effects of logos upon its recipients (Encomium of Helen 9; 14, see also below).9 In his Republic, Plato conceives of certain emotions as auxiliaries to the mind (e.g. 440b3–4) which may help in curbing physical desires. In this context, there is no place for epic and tragic poetry, as it puts the unrestrained emotions of its characters on display, and may thereby trigger, and eventually condone, similar undesirable emotions in the audience (e.g. 605c10–606b8). These ideas are furthered with more nuance by Aristotle in his Poetics, when he mentions pity and fear as emotions that should be elicited by the tragic plot and uses this as a criterion to determine the play’s quality and potential (1449b24–28; 1452b28– 1454a15).10 Well aware of their importance in oratory, Aristotle in his Rhetoric uses the term pathê to refer to emotions like anger, pity, fear, and their opposites and acknowledges their crucial influence upon the juries in casting their votes (1378a20–23),11 whereas in his On the Soul he ventures into the debate about their existence in conjunction with the physical body (403a3–b19). Platonic views on the dichotomy of emotions are further developed by Stoic philosophers, who distinguish between the beneficial eupatheiai that assist the wise man in attaining virtue, and the emotions that are to be avoided as they only relate to ‘matters of indifference’ (adiaphora).12 It is perhaps the growing unease with the role and display of emotions in the course of antiquity, as well as the increasing focus on the mind (nous) in the writings of late antique philosophers and their Byzantine successors that explain why emotions were for a long time not broadly studied and the Greeks—and in particular the Athenians of the ‘Classical’ period—came to be seen as essentially rational, and thereby exemplary, in their approach to society.13 Ideas like the ‘enlightened Greek’ and the ‘rise of the rational’ became

9 10 11

12 13

against Ctesiphon countered by Demosthenes’ Speech on the Crown. For the various ways in which archaic and classical Greek society differed from our own in terms of values and violence, one could start with the publications of Adkins 1960; Fisher 1992; Van Wees 2004. In relation to Athens, see for instance Cohen 1995; Herman 2006; Harris 2006, 2013; Cairns 2015. Segal 1962; Munteanu 2012: 37–51. See the contribution of Frade to this volume. For discussions of Aristotle’s understanding of pathos, see Fortenbaugh [1975] 20022; Leighton 1996; Konstan 2006a; Rapp 2008; Halliwell 2011: 208–265; Krewet 2011; Dow 2015. Graver 2007; Gill 2009; Price 2009. For a brief overview of the main ancient theories of emotion see Cairns 2019a. It goes too far here to give a full historical overview of late and post-antique developments in thinking about emotions. For in-depth overviews and discussions, see Sorabji

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popular in scholarship that focused on minds and thoughts,14 although, starting with Dodds’ The Greeks and the Irrational (1951), such ideas came under increasing scrutiny and criticism.15 In fact, as we will point out below, cognition and emotion are now understood to be closely interdependent, and are no longer seen as opposites. The twenty-first century has seen a significant increase in the study of emotions in general and those of the ancient world in particular.16 On the one hand, the subject has been targeted from a philosophical perspective, with David Konstan reflecting upon the ways in which views and theories from ancient philosophy interacted with emotions as they were portrayed in other ancient texts.17 On the other hand, emotions have been studied from a historical angle, and analysed in terms of culturally specific phenomena that could differ and change according to time and place also in the ancient world itself, as several valuable studies by Douglas Cairns and others have demonstrated.18 What could narratology add to this? Let us turn to the classic example of emotion in ancient Greek literature, and use it as a springboard for a discussion of the narratology of emotions.

The Narratology of Emotions The very first word of the Iliad illustrates the centrality of emotions in narrative: mênis, ‘wrath’, is the driving force behind the plot of the epic that would become the cornerstone of Graeco-Roman culture and its reception until today. In emotions, the historical and literary dimensions of narrative meet. Achilles’ wrath is both a literary and a socio-cultural phenomenon, the result of a slight to his timê, a central concept in the heroic code of Homer’s world.19 This means

14 15 16

17 18

19

2000; Knuuttila 2004; Champion and Lynch 2015; Boquet and Nagy 2018; Constantinou and Meyer 2019; Ruys and Monagle 2019. A key publication in this is Von Nestle’s Vom Mythos zum Logos (1940). E.g. Buxton 1999. For general works on emotions and their history see Oatley 2004; Lewis et al. 20083; Deonna and Teroni 2012; Plamper 2015; Boddice 2018; Hogan 2018. For general studies on emotions in antiquity, see Munteanu 2011; Chaniotis 2012; Chaniotis and Ducrey 2014; Chaniotis et al. 2017. For studies of specific emotions throughout antiquity, such as αἰδώς, see Konstan 2001; Konstan and Rutter 2003; Halliwell 2008; Sanders 2013. Konstan 2006a, 2006b. Cairns 2003, 2008, 2019b; Cairns and Fulkerson 2015; Cairns and Nelis 2017. Furthermore, Braund and Most 2003; Konstan 2005. From a comparative linguistic perspective, Wierzbicka 1999. In this volume, Achilles’ anger is discussed by Demoen, Kahane, and Pelling.

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that the different ways in which emotions are described, portrayed, and used in narrative open a perspective onto the thought-world and context in which the texts were written;20 on the other hand, they are part of the literary composition of the narratives and are designed to have certain effects on the narratees (and readers). A narratological approach to emotions in narratives of different genres and of different historical periods and cultures can therefore provide a common language to analyse differences and similarities, developments and continuities in thinking about emotions and creatively employing them in different kinds of literature, fictional as well as historical, in verse as well as prose.21 The Emotions of Narrators and Focalizers There is a direct connection between the role of a narrator in the story and her/his emotions. The choice for a certain type of narrator greatly influences her/his emotionality, conveyed as it is in the form of evaluative and affective expressions in the narrator text: an overt narrator is more likely to comment on the narrative than a covert one; an external (primary) narrator is more likely to keep an emotional distance to the story than an internal (secondary) narrator who is directly involved in the events she/he is narrating.22 Herodotus’ account of the dream that led Cambyses to murder his brother Smerdis provides a telling example. The episode is narrated twice, once by the primary narrator, once by Cambyses after he has realized his grave mistake. While the account of the primary narrator is presented without emotional evaluation (3.30.2–3), Cambyses’ version is interspersed with comments that reveal his emotions: he evaluates his acts as rash and foolish, a vain attempt to meddle with fate (3.65.2–3).23 Similarly, the monologues, prayers, and conversations in which the protagonists of Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe lament their fates largely repeat earlier events, adding emotions rather than new information to the account of the external primary narrator.24 The debate over the objectivity—and emotionality—of the Homeric narrator has demonstrated the importance of focalization when interpreting eval20 21 22

23 24

See e.g. Auerbach [1946] 1953. See e.g. Messis and Nilsson 2019, who explore how the representation of erôs differs as per the discursive or narrative logic of different texts. On the emotionality of the narrator, see e.g. De Jong 2004a: 19. This is for instance the case with the overt narrator of Xenophon’s Memorabilia: Gray 2004: 381. For different types of narrators, see also De Jong 2015: 17–28. See De Jong 2004b: 108; 2015: 36–37. See Morgan 2007: 439–440. Similarly, messengers in tragedy tend to be emotionally affected witnesses and secondary narrators.

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uative and affective words in narrator text. For Homer, the basic assumption is that such words are almost exclusively found in character text. In exceptional cases, where evaluative words do occur in narrator text, they can give a pathetic colouring. When the narrator, for instance, calls Patroclus a ‘great fool’ in Iliad 16.46 for requesting to go to battle and, thus, sealing his own fate, the tragic colouring of the narrator’s intervention is obvious.25 Other exceptions might not be exceptions at all: De Jong has argued that, frequently, evaluative words in narrator text present the emotional reaction of a character rather than the narrator. In such cases, we are dealing with ‘complex’ rather than ‘simple’ narrator text, where the narrator presents the embedded focalization of one of the characters. A much-debated example is Iliad 22.395/23.24: ‘and he [Achilles] devised shameful deeds [ἀεικέα] for noble Hector’. Is the Homeric narrator condemning Achilles’ disfiguration of Hector’s body as immoral? Scholarly opinions are divided. De Jong argues that ‘shameful’ does not imply wrong deeds for Achilles to commit but shameful deeds for Hector to suffer. The word should moreover be interpreted from the point of view of the character involved: we are reading Achilles’ thoughts and seeing things from his perspective; he is the secondary focalizer whose perspective emotionally colours the events.26 Such embedded focalization is not only available to authors of fiction but also features repeatedly in ancient (and later) historiography. Indeed, Herodotus and Thucydides frequently present the thoughts and emotions of their historical characters in complex narrator text, which underscores once more the universality of many narratological concepts.27 Even if the narrators in Herodotus and Thucydides are not strictly speaking omniscient to a similar degree as the Homeric narrator, they still have access to the thoughts and emotions of their characters. Narrators, especially omniscient ones, can simply state the emotions of their characters (e.g. ‘character X was frightened’), present the thoughts and emotions of the characters in embedded focalization (as above), or have the characters express their own thoughts/emotions in direct speech (see below).28 In the words of De Jong, ‘as a result of the presence of such 25 26

27 28

Janko 1994: 320–321 points to the pathos of this apostrophe. A similar example is Iliad 18.312, with discussion in De Jong [1987] 20042: 138. See also Allan in this volume. On this passage, see De Jong [1987] 20042: 138; 2012: 162–163. On affective evaluations in narrator text in general, see Griffin 1986, with response in De Jong 1988; De Jong [1987] 20042: 136–146; on embedded emotions/thoughts, see De Jong [1987] 20042: 110–114. On the extreme emotionality of the Hesiodic narrator, see Stoddard 2004: 152, with reservations in Koning 2018: 52. On focalization in general, see De Jong 2015: 47–72. On narratology and historiography, see e.g. De Jong 2015: 167–172, with further references. On these options, see De Jong [1987] 20042: 112–113. The Homeric narrator, especially in

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thought/emotions-passages the narrator-text does not consist of a succession of events only, but is interspersed with short “peeps” into the minds of the characters participating in those events’. In this way, De Jong continues, ‘the story is motivated and the hearers/readers are drawn into the story more fully.’29 Even if De Jong is speaking of the Iliad in particular, her words apply to emotions in other narratives too. The Emotions of Characters Characters, like their emotions, are textual and mimetic at the same time: they are narrative agents resembling real-life persons to a greater or lesser extent.30 Ancient critics already recognized that literary characters should to some extent act and feel the way we expect real people to act and feel in order to carry plausibility and credibility.31 They attribute a key role to emotions in portraying realistic characters across different genres: Longinus describes Euripides as the master of portraying emotions (15.1–3); Dionysius of Halicarnassus praises Lysias as best of all orators in observing human nature and in attributing to individuals appropriate emotions, characters, and deeds (Lys. 7); and Dio Chrysostom celebrates Homer as distinguished in his ability to know the passions of men (Or. 61.1).32 Unlike the permanent traits of the ethos of characters, their emotions (pathê) are temporary. Yet the emotions displayed by characters or ascribed to them by narrators can reveal something about their mental qualities and psychology. In other words, they can serve as a means of indirect, ‘metonymical’ characterization, in which character traits and more permanent dispositions are inferred from a character’s transient emotional state.33 The portrayal of emotions can happen in more and less direct ways: narrators can identify emotions and ascribe them to characters in textually explicit ways, characters can directly communicate their feelings in verbal and nonverbal ways, and narratees can infer the emotions of characters from more indirect textual cues or from what they do, say, and think. One way does not exclude the other. In Pindar’s Nemean 10, for instance, Polydeuces’ emotions are

29 30 31 32 33

the Odyssey, often gives the narratees insight into hidden thoughts and emotions that the character does not express otherwise in verbal or non-verbal communication. De Jong [1987] 20042: 113. See De Temmerman and Van Emde Boas 2018, esp. 12–19 on ‘mixed approaches’ to literary characters and further references. For the poetic scholia vetera on lifelike characters, see e.g. Nünlist 2009: 190–191, 252–253. See also De Jonge’s contribution to this volume on the views of ancient critics on the representation of emotions in literature. See De Temmerman and Van Emde Boas 2018a: 22; 2018b: xiii (s.v. ‘(characterization by) emotion’).

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manifest in his tears and groans at the lifeless body of his brother Castor (75– 76); his verbal lament expresses his great sorrow: he, too, wishes to die (76–79); his immediate decision to revive Castor at the expense of his own immortality more implicitly indicates his emotional state (89–90).34 Emotions can motivate conduct and action and thus, as with Achilles’ mênis, may drive the entire plot of a narrative. They elicit reactions and evaluations from other characters, which, in their turn, can be portrayed in various explicit and implicit ways. The portrayal and interpretation of these different aspects of characters and their emotions hinges on general patterns of human behaviour in the world outside the text. Narratees (and readers) use their social knowledge—as well as their knowledge of literary conventions—to interpret implicit and explicit clues on characters and their emotions. Analysing emotions in premodern narratives, therefore, involves reconstructing the culturally determined social knowledge and generically determined literary conventions relevant to the texts in question.35 Characters and emotions can be interwoven with the narrative category of space. When space has a psychologizing function, it reflects the mood or feelings of a character.36 The desolate landscape of the Syrtis in Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica, for instance, mirrors the despair of the Argonauts in a ‘mutual reflection of psychology and nature in the manner almost of pathetic fallacy’.37 The eroticization of nature in the ancient Greek novels is another example, with a particularly telling passage in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe. The narrator describes the burgeoning spring: sheep bleated, lambs skipped, rams were chasing and mounting ewes, billy goats amorously leapt after nannies— a sight that could have aroused erotic desires even in old men, and certainly turned the thoughts of the young protagonists to sex.38 The way characters view their surroundings can thus reveal their mood and emotional disposition.39 34 35

36 37

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On this passage, see Currie 2018: 296. See De Temmerman and Van Emde Boas 2018a: 15–19 with references to further literature. Interpreting emotion in literary narrative has parallels to the interpretation of emotion in real social interaction, which relies on the inherently narrative character of action and emotion: see most recently Gallagher 2020, esp. 160–169. On the psychologizing function of space, see De Jong 2012b: 16–17; 2015: 127–128. Klooster 2012: 67. Klooster 2012: 68 mentions a gloomy landscape with weeping pines and mourning heroes as another example. See Cairns 2017 on a similar relation of landscape and emotion in Euripides’ Hippolytus and Seneca’s Phaedra, and compare Adema in this volume on the portrait of Dido’s emotions against the backdrop of Carthage. See also Miall 2011: 341–343 on the role of such phenomena in evoking emotional reactions in readers. Longus 3.13.1–3, with discussion in Morgan 2012: 545–546. In specific cases, the thematizing function of space can be connected with emotionality as a theme. In Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe, for instance, the spatial semiotics

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The Emotions of Narratees ‘[N]arratees, both primary and secondary, are a powerful instrument for influencing the reception of a text, in that they provide the readers with figures to identify with or distance themselves from.’40 The many embedded narratives in the Odyssey, for instance, prompt various reactions from the secondary narratees, ranging from aesthetic admiration and emotional involvement to enchantment. These reactions, De Jong suggests, reflect the intended reactions of the primary narratees to the Iliad and Odyssey themselves.41 In a similar vein, strong reactions of secondary narratees in Pindar and Bacchylides are intended to steer the primary narratees’ perception of the embedded narratives in question.42 Other ‘characters’ in the narrative can similarly reflect the expected reaction of audiences inside and outside the text: when Homer writes that the earth beamed as the Achaeans, in their shining armours, prepared for battle (Il. 19.362), he in fact ‘ascribes to the earth what happens to the spectator’ (ὃ περὶ τὸν θεατὴν ἄνθρωπον ἐν τοῖς τοιούτοις γίνεται, τῇ γῇ Ὅμηρος ἐπωνόμασε), as the Byzantine scholar Eustathios of Thessalonike (twelfth century) explains.43 Yet the narrator has more techniques for influencing the reactions of the narratees by piquing their curiosity and engaging them emotionally.44 These include (but are not limited to): – prolepsis: prolepses or flash-forwards are often used to create suspense among the narratees about how things are going to develop.45 Ancient crit-

40 41 42

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44

45

of secluded vs. open space and inside vs. outside thematize emotionality and rationality (De Temmerman 2012a: 490, 494–496). In Xenophon’s Ephesiaca, the secludedness of home thematizes emotional introspection and confidential conversation (De Temmerman 2012b: 511). On the thematic function of space, see also De Jong 2015: 123. De Jong 2004c: 6. De Jong 2004a: 23. Pfeijffer 2004: 227. Cf. Morgan 2004: 487 on Chariton: the narrated responses in Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe invite an ‘unashamedly emotional reaction’ from the primary narratee. Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 1188.55–57 = 4.343.18–19 ed. Van der Valk, with discussion in Pizzone 2017: 163–164. Eustathios interprets γελάω as both ‘shine’ and ‘laugh’, ‘rejoice’. Cf. Edwards 1991 ad 19.362–363. Eustathios may be referring to spectators on the Trojan battlefield as well as the primary narratees: see Van den Berg in this volume. Both ancient scholiasts and Eustathios were very attentive to the ways in which the poet evoked various emotional reactions in his audience or attracted their attention: on the scholia, see e.g. Nünlist 2009: 135–156; for Eustathios, see Pizzone 2016 and Van den Berg, forthcoming. See De Jong 2007: 4. On prolepsis, see De Jong 2007: 3–8 and 2015: 78–87. Narratorial and actorial prolepses (and analepses) may differ in emotional colouring and effect: see De Jong 2007: 7.

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ics already recognized how such a device could ‘render the listener attentive and emotionally more engaged’ (προσεκτικὸν δὲ ταῦτα τὸν ἀκροατὴν καὶ περιπαθέστερον ἐργάζονται).46 – similes and metaphors: a powerful example such as Homer’s comparison of the joy Penelope feels when recognizing Odysseus with the great joy those who are shipwrecked feel at the sight of land (Od. 23.233–240) suffices to illustrate the emotional potential of such imagery. – visual and acoustic detail: ancient critics already recognized the power of detailed descriptions with regard to the emotional involvement of the audience. Details were a key means of producing enargeia, the central idea of which is that ‘the story world appears so clearly to the listener that he experiences the illusion of being present at the events reported in the narrative’.47 Another way to enhance this illusion is the use of the historic present.48 – dramatic irony: when the primary narratees know more and understand better what is happening than the characters involved, the awareness of this discrepancy may evoke pathos.49 Whatever the narrator’s strategy of choice, to evoke some kind of emotional reaction from the narratees—and the readers/listeners—is a fundamental tenet of storytelling. This particular aspect has also received much attention in cognitive and affective narratology, which merits a discussion of its own.

Cognitive and Affective Narratology: Narration and the Emotions τὴν ποίησιν ἅπασαν καὶ νομίζω καὶ ὀνομάζω λόγον ἔχοντα μέτρον· ἧς τοὺς ἀκούοντας εἰσῆλθε καὶ φρίκη περίφοβος καὶ ἔλεος πολύδακρυς καὶ πόθος φιλοπενθής, ἐπ’ ἀλλοτρίων τε πραγμάτων καὶ σωμάτων εὐπραγίαις καὶ δυσπραγίαις ἴδιόν τι πάθημα διὰ τῶν λόγων ἔπαθεν ἡ ψυχή. All poetry I deem and define to be speech in meter; its listeners are affected by terrified shuddering and tearful compassion and a desire to indulge in mourning; for at the actions and physical experiences of oth-

46 47 48

49

Schol. bT Il. 15.610–614b, with discussion in Nünlist 2009: 37. On prolepsis in ancient scholia, see Nünlist 2009: 34–45; on Eustathios, see Van den Berg, forthcoming. See Allan et al. 2017: 36. See also below. See e.g. Thuc. 8.34 with discussion in De Jong 2015: 67–68. Ps.-Longinus already recommends the use of present tenses to create the impression of actuality in On the Sublime 25. On the narrative functions of the historic present, see Allan 2009: 192–195. De Jong and Nünlist 2004: 551.

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ers, both in good fortune and bad, the soul perceives a sensation of its own through the agency of words. gorgias, Encomium of Helen, 9

We are all familiar with the phenomenon described here: a story may make us laugh, or cry, make us feel scared, or perhaps even feel anger, as if we ourselves were concerned. This usually happens because, as is described in the quotation from Gorgias above, we identify with the characters in the narrative: for the duration of our reading, we not only believe in their emotional reality, but actually feel their pains and joys almost as if they were our own. But it is equally well known that not all readers react with the same emotions to the same narrative. Cognitive narratology attempts to explain why a single story affects so many people in the same way, but also why everyone is not affected in the same way.50 What is Cognitive Narratology? Cognitive narratology, sometimes also known as affective narratology, is described by David Herman in his entry in the Living Handbook of Narratology as a ‘still emergent trend in the broader domain of narratology’ which is distinguished by research on the mind-narrative nexus.51 This encompasses a wide range of topics, including analysis of basic sense-making strategies, but also research into more specific issues like what causes the sense of immersion of the reader in the narrative universe and why readers feel empathy for fictive characters. As these last two examples already suggest, emotions form a crucial study object of cognitive narratology. General narratology studies emotions of the narrator and the characters as depicted in the narrative, but also the emotions of the reader or narratee as affected by the narrative (as pointed out above). But cognitive narratology distinguishes itself by emphatically studying the connection between the two. Why do narratees ‘feel along with’ characters in narratives, even when they are aware they are reading a work of fiction? What are the literary techniques and the neurological backgrounds enabling us to identify with or feel empathy for a character in a narrative text? Why are there individual differences as well as general trends in how stories affect us emotionally?

50 51

This is referred to as ‘the differing emotions problem’: cf. Hogan 2003: 285 with references. Cognitive Narratology is the header used by Herman, in the online Living Handbook of Narratology (2013). Affective Narratology is used by Hogan, e.g. 2003, as a subset of this broader research trend. In this volume, Van Emde Boas, Van Gils and Kroon, Van Henten, Huitink, Kahane, Létoublon, Van Peer, Rood, Tsakmakis, and Whitmarsh discuss various ways in which ancient literature may affect its readers.

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Perhaps the term ‘cognition’ does not immediately evoke these topics, because of the engrained idea that cognition only involves intellectual or rational processes while emotions are considered the opposite of rationality. Yet this is a false dichotomy, as neuroscientists and others now see it.52 It may be true that emotions are usually taken to be more involved in the so-called ‘quick and dirty’ appraisal of situations (e.g. immediate fear in reaction to sudden danger), whereas cognitive processing rather involves the ‘slower and more accurate evaluation’ of situations (LeDoux). Nevertheless, ‘one cannot understand cognition without emotion and vice versa.’53 Indeed, ‘emotions are part of a solution to problems of organizing knowledge and action in a world that is imperfectly known and in which we have limited resources.’54 So how exactly are narratology and the emotions related? To begin with, as Gallagher (2020) claims, actions and emotions may themselves be considered as narratively structured and other-understanding (which explains phenomena like social cognition, folk psychology, and Theory of Mind). In other words, they are on the most basic level a matter of creating and responding to narratives. This explains why one of the main functions neuroscientists attribute to emotions is communication: this applies on the intrapersonal level, within the brain between various ‘modules’, and on the interpersonal one, between two or more individual persons.55 This second type of communication occurs through sight and physical nearness: I see a loved one’s tears, and feel saddened myself. It can also occur through verbal communication: someone tells me a sad story, and I feel sad. In particular, as ancient sophists and philosophers already noted, emotions may also be communicated to audiences through literary art, such as epic or drama, in which fictive characters are represented as experiencing strong emotions.56 Cognitive and Affective Narratology are likewise concerned with the age-old question of how and why it is that literature affects readers emotionally. Why do we feel fear or pity when learning about mythical King Oedipus’ fate? And, perhaps even more mysteriously, why do we enjoy watching the drama of his downfall at the same time?

52

53 54 55 56

Some names of importance in this context include: Damasio (e.g. 2003), LeDoux (e.g. 1996), Colombetti (e.g. 2019); for criticism of the experimental data of Damasio and LeDoux, see Plamper 2015. Hogan 2003: 240. Compare also valuable observations by Kahane and Koning in this volume. Oatley 1992: 3. Hogan 2003: 242, who refers to the work of Oatley (1992) and Johnson-Laird (1988). Gorgias, Plato, and Aristotle are but the best known among these (see above).

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What Are Emotions? The list of emotions modern neuroscientists recognize is hotly disputed, although a basic list would certainly include joy, sadness, fear, and anger.57 Sometimes surprise, disgust, and interest are also included. Other feelings (such as love, jealousy, or anxiety) can be considered derivations from this basic set, or perhaps syndromes of a combination of them. Keith Oatley explains that emotions are not actually elicited by events as such, but by the evaluation of events in relation to future goals and prior beliefs; this is known as ‘appraisal theory’.58 Emotions thus usually occur at significant junctures in an individual’s or a group’s plans. This applies in life as it does in plot lines. If we take for instance the Iliad, it is quite easy to point out a number of such significant junctures at which emotional peaks occur. We might indeed say that the plot of the Iliad is structured around them: they can be found when Agamemnon decides to take Briseis from Achilles; when Achilles decides he will no longer join the fighting; when Patroclus dies; when Achilles returns to the fray; when he kills Hector, thereby destroying the Trojan hopes; when he decides to return Hector’s corpse for burial.59 Since human beings as social animals specialize in interacting with each other, most goals and plans are joint ventures, and we can explain the basic emotions accordingly, Oatley posits.60 Thus, anger is often associated with a joint plan in which one party does not stick to their end of the commitment (Achilles’ anger at Agamemnon). Sadness occurs in case of loss, often the loss of a role in a relationship (death of Patroclus; Hector). Hatred (Achilles’ hatred of Agamemnon; his hatred of Hector) can signal a discontinuation of or disengagement from a joint plan (Achilles’ refusal to fight; his refusal to give up Hector for ‘normal’ burial). Love, which may be derived from the emotion of happiness, on the other hand signals a commitment to a future of joint activity (the feelings between Achilles and Patroclus; or those between Hector and Andromache, in particular with regard to their baby son Astyanax). It is important to note that assessments differ as to how universal human emotions are: some scholars hold that they are basically universal and thus connect us directly to the ancient Greeks (and beyond); others hold that they are 57

58 59 60

See in this context in particular the groundbreaking works of Paul Ekman (1999) and Nico Frijda (1986). See further Hogan 2003: 247, referring to the work of Oatley (1992) and Johnson-Laird (1988). Hogan 2003: 246–247, referring to Oatley 1992: 98. For an overview of appraisal processes in emotion theory, see Scherer et al. 2001. This is merely exempli gratia; one could doubtless discern more ‘junctures’ in the narrative and its subplots. Oatley as paraphrased by Hogan 2003: 250.

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social constructs, and as such are determined by historical, cultural, and geographical parameters. David Konstan points out that ancient emotion terms or concepts do not seamlessly map onto modern ones.61 Nevertheless, looking at ancient literature in general, most scholars will agree that the conceptual overlap is usually large enough to allow modern readers to understand, and even be affected by the emotions portrayed. The example of the Iliad is a case in point. But how exactly does that work, being emotionally affected by a narrative? The transferal of emotions through narrative is something that has been theorized about ever since antiquity. In the following we briefly list a number of approaches and theories, and wherever applicable refer to ancient theories which seem to parallel them. Immersion As Allan et al. (2017) have shown, ‘immersion’, the sensation of entering a narrative world, has been considered a condition for engaging the interest and eliciting the emotions of audiences ever since antiquity.62 The evoking of emotions is facilitated if a reader is able to vividly imagine actions and situations as if (s)he were present at the scene, making the characters and their experiences more ‘real’ and ‘distinct’ (enargeia, lit. ‘distinctness, clarity’). This can be achieved for instance by means of spatio-temporal immersion: by pictorial descriptions and similes describing landscapes and objects which emphasize colours, materials, and textures (ekphrasis),63 or by techniques related to the pace of the narrative, such as ‘scenic narration’ which approximates ‘lived’ time (most prominent in dialogues and speeches). ‘Identification’ is another prominent means of involving the audience: this can be achieved by creating a text-internal narratee whose point of view can be assumed by the audience, or by emphatically presenting a narrative from the point of view of a character (focalization) or text-internal narrator.64 Finally, the covert nature of an external omniscient narrator, who by his near absence provides the sense that ‘the story tells itself’, can also be an important factor in erasing boundaries between the story world and the real world. The use of

61 62

63 64

Konstan 2015. Allan et al. 2017; the words ‘ekstasis’ and ‘enagonios’ often feature in ancient scholarly literature in this context. More recently, see also Allan 2020: 15–35 and Allan’s contribution to this volume. On immersion and narrative absorption in general, see a.o. Hakemulder et al. 2017. On ecstasy in ancient criticism, see also De Jonge in this volume. As discussed by Demoen in this volume. On identification, see also Frade in this volume.

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plentiful direct character speech and quasi-self-erasure of the voice of the narrator contributes to this effect, as Aristotle already pointed out with regard to Homer.65 Empathy In the above, the concept of ‘identification’ was mentioned. According to some, identification with literary characters works through the psychological principle of empathy which is sometimes defined as ‘sympathy combined with altruism’.66 Scientists believe that mirror-neurons enable us to imagine what another person feels, and thus facilitate ‘emotional contagion’, which allows us as it were to feel what someone else is feeling; these ideas are associated in particular with the work of neuroscientist Jean Decety. Experiments using ƒMRI are claimed to have shown that ‘the affective parts of the brain’s pain matrix light up both when a subject receives actual pain and when he/she watches a loved one receive pain.’67 Translated to the relation between readers and fictional characters, empathy might actually mean that we as audience make the goals, and hence the inherent emotions attributed to a character or narrator in a fiction temporarily overlap with our own: we want what the narrator or character whose viewpoint we have been made to share wants, and thus to some extent we feel his/her sadness, anger, joy etc. when these plans fail or, respectively, come to pass.68 There are many narrative techniques and parameters that are believed to determine the success of inviting a reader’s empathy, including the immersion techniques discussed above, in particular focalization and the choice of narratorial perspective,69 levels of interiority (thoughts, dreams, internal monologues, free first-person discourse; the embedded focalization mentioned above), characterization (rounded vs flat characters), but also more basic attributes such as

65 66 67

68

69

Poet. 1460a5–11, cf. Allan et al. 2017: 46–47 for interpretations of this passage, with references. Keen 2010: 62. For a description of these experiments by Tanja Singer, see Keen: 2010: 65–67. For a critical appraisal of problematic aspects of positing that emotions are situated only in the brain, see Colombetti 2019: 45. See in Hogan 2003: 253–257; Keen 2010: 70–72. For a different view, see Cairns 2017, who argues that ancient theorists such as Gorgias and Aristotle believe empathy with literary characters does not work this way. Although it is disputed, first-person narrative is sometimes believed to invite empathy more successfully than other types of narrative, but for problems with this assumption e.g. Keen 2010: 72.

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gender and even names. Experimental finds in this context show that readers empathize more easily with people who are ‘like them’ (so-called in-group empathy).70 Plato’s Ion presents Socrates as giving a beautiful description of the ‘emotional contagion’ that takes place when an audience listens to a rendering of Homeric narrative by the rhapsode Ion, in Ion 536a. The main difference with some of the modern explanations cited here is the addition of the Muse at the top-end of the magnetic chain of rings that stretches from Muse to poet, on to the rhapsode, and finally on to the audience. Simulation, Memory So, what happens in the brain when we empathize with fictional characters? Why does the fact that these characters are fictional not stop us from believing in them, and feeling their emotions? As Gorgias already noted, ‘tragedy is deceit (apatê) wherein the one who deceives is more correct than the one who does not deceive, and the one who is deceived is wiser than the one who is not deceived.’71 Indeed, in the eyes of some modern scholars of empathy this paradox seems to contain a correct observation: Keen (2010: 78) notes that precisely the paratextual elements indicating that a narrative is fictional (meter, temporal distancing [once upon a time …], or other markers of fiction) may in fact help us empathize, because they relieve us from the stress and problems that would normally accrue to the emotions that are represented in the narrative. If we let ourselves be deceived for the duration of the story, this allows the text to engage our emotions more freely: we let ourselves be deceived, and gain more from the narrative. A narrative is a safe space to experience disturbing emotions like fear, pity, and sadness, but perhaps also more positive ones like romantic feelings. In this context, Keith Oatley (1994: 53–74) takes up the old Aristotelian concept of mimesis, but translates it as ‘simulation’ rather than ‘imitation’ in order to reach an understanding of how empathy with fictional characters works. He holds that the human brain as it were ‘runs a simulation’ (like a computer test run) of emotions when reading fiction or witnessing a drama or film. All the emotional circuits are running, but at the same time, the brain is aware that this is a simulation rather than the real thing. This, quite apart from aesthetic considerations of style and similar embellishments of a narrative, might partially explain the ‘pleasure’ that paradoxically inheres in the hearing of a

70 71

Keen 2010: 82–85 discusses the ethical problems accruing to this observation. As quoted by Plutarch in de audiendis poetis 15c–d.

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very sad, or very scary story, because it helps us understand such emotions from a safe distance. This is indeed the way Oatley (controversially, but ingeniously) explains the well-known and much debated concept of Aristotelian ‘catharsis’: as a ‘clarification’ of the emotions evoked by drama. Needless to say, not all theorists believe that ‘simulation’ is the definitive answer to how empathy and emotional contagion in fictional narrative work, but some theories do come close to such concepts, or partly overlap with them. Hogan for instance, like Oatley, believes that the emotional response to narrative is enabled by the memory of experienced emotions; Nichols and Stich hold that pretence and imagination come to our aid when we are trying to understand the emotions of (fictional) others (what they call ‘mindreading’).72 Although many of the questions pertaining to the mystery of why and how we are affected by fictional emotions are still far from being definitively answered, and theories as to the precise workings of the emotional transmission between narratives and readers prioritize different approaches, one thing is very clear: the narratology of the emotions is not limited to the study of the text, but should also take into account the cognitive processes in the minds of the readers.

Prospect After this introduction into the ways in which emotions in ancient literature can be studied with the help of narratology, it is now time to give the floor to our contributors. The ensuing chapters have been written by friends, colleagues, and students who have found inspiration in De Jong’s work. Approaches vary, from a broader focus on methodological issues to detailed readings of emotions as represented within specific passages of ancient literature. Most contributors have decided to focus upon specific authors or genres. For this reason we have chosen to follow chronology, and divided the contributions into eight parts. The first of these concerns De Jong’s starting point, Archaic Epic, with all papers except one studying Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. In the second part (‘Archaic Epic and Beyond’), contributors take the epics as their points of departure, but draw of other texts from later periods for comparison. The third part concentrates upon Lyric, Tragedy, and Biblical poetry, and the fourth upon Greek prose of the so-called Classical Age. The fifth part concerns Greek literature from the

72

Hogan 2003: 306–314; Oatley 1995; Nichols and Stich 2003. For other theories, see the references in Keen 2010: 61–93.

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Hellenistic Age, the sixth Latin literature, and the seventh Greek literature of the Imperial Age. In the final part we have assembled papers that study literature of Late Antiquity, the Middle Ages, and the Early Modern period.

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Dodds, E.R., The Greeks and the Irrational (Berkeley 1951). Dow, J., Passions and Persuasion in Aristotle’s Rhetoric (Oxford 2015). Edwards, M.W., The Iliad: A Commentary. Vol. 5: Books 17–20 (Cambridge 1991). Ekman, P., ‘Basic Emotions’, in T. Dalgleish, M. Power (eds.), Handbook of Cognition and Emotion (Chichester 1999). Fisher, N.R.E., Hybris. A Study in the Values of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greece (Warminster 1992). Fortenbaugh, W.W., Aristotle on Emotion (London [1975] 2nd edn. 2002). Frijda, N., The Emotions (Cambridge 1986). Gallagher, S., Action and Interaction (Oxford / New York, 2020). Gill, C., ‘Stoicism and Epicureanism’, in P. Goldie (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Emotion (Oxford 2009) 143–166. Graver, M.R., Stoicism and Emotion (Chicago 2007). Gray, V., ‘Xenophon’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 129–146. Griffin, J., ‘Homeric Words and Speakers’, JHS 106 (1986) 36–57. Griffiths, P.E., What Emotions Really Are. The Problem of Psychological Categories (Chicago / London 1997). Hakemulder, F., Kuijpers, M.M., Tan, E.S., Bálint, K., Doicaru, M.M. (eds.), Narrative Absorption (Amsterdam / Philadelphia 2017). Halliwell, S., Greek Laughter. A Study of Cultural Psychology from Homer to Early Christianity (Cambridge 2008). Halliwell, S., Between Ecstasy and Truth. Interpretations of Greek Poetics from Homer to Longinus (Oxford / New York 2011). Harbsmeier, M., Kubota, N., Möckel, S. (eds.), Pathos Affekt Emotion. Transformationen der Antike (Frankfurt 2009). Harris, E., Democracy and the Rule of Law in Classical Athens (Cambridge / New York 2006). Harris, E., The Rule of Law in Action in Democratic Athens (Oxford / New York 2013). Herman, G., Morality and Behaviour in Democratic Athens. A Social History (Cambridge 2006). Herman, L., The Living Handbook of Narratology(Hamburg 2nd edn. 2014–2021,online). Hogan, P.C., The Mind and Its Stories. Narrative Universals and Human Emotion (Cambridge 2003). Hogan, P.C., Affective Narratology. The Emotional Structure of Stories (Lincoln, NB 2011). Hogan, P.C., Literature and Emotion (Abingdon / New York 2018). Janko, R., The Iliad: A Commentary. Vol. 4: Books 13–16 (Cambridge 1994). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London [1987] 2nd edn. 2004). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homeric Words and Speakers: An Addendum’, JHS 108 (1988) 188–189. Jong, I.J.F. de, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001).

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Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey: Principles and Problems’, in R. Gibson, C. Kraus (eds.), The Classical Commentary (Leiden 2002) 49–66. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004a) 13–24. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Herodotus’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004b) 101–114. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Introduction: Narratological Theory on Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004c) 1–10. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Introduction: Narratological Theory on Time’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2007) 1–14. Jong, I.J.F. de, Homer, Iliad, Book 22 (Cambridge / New York 2012a). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Introduction: Narratological Theory on Space’, in I.J.F. de Jong (ed.), Space in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2012b) 1–18. Jong, I.J.F. de, Narratology and Classics. A Practical Guide (Oxford / New York 2015). Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R., ‘Epilogue: Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 545–553. Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R., Bowie, A. (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004). Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R. (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2007). Keen, S., Empathy and the Novel (New York / Oxford [2007] 2010). Klooster, J.J.H., ‘Apollonius of Rhodes’, in I.J.F. de Jong (ed.), Space in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2012) 56–76. Knuuttila, S., Emotions in Ancient and Medieval Philosophy (Oxford 2004). Koning, H., ‘Hesiod’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018) 46–63. Konstan, D., Pity Transformed (London 2001). Konstan, D., ‘The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: A Cross-Cultural Perspective’, Psychologia: An International Journal of Psychology in the Orient 48 (2005) 225–240. Konstan, D., The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks. Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto 2006a). Konstan, D., ‘The Concept of ‘Emotion’ from Plato to Cicero’, Méthexis 19 (2006b) 139– 151. Konstan, D., ‘Affect and Emotion in Greek Literature’, in G. Williams (ed.), Oxford Handbooks Online: Classical Studies (Oxford 2015). Konstan, D., Rutter, N.K. (eds.), Envy, Spite and Jealousy. The Rivalrous Emotions in Classical Greece (Edinburgh 2003). Krewet, M., Die Theorie der Gefühle bei Aristoteles (Heidelberg 2011). LeDoux, J.E., The Emotional Brain. The Mysterious Underpinnings of Emotional Life (New York 1996).

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Leighton, S.R., ‘Aristotle and the Emotions’, in A.O. Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Rhetoric (Berkeley / Los Angeles / London 1996) 206–237. Lewis, M., Haviland-Jones, J.M., Feldman Barrett, L. (eds.), Handbook of Emotions (New York / London [1993] 3rd edn. 2008). Ludwig, P.W., ‘Anger, Eros, and Other Political Passions in Ancient Greek Thought’, in R.K. Balot (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Political Thought (Chichester 2009) 294–307. Messis, C., Nilsson, I., ‘Eros as Passion, Affection and Nature: Gendered Perceptions of Erotic Emotion in Byzantium’, in S. Constantinou, M. Meyer (eds.), Emotions and Gender in Byzantine Culture (London 2019) 159–180. Miall, D.S., ‘Emotions and the Structuring of Narrative Responses’, Poetics Today 32.2 (2011) 323–348. Morgan, J.R., ‘Chariton’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 480–492. Morgan, J.R., ‘Chariton’, in I.J.F. de Jong and R. Nünlist (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2007) 434–451. Morgan, J.R., ‘Longus’, in I.J.F. de Jong (ed.), Space in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2012) 537–555. Mulligan, K., Scherer, K.R., ‘Toward a Working Definition of Emotion’, Emotion Review 4.4 (2012) 345–357. Munteanu, D. (ed.), Emotion, Genre and Gender in Classical Antiquity (London 2011). Munteanu, D., Tragic Pathos. Pity and Fear in Greek Philosophy and Tragedy (Cambridge 2012). Nestle, W. von, Vom Mythos zum Logos. Die Selbstentfaltung des Griechischen Denkens von Homer bis auf die Sophistik und Sokrates (Stuttgart 1940). Nünlist, R., The Ancient Critic at Work. Terms and Concepts of Literary Criticism in Greek Scholia (Cambridge 2009). Oatley, K., Best Laid Schemes. The Psychology of Emotions (Cambridge 1992). Oatley, K., ‘A Taxonomy of the Emotions of Literary Response and a Theory of Identification in Fictional Narrative’, Poetics 23 (1994) 53–74. Oatley, K., Emotions. A Brief History (Malden, MA 2004). Pfeijffer, I.L., ‘Pindar and Bacchylides’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 214–232. Pizzone, A., ‘Audiences and Emotions in Eustathios of Thessalonike’s Commentaries on Homer’, DOP 70 (2016) 225–244. Pizzone, A., ‘Towards a Byzantine Theory of the Comic?’, in M. Alexiou, D. Cairns (eds.), Greek Laughter and Tears, Antiquity and After (Edinburgh 2017) 146–165. Plamper, J., The History of Emotions. An Introduction (Oxford 2015). Price, A.W., ‘Emotions in Plato and Aristotle’, in P. Goldie (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Emotion (Oxford 2009) 121–142.

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Rapp, C., ‘Aristoteles. Bausteine für eine Theorie der Emotionen’, in H. Landweer, U. Renz, A. Brungs (eds.), Klassische Emotionstheorien. Von Platon bis Wittgenstein (Berlin 2008) 47–69. Ruys, J., Monagle, C. (eds.), A Cultural History of the Emotions in the Medieval Age, 350– 1300 (London 2019). Sanders, E., Envy and Jealousy in Classical Athens. A Socio-Psychological Approach (Oxford 2013). Scherer, K.R., Schorr, A., Johnstone, T. (eds.), Appraisal Processes in Emotion. Theory, Methods, Research (Oxford 2001). Segal, C.P., ‘Gorgias and the Psychology of the Logos’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 66 (1962) 99–155. Sorabji, R., Emotions and Peace of Mind. From Stoic Agitation to Christian Temptation (Oxford 2000). Stoddard, K., The Narrative Voice in the Theogony of Hesiod (Leiden 2004). Valk, M. van der, Eustathii Archiepiscopi Thessalonicensis commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem pertinentes ad fidem codicis Laurentiani editi, 4 vols. (Leiden 1971–1987). Wees, H. van, Greek Warfare. Myth and Realities (London 2004). Wierzbicka, A., Emotions Across Languages and Cultures. Diversity and Universals (Cambridge 1999).

part 1 Archaic Epic

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chapter 1

A Narratology of the Emotions: Method, Temporality, and Anger in Homer’s Iliad Ahuvia Kahane

Emotion, which is called a passivity of the soul, is a confused idea, whereby the mind affirms concerning its body, or any part thereof, a force for existence greater or less than before, and by the presence of which the mind is determined to think of one thing rather than another. spinoza, Ethica, Ordine Geometrico Demonstrata, Part iii, General Definition, transl. elwes

∵ Introduction ‘Affects, feelings and emotions,’ as one student of narrative recently notes, ‘determine the world, how it appears, how one lives within it, and what kind of coexistence is possible with others.’1 Affects and emotions2 have also long inspired traditions of literature and critique: Wrath inaugurates Graeco-Roman literary history; in the West, poetics begin with pity and fear.3 Literature ‘provides insight into the hearts and minds of characters, in contrast to real life, where we can only speculate about … thoughts and motives’.4 Such insights are often conveyed, and can be analysed through the formal instruments of narrative: indirect discourse (ID), free indirect discourse (FID), deixis or the 1 Andersen 2016: 8. 2 For affect/emotion, see Clough and O’Malley 2007; Wehrs and Blake 2017; Gregg and Seighwirth 2010. 3 Overviews: Konstan 2015; Cairns and Nelis 2016 (antiquity); Jandl et al. 2017; Oatley 2013 (literature); Scarantino 2020; Scarantino and de Sousa 2018 (philosophy); Feldman Barrett et al. 2018 (general); see also ‘Introduction’ in this volume. 4 Fludernik 2006: 78. Cf. Cohn 1978; Hamburger 1993; Palmer 2004; etc.; De Jong’s formulation, e.g., 2004: 113. For Fludernik’s ‘experiential’ and mimetic approach, see Liveley 2019: 236–242.

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representation of space and time. Thus, for example, in Buddenbrooks Mann describes little Hanno’s excitement as Christmas is approaching. Alternating between narrative and direct speech, part of the effect is also brought across by way of FID: ‘Morgen kam der dritte Weihnachtsabend an die Reihe’ (‘Next day [lit. ‘tomorrow’] there would be a third Christmas party …’).5 ‘Deictically speaking’, notes Fludernik (following Hamburger), ‘morgen (‘tomorrow’) refers to Hanno’s time frame, not that of the narrator or reader. As we share the point of view of the child [by means of FID], we become keenly aware of his excitement’.6 FID, ID and narrative in general allow us to observe other minds. More importantly, they allow us to do so simultaneously from multiple perspectives and times—both Hanno’s and the narrator’s—creating ‘cognitive parallax’. As with ordinary vision, perspectival difference gives a sense of depth. Narratology often speaks of emotion.7 Yet, as Paul Hogan points out,8 current research on emotion has had only limited impact on narrative theory. Of course, everyone recognizes that emotion is important in stories, and theorists of narrative usually have some place for emotion in their work. However, narratological treatments of emotion have on the whole been relatively undeveloped, at least in comparison with other aspects of narrative theory. Recent scholarship by Herman, Fludernik, Albers, Hogan, Andersen, Breger, Keen, and others, by students of affective narratology, postclassical narratology, cognitive narratology, etc. has expanded the narratological study of emotion.9 Yet most handbooks of narratology still do not contain dedicated chapters on the topic. What, then, is slowing down the development of narratological treatments of emotion? Is there anything specific to a ‘narratology of emotions’? Does it require special method? What would such method reveal that other analyses might miss? In what follows, I want to suggest that narratological analyses of emotion may indeed require some changes to method even as they retain earlier tools.10

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Mann 1991 (1901): 547/ 1984: 442. Fludernik 2006: 78 following Hamburger 1993: 72; cf. Fludernik 2003; Bal 2017: 104–023; De Jong 2004: 101–148. See, e.g., in Irene de Jong’s oeuvre: 2001: xi (‘anticipatory doublets’), xiii (‘embedded focalization’), xiv (‘free string form’); 2004: 18 (emotional particles); 98–99. (NF1 and emotion); 110–122, 136–146 (embedded focalization and emotion). Hogan 2011: 15. Palmer 2004: 115: ‘very little has been done specifically on the emotions’. Herman 1999; Alber and Fludernik 2010; Herman 2007; Andersen 2016; Breger 2017; Keen 2018; etc. For a critique, see Lee 2020. Cf. Herman 1999: 2: ‘in its postclassical phases, research on narrative does not just expose the limits but also exploits the possibilities of the older structuralist models.’ For these models, see below.

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By way of example, I will consider one well-studied emotion, anger, and its seminal representation in Homer’s Iliad.11 I nevertheless want to focus on one element of the topic: the relations between emotion, time, and temporality.12 Time, of course, is fundamental to all narrative. As Paul Ricoeur famously says, temporality is ‘that structure of existence that reaches language in narrativity’. We exist through time and in time. In language, such existence often takes the form of telling a tale. ‘Narrativity,’ says Ricoeur, ‘is the language structure that has temporality as its ultimate referent’.13 When we say ‘x did a, then b, then c …’, we are, in effect, describing the structure of time. Furthermore, time and temporality have special importance for our understanding of emotion. Hogan notes that temporality ‘is organized— or, more precisely, encoded—emotionally. Encoding is the process whereby we select, segment (or “chunk”), and give preliminary structure to our experience’.14 Of course, time as such is invisible. Our ‘sense of time’ is different from our senses of sight, sound, touch, smell or taste. We can observe and count days, sunrises (ἦμος δ’ ἠριγένεια φάνη ῥοδοδάκτυλος Ἠώς, etc.) and sunsets. But the actual length of days always varies.15 We have ‘body-clocks’. But these are multiple, subjective, and often not fully synchronized (hence, e.g., ‘jetlag’). Human time is experiential and thus an asynchronous and emotive rather than a reasoned process of encoding.16 But precisely for this reason, time is a useful ‘optic’ with which to observe the complex representation of emotion narratologically.17

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See ‘Anger’ in Konstan 2015, etc. Cf. Marušić, forthcoming; Capelle et al. 2020; Mattley 2002; Flaherty 1999; etc. Ricoeur 1980: 169; developed in 1984–1988. For time and narratology in antiquity: De Jong and Nünlist 2007. More generally, Currie 2007; Scheffel et al. 2014 (with bibliography, but philosophically weak). Hogan 2011: 31. Hogan 2003: 240, (cited above in ‘Introduction’) ‘One cannot understand cognition without emotion and vice versa’. Compare also the discussion of narratological time of Van Emde Boas in this volume, with references to Hogan. Cf., e.g., Goldberg 2000 on clepsydrae. Cf. Hogan 2011: 16, etc.; Fludernik 2003 on experiential time. Cf. The Postclassicisms Collective 2020 (‘untimeliness’); Kahane forthc. 2022. Cf., e.g., Bridgeman 2007; Currie 2007.

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Analysing the Emotions But why should the emotions pose a challenge to narratology? At issue, as Fludernik, Albers, Herman, Hogan, Lee and others argue, is method and the history of the field. ‘Classical’ narratology (Todorov, Propp, Greimas, Genette), draws heavily on formalist method and paradigmatic taxonomy.18 As a matter of basic scientific principle, de Saussure and other influential structuralists prioritized abstract, universal ‘grammars’ and general structure (langue) over diverse use (parole). They focused on underlying rules, ‘Linnaean’ typologies of basic form, binary oppositions, and ascending or descending hierarchies rather than on surface accidence or evolutionary pragmatics. Methodologically, classical narratology framed emotional detail within formal grids of DD, ID and FID, nested levels of narration and focalization, intradiegetic and extradiegetic points of view, space and, prominently, formal, numbered sequencing of events in ‘natural’ (syuzhet) and in discursive (fabula) time. Paradigmatic taxonomies are an important part of cognition. Yet the emotions are often ‘confused ideas’. As Hogan, Fludernik, Breger, Andersen, and others have suggested, the emotions do not always lend themselves conveniently to formal taxonomies.19 Already Aristotle recognized that the emotions are multi-faceted.20 Prinz, Scarantino, and other recent critics stress that the emotions are complex, interactive ‘hybrids’ made of many elements:21 evaluations (judgements associated with emotional states), physiological responses (e.g., increased heartrate), expressive behaviour (‘looking askance’, ὑπόδρα ἰδών), behavioural responses (flight, aggression), mental states (e.g., enhanced attention), and phenomenological components (experience viewed from the perspective of the subject; thus, e.g., Spinoza, above: a ‘passivity’ of the mind). These diverse elements do not necessarily mesh in full or coincide in time. They may interact with each other in complex, unexpected ways; individual elements can significantly alter the whole process.22 Such complexity is simply 18

19 20 21 22

See Herman 1999: 1–3; Hogan 2003: 15–16; Nüning 2003: 243–245; Fludernik 2006: 10–11; Hogan 2011: 15–16; Alber and Fludernik 2010: 1–6; etc. Liveley 2019 (esp. 179–213 and 235– 252) and esp. Lee 2020. Hogan: classical narratology ‘was embedded in linguistic theories that had nothing to say about emotion’ (2011: 16). This is misleading and unfair. Of anger, in de An. 403a30–b3, and elsewhere. See Konstan 2015; Dow 2011; Nussbaum 1996 and elsewhere; etc. Scarantino and de Sousa 2018; Prinz 2004; Scarantino 2016; Potegal et al. 2010; McCarthy 1989. See above, n. 12.

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a reflection of ‘complex’ real-life and literary existence in language and time. As McCarthy, for example, says, ‘emotions are neither substances nor states; emotions are emergents within social acts’.23 Narrative, of course, progresses line by line: Iliad 1.1, 2, 3 …. But the events in the Iliad, indeed in any narrative, can rarely be treated simply as numbered points in time:24 Post hoc is not necessarily propter hoc; events have durations; they are imbricated; they interconnect, rise, fluctuate, diverge, and decay, sometimes erratically; they can harmonize or clash. A critical method that prioritizes the taxonomy, formal ‘grammar’ of narrative,25 and its underlying rules as a closed system may thus encounter some difficulties when it comes to the analysis of the emotions. What then, is the alternative? Let us first briefly illustrate emotive complexity in narrative. Early in the development of the Iliad’s thematic quarrel in Book 1, the angry Achilles responds to Agamemnon and addresses him as ἀναιδείην ἐπιειμένε, ‘wrapped in shamelessness’ (1.149). The meaning is seemingly straightforward: ‘Agamemnon is completely shameless’.26 But consider for a moment this expression’s illocutionary force. It is an ‘expressive’ speech-act, not an ‘assertive’ statement of fact. Achilles’ words would retain their force, even if it was somehow determined that Agamemnon was, in fact, not shameless.27 They are a representation of anger that has been roused in Achilles by Agamemnon’s past behaviour and speech. But saying these words is more than just a ‘representation’ of the focalizer’s anger. Immanent within them is the state of being angry in-itself. These words are a present-tense ‘performative’ speech-act: ‘to speak angrily’ is ‘to be angry’. How, then, are we to understand Achilles’ emotion? What is the sequence of events in Achilles’ anger? Each particular utterance and event by both the primary and secondary narrators and focalizers affect emotion in ‘real time’ at different but clearly interconnected and imbricated moments. We might also consider the ethical judgements embedded in Achilles’ vocative ἀναιδείην ἐπιειμένε. He may be saying something like: ‘Agamemnon, you are not observing general codes of behaviour’. The implication may be that Agamemnon is transgressing shared values, focalized by a whole community,28

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McCarthy 1989: 56. Pace Aristotle, Phys. 220a24: Time is ‘the number of change’ (ἀριθμὸς κινήσεως). For ‘narrative grammars’ see, e.g., Fludernik 2006: 10–11. Kirk 1985 ad loc. For the terms and their function: Searle and Vanderveken 1985. Cf. Σ b T ad loc.: ἐπιειμένε: προφανῆ τὴν ἀναίδειαν ἔχων, ἀπὸ μεταφορᾶς τῆς ἔξω καὶ πᾶσιν

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or at least values that transcend the moment of utterance. And yet, the vocative itself (notwithstanding the absence of a 2nd person pronoun) is an explicit deictic element.29 It indexes an addressee and a speaker and limits the focalization. Grammar thus marks direct personal interaction between individuals as a contingent rather than timeless event. Interaction takes place within a specific fictional ‘now’, which differs from the ‘nows’ that preceded the quarrel and is in the ‘past’ in relation to the ‘now’ of the performance or reading of the verse. We must thus index these words to multiple moments in time in various pasts and in the futures of those pasts. Achilles could perhaps have said, ‘you are hateful to me’ (cf. ἐχθρός μοι, 9.312) to Agamemnon. But instead the poet makes him use a metaphor, ἀναιδείην ἐπιειμένος. The verbal vehicle (‘clothed’) is distinct from the non-verbal tenor (all-embracing ‘shamelessness’). In contrast to the immediacy of the metaphor’s vocative deixis and pointed focalization, it clearly enacts anger indirectly. Moreover, metaphor is not simply a ‘surface’ phenomenon that denotes a ‘deep’, universal state of mind. Indirect expression here suggests an emotion at once intense and direct yet dangerous, perhaps impossible to verbalize in direct words.30 These words thus simultaneously characterize both the moment of utterance and moments beyond it, in both ‘timed’ and ‘untimely’ ways, merging contingent personal emotional experience in the ‘lived time’ of the speaker/focalizer with the wider perspectives/focalization/times of audiences and the narrator.31 Looking no further than two words, ἀναιδείην ἐπιειμένε, it seems we are already dealing, not with a single object or moment in time, but with an emotion in a complex flux of subjects and temporalities.32 How, then, should we frame such flux? ‘Postclassical narratology’ usefully explores some possibilities. It places emphasis on narrative not as a product but as an emergent process.33 Yet the nature of emotions appears to suggest

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ὁρωμένης ἐσθῆτος: Shamelessness is not inside but ‘outside’ and ‘visible’ to everyone in the community. Espinal 2013: 116: ‘… Voc is defined by a deictic interpretable feature [+DX], and that vocative particles specify a deictic expression, by default a 2P strong pronoun. Vocative particles can also specify a N (or an A) when this N (or A) has a deictic interpretation’. See Kövecses 2003. Multiple perspectives are a fundamental of discourse. See Barthes 1977 (French 1968) and the scholarly debates ensuing from ‘The Death of the Author’. For Time and ‘Untimeliness’ in ancient literature, see The Postclassicisms Collective 2020; ‘Lived time’; Holmes 2020; Kahane forthc. 2022. Verbal expressions of emotions are notoriously difficult to define. See Harrison and Kunzendorf 2013–2014. Above, n. 23. For antiquity, cf. Liveley 2019: 235–252.

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that we might try to take such positions a step further. Here, I propose, contemporary scientific methodology can help. The emotions seem to be inherently complex. Modern science tells us that many forms of social interaction (in humans, animals, and even plants) and, indeed, many phenomena in the natural world such as weather patterns (in meteorology) or (in thermodynamics) thermal convection in fluids, or the entanglement of certain particles (in quantum mechanics) display inherent complexity.34 Of course, elementary particles, viscosity, the weather and such, are physical phenomena, not states of mind or social engagement. Yet like the emotions, they too behave and change under the influences of many different forces and events, some indirect, unperceived or ambiguous. The weather, for example, follows many familiar patterns. Yet, pace Newton, Laplace, and other exponents of ‘classical’ (early modern) science, weather patterns do not obey simple, predictable rules of cause-and-effect. It is this unpredictable aspect of nature and the world, formally defined, for example, in terms of non-linear mathematical ‘complexity’, that, I suggest, can inform some elements of narratological method. Here is an illustration of the scientific principle: starting from the 1960s Edward Lorenz, mathematician and father of modern meteorology, studied weather patterns which are notoriously difficult to predict. In order to explain such unpredictability Lorenz famously set down a fundamental (indeed, revolutionary) methodological principle. Minute, small-scale differences to atmospheric and topographic conditions, he argued, can effect large-scale change. This phenomenon, sometimes described colloquially as the ‘butterfly effect’, is also known more technically as behaviour associated with ‘complex dynamic systems’.35 In essence, as Lorenz puts it, ‘two states differing by imperceptible amounts may eventually evolve into two considerably different states’.36 In other words, initial similarities are no guarantee of similar outcomes over time. Since imperceptible differences are likely to be attested repeatedly at various stages of a process (for example, a tornado), and since each of the states at other stages of the process may itself differ from others, the overall evolutionary path of the process and of the system at large can be highly unstable, unpredictable, and thus ‘non-linear’. Let us not forget that biological evolution itself is a nonlinear process. It does not progress in a straight line of causes and effects but

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See, e.g., Nicolis and Prigogine 1989; Byrne and Callaghan 2013. See Lorenz 1972. Lorenz 1963.

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erratically, by ‘mutation’.37 Scientists can record such processes in time and even describe them mathematically,38 yet, technically speaking (contra Newton, Laplace, etc.), such phenomena are stochastic and ‘non-reversible’—we cannot fully analyse the past or establish a complete chain of events, let alone of complete causes and effects, by ‘reverse-engineering’ the present. Complex dynamic systems underpin many natural and social processes and, indeed, language, perhaps even consciousness itself.39 Linguist Claire Kramsch explains:40 … because [complex] systems are open, what arises may be in nonlinear relation to its cause. In other words, an unexpected occurrence may take place at any time … Complex ‘systems’ … exist only because of the fluxes that feed them …. One could therefore say that a complex system is dynamic rather than static; it exists only in the interaction between things and is therefore not itself a thing. Such systems … operate under conditions that are not in equilibrium [technically: they are dynamic, are not static]. When you learn one additional piece of knowledge, this new knowledge doesn’t just add itself to the other things you acquired previously. The equilibrium you thought you had reached in your prior state of knowledge gets disrupted as one new piece of knowledge reconfigures the whole picture. Why, then, is it so hard to predict or analyse the pragmatic behaviour of language or indeed the weather? Perhaps for the same reason that it is so hard to predict stock-market trends with precision (otherwise, we’d all be rich …) or, indeed, an emotional response. My fundamental methodological point, then, is that beyond general patterns which we might name ‘pity’, or ‘fear’, or ‘anger’, the emotions are systemically ‘complex’ phenomena in time. Furthermore, it is the contingent and stochastic nature of emotional events, in life as in narrative, that makes emotions what they are. A narratology of the emotions, then, should strive to highlight such complexity and point to its emergent temporality and processual nature. 37 38 39 40

See, e.g., Gould 2002. As, e.g., in the work of Bohr, Heisenberg, Gödel, etc. See Nicolis and Prigogine 1989. Consciousness: Hamerhoff and Penrose 2014. Kramsch 2012: 11–12.

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Anger in the Iliad41 Having set out our methodological premises, let me now offer a brief narratological ‘commentary’ on a few details of the complexity of Achilles’ wrath in the first few lines of the Iliad.42 Anger (μῆνις) is, of course, the first word of the poem and the narrator’s thematic ‘catch word’.43 It marks, not a sequence of events, as we might perhaps expect of a summary narrative, but timeless/multitemporal dianoia.44 The Iliad begins in medias res. But where, in the narration and in time, does this midcourse ‘beginning’ begin? In line 1? After line 5 (… Διὸς δ’ ἐτελείετο βουλή)? In line 8 (τίς τ’ ἄρ σφωε θεῶν …)? Mid-verse in line 9 (ὃ γὰρ βασιλῆϊ χολωθεὶς …)? In the retrospective line 11 (οὕνεκα τὸν Χρύσην …)? Mid-verse in line 12 (ὃ γὰρ ἦλθε …)? With Chryses’ speech line 17 (Ἀτρεΐδαι …)? Already the first line and the first word flag the complex temporality of the narrative of anger. In grammatical terms, the genitive noun-epithet formula in 1.1 delimits the scope of μῆνις to Achilles son of Peleus. Yet the focalizer of this emotion, the Homeric narrator, is ‘external’ to the protagonist and, as one of those οἷοι νῦν βροτοί εἰσιν, he is overtly separated from events in the past.45 Achilles himself does not use the word μῆνις to describe his own emotions.46 Indeed, he is not the sole master of his anger which could not evolve without the actions of Agamemnon, Patroclus, Hector, Priam, etc. Multiple perspectives and agents necessarily entail a complex ‘parallax’ of subjectivities, time, and events. The epic narrator’s distinct programmatic declaration and his use of μῆνις in 1.1 is, of course, highly repetitive and thus intra-textual, multiple, and, most importantly for us, proleptic.47 The temporality of narrative prolepses is neither past nor future, but simultaneously anticipatory (prolepsis ‘anticipates’/‘foreshadows’ later occurrences/narrative events to come) and retroactive (all

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See, e.g., Cairns and Nelis 2016; Austin 2015; Thalmann 2015; Kalimtzis 2012; Konstan 2010; Walsh 2010; Konstan 2007, 2006; Cairns 2003; Most 2003; Scully 2003; Lloyd-Jones 2002; Cairns 2001; Harris 2001; Austin 1999; Braund and Most 2003; Muellner 1996; Saxonhouse 1988; Considine 1966; etc. On Achilles’ wrath see also Demoen and Pelling in this volume. De Jong 2001: xii, ‘ “catch-word” technique’. Cf. Kahane 1992. Cf. Arist. Po. 1449b38. Cf. Σ bT Il. 5.304; Eust. 2.78.1 (vdV) ad ibid. More fundamentally, on narrative from the ‘outside’, see, e.g., De Jong 2004: 46 and the narrator’s ‘varying degrees of dependency’ on the Muse. Watkins 1977: 194. Cf. χόλος in Il. 9.646, 18.109. Prolepsis (internal, external): De Jong 2001: xvi, etc. The term ‘formula’ is restrictive, see Russo 1997. Single words as ‘formulae’: Kahane 1992, 2005.

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events in the narrative ‘will have happened’ in the past and are only invoked through retrospective recollection).48 As Muellner and others famously note, the use of μῆνις in Homer otherwise describes the emotions of divinities such as Apollo and Zeus.49 In spite of the grammatical function of the subjective genitive in the first line of the Iliad, the actions of these gods, their emotional ‘profiles’, and their relations to Achilles and to the cognition of both narrator and narratees must be taken into account when assessing the composition of Achilles’ anger and its evolution in time. When, for example, after nine days of devastation, Achilles calls an assembly on the tenth day (Il. 1.54), he turns to Calchas for an explanation. At this point, Agamemnon has not yet claimed Briseis and the formal events that mark the quarrel have not yet come to pass. They lie within the multiple diachronies of tradition and the awareness of audiences and readers but outside of the temporal frame of Achilles’ focalization as a fictional mind (though perhaps not outside of his deeper emotional disposition).50 Presently, Calchas replies: Achilles, you bid me, beloved of Zeus, to explain the wrath (/μῆνιν) of Apollo, the lord who strikes from afar … 1.74–75, transl. AK

Though at Il. 1.1 Agamemnon’s insults lie in the future of the text, we as hearers and readers of the narrative must take account of this telltale formal sign in line 75 and its intra-textual resonance.51 If literary form has any meaning, then here accusative, verse-initial /μῆνιν, followed by a subject genitive, etc., cannot fail to mark the link between the Iliad’s theme/‘catch-word’, the wrath of Achilleus—still in the future of the narrative—and the wrath of Apollo, ‘now’ (in 1.74–75) recounted (μυθήσασθαι) in the past of the narration, after the angry god has inflicted the plague upon the Greek host and after the opening of the poem. This link constitutes, let me suggest, the phraseological/discursive foundations of epic time.52 Despite the linear structure of hexameters, the temporality

48

49 50 51 52

Cf. Löschnig 2010: 263–265; resonance in, e.g., phenomenology (Ricoeur 1980: 182), psychoanalysis (Gallop 1985: 81–82), etc. Narrative prolepses and time in general: Currie 2007, also 2018. Watkins 1977; Muellner 1996: 1–31. For ‘fictional minds’, see Palmer 2004. See above, n. 44. See above n. 13 and Ricoeur 1980: 169. Epic time: Kahane forthc. 2022.

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and semantics of Achilles’ wrath and of the epic lexeme μῆνις itself merges the first line of the poem with the dishonouring of Chryses by Agamemnon, with the full sequence of Apollo’s angry (χωόμενος κῆρ, 1.44) responses to the plague, with Zeus’ plan (whatever it is) and with many other actions, events, and points in the narrative.53 The ‘time of emotion’, we now see, whether focalized from the perspective of a single interior ‘subject’ (Descartes, etc.) or from the outside, is inseparable from its futures and pasts and is thus inherently multiplex and compound.54 Many fundamental thematic and conceptual elements of action in epic, moira, for example, and the fate of Achilles throughout ancient Greek epic (inseparable from the fate of the War), the heroic notion of kleos aphthiton or ‘imperishable’ fame (9.413) that has no time boundaries, and the hero’s Nachleben in verse among ‘mortal men of now/the present’ (οἷοι νῦν βροτοί εἰσ’, 5.304 etc.) similarly compound the temporality of the Iliad’s emotions. Achilles’ wrath would not be what it is without its polyphonic resonances. Such resonance is not restricted to the poem itself. As widely recognized, Il. 1.1 marks a wider structural/ grammatical/ semantic/ metrical epic pattern of poem-initial invocations. This epic pattern sets up intertextual relations with ancient epic traditions writ large: the Odyssey, poems in the Cycle,55 Virgil’s Aeneid and the sequence of events marked by ira (right up to Aen. 12.957, etc.), in Quintus’ Posthomerica, in Dares and Dictys, and more. There is no finite limit to such thematic, poetic, and temporal expansions. They extend the timeframes marked by that single word μῆνις and generate multiple overlapping moments and diachronic dialogues: counterpoints and cacophonies of meaning and emotion by different characters and persons at different points in time.56 Consider next lines 2–4, the participle οὐλομένην, ‘destructive’, and the verbs on which the temporal movement of the narrative depends, their tenses and their aspect: … ἔθηκε (‘brought’)/ … προΐαψεν (‘hurled’/) … τεῦχε (‘gave’) …. The aorist, of course, ‘is the default tense in narrative texts to record single, complete actions.’57 However, if we consider the semantics of οὐλομένην [= ὀλο-

53 54

55 56 57

I avoid Foley’s prevalent but reductive term ‘traditional referentiality’ (Foley 1991). See Kahane, forthcoming. Compound temporality often theorized in contemporary critical thought (mutatis mutandis: Husserl, Heidegger, Bergson, Merleau-Ponty, Deleuze, Badiou, Grosz, Meillasoux, etc.). For a discussion in the context of the study of classics, see The Postclassicisms Collective 2020: 19–30, 161–181; Holmes 2020; Kahane forthc. 2022. Most recently, see Schein, forthcoming. See, e.g., Kahane 2005. Van Emde Boas et al. 2019: 417 § 33.28.

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μένην, aor. part.58] and the lines that follow, we must allow that the participle compresses the extended duration of multiple acts of destruction into a single point in time (‘a curse upon this wrath for the countless pains it has caused’).59 Such incorporation of the many into the one is possible mathematically, philosophically,60 and in other ways, but it defies the punctuality of time in terms of ‘real’ numbers (T1, T2, … Tn) and presents time as a fluid, compressible quantity which, for example, matches the temporal compression of μῆνις in 1.1. Bringing ‘countless’ woes upon the Greeks by means of a single aorist verb and casting ‘many’ souls to Hades by means of another aorist treats the full duration of the poem’s suffering and the action of 15,000 hexameter verses as a single moment in time. From a conventional grammatical perspective, the imperfect τεῦχε ‘gave’ (as a feast to dogs and birds—note the plural), following these two aorists is perhaps a little puzzling: There is no description of a corpse consumed by a dog or a bird in the Iliad.61 This prominent verb, then, must refer to actions ‘beneath’ or ‘beyond’ the time of the narrative. Regardless, it is clear that the participle and its three subsequent verbs, which are essential to the meaning of Homeric wrath and which follow a numeric progression of verses (… 2, 3, 4), are not sequentially ordered in time. It is not the case that Achilles’ destructive wrath first caused woes in one fell swoop, then, destroyed many souls, again all at one moment in time, and finally (by some imperfective ‘slow-release mechanism’) cast their bodies one by one or in batches to the dogs. Despite key grammatical traditions that reach back to antiquity, it is precisely narratological analysis that points to the philosophical/ existential condition of temporality as a complex multiplicity of both one and many actions.62 We are dealing with asynchronous movements whose time cannot be parsed in linear, sequential terms. In fact, the use of these verbs only makes sense if they trace distributed destruction that spans the full temporal duration, not only of the Iliad, but, beyond the poem’s narrative boundaries, of the Trojan Saga as a whole, at intervals that are not like the regular ticks of the clock nor progress in line as chains of cause and effect along an axis of time. 58 59

60 61 62

LfgrE sub voc. Cf. Σ 1.2a.2–3 (b (bce 4) Te) ὅρα δὲ τὰς ἐν ἀρχῇ ἀναφωνήσεις, ὅσον ὑποφαίνουσι τὸ πλῆθος τῶν ἱστορηθησομένων, ὡς καὶ ἐν Ὀδυσσείᾳ ‘see the utterances at the beginning that give an indication of the multitude of future accounts, as in the Odyssey, too’. As, mathematically, in calculus, infinitesimals, etc. For philosophy (which I do not discuss in this paper), see above, n. 54. Segal 1971. See The Postclassicisms Collective 2020.

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The Homeric narrator is, of course, the focalizer of the Iliad’s proem. Yet he is a living speaker in the ‘now’ of performance, not a psychê in Hades or a desecrated corpse. He observes Achilles’ anger from the outside. Expressions of emotion by the narrator are, as Jasper Griffin demonstrated long ago, not uncommon, but they generally take the form, e.g., of short biographic vignettes, of apostrophe and the like.63 ‘Anger,’ Spinoza suggests, ‘is the desire, whereby through hatred we are induced to injure one whom we hate’.64 The narrator’s word οὐλομένην speaks of anger, of course. Yet it itself expresses pity, perhaps fear at the mention of suffering. There is no direct personal animus in the narrator’s words. And even if we were to read personal anger into the narrator’s words, such anger is not transitive: it is not ‘instrumentally’ directed at figures, it does not seek to injure them and is powerless to do so. Since we cannot separate the narrator’s act of narration or his focalization from the emotions felt by Achilles, we must concede the inherent plurality of perspectives that defines the Iliad’s wrath. Such plurality is ‘cathartic’: it induces ‘pity’, ‘fear’, understanding and depth of feeling. In line 5, the poet ascribes the suffering resulting from Achilles’ wrath to Zeus’ plan (Διὸς δ’ ἐτελείετο βουλή). For our purposes, controversy over the interpretations of this statement can be put aside.65 Zeus, an eternal being unaffected by mortal temporality and finitude, has a plan or a ‘will’ which has in some way directed suffering overall. This line thus confirms our understanding of the Iliad’s anger as an emotion that extends beyond the hero himself. It is a cosmic, intersubjective ‘event’, affected by agents beside and beyond the subject ‘Achilles’ and his mortal time. The very grammar of this statement further invokes temporal complexity. As, for example, Seth Schein notes in his forthcoming Cambridge commentary on Book 1 of the Iliad:66 … the imperf. [ἐτελείετο] suggests that ‘the plan of Zeus was being accomplished’ at the same time as the actions conveyed by the aor. verbs in lines 2–3 and the impf. τεῦχε in line 4; that the μῆνις of Achilles and the βουλή of Zeus are simultaneous and, perhaps, that the effects of the μῆνις are part of Zeus’s plan. The events described by the aorists, however, are presented by the narrator as objective realities that took place in the past,

63 64 65 66

Griffin 1980; cf. De Jong 2012: 19. Spinoza 2008, E3, DOE. 36, on faculty.umb.edu/gary_zabel/Courses/Spinoza/Texts/Spino za/index.html (consulted 14th July 2021). See Pucci 2018. Schein 2022, ad loc.

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while τεῦχε and ἐτελείετο seem to involve both the audience or reader in ongoing, open-ended actions that would have been familiar from traditional mythology and epic. Note that in line 5 Διὸς δ’ ἐτελείετο βουλή presents the emergence or beginning of the quarrel and Achilles’ wrath as the presumed end, or telos (ἐτελείετο) of a process. In 1.6–7, the narrator uses explicit temporal markers: ‘since that time (ἐξ οὗ δή) when first (τὰ πρῶτα) the son of Atreus, the leader of men and great Achilles were divided (διαστήτην) in strife (ἐρίσαντε)’. Using two more aorists (διαστήτην and ἐρίσαντε), these lines mark the temporal beginning of this very same angry process. And, as Schein rightly suggests,67 ἐξ οὗ δή continues the sense from the previous line: ‘the plan of Zeus was being accomplished, / (beginning) from precisely (δή) when the two (men), having quarrelled, stood apart’. In Aristotelian terms, then, the plan of Zeus is both an ‘efficient cause’ and a ‘final cause’68—logically, no more the end of a process than its beginning— stressed, indeed, by the use of the two aorists—the point at which mortal wrath and the narrative are determined by the divinity. Such multi-temporal complexity is no less expressly marked in verses 1.8–9, when the narrator asks ‘Who was it of the gods who set them together in conflict?’ He immediately replies, ‘It was the son of Leto and Zeus’ collapsing the logical and temporal gap between question and answer and between speaker and addressee. The question may, of course, be rhetorical.69 But if it is, it relegates the tension between not knowing and knowing and the epistemic state of epic itself to ‘untimeliness’.70 Of course, this question-and-answer sequence introduces yet another agent, Apollo, and the temporality of this agent, into the mix of those accountable for the thematic wrath of the Iliad. We now have at least four or five different parties, each having different motives, dispositions, histories, thoughts, and temporalities, not all fully known, contributing to the complex structure of Achilles’ wrath: the narrator, Achilles, Zeus and Apollo, and, of course, ourselves as narratees.

67 68 69 70

Schein, forthcoming, ad loc. Cf. Aristotle, Phys. 195a6–8; Metaph. 1013b6–9, etc. Kirk 1985: 54, ad loc. For ‘untimeliness’, see, e.g., The Postclassicisms Collective 2020.

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It would take a very long essay to pursue this analysis in full. Let us therefore conclude our discussion with a brief comment on lines 1.9–13, which describe the causes and effects of Apollo’s anger—which, of course, will in time shape the anger of Achilles. Here are the lines and the actions as they appear in the fabula: (i) for he (Apollo), angry with the king (ὃ γὰρ βασιλῆϊ χολωθεὶς), (ii) sent a foul plague upon the host (νοῦσον ἀνὰ στρατὸν ὦρσε κακήν), (iii) and the people perished (ὀλέκοντο δὲ λαοί), (iv) since the son of Atreus dishonoured the priest (οὕνεκα τὸν Χρύσην ἠτίμασεν ἀρητῆρα Ἀτρεΐδης), (v) for he (Chryses) went to the swift ships of the Achaeans (ὃ γὰρ ἦλθε θοὰς ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν) (vi) to ransom his daughter, (λησόμενός τε θύγατρα), etc. Let us reconstruct these events (some ‘mental events’) as syuzhet, in linear temporal/causal order: (1) Chryses wants to free his daughter. (2) Consequently, he goes to the Greek camp. (3) Agamemnon dishonours him. (4) Consequently, Apollo becomes angry, (5) sends a plague, (6) and the men die. As often elsewhere, not least in Homer, syuzhet and fabula diverge.71 In the fabula, events are arranged as 1 (vi), 2 (v), 3 (iv), 4 (i), 5 (ii), 6 (iii). Neither the scholia nor Eustathios, nor modern commentaries (Kirk, Willcock, the Gesamtkommentar, Leaf, or Schein’s forthcoming ‘Green and Yellow’, etc.) seem concerned about this temporal/causal structure. Kirk, nevertheless, notes that these verses,72 lack rhythmical fluidity, either because of the difficulties of condensation or through corruption of what must have been an especially frequentlysung passage. Whether through repetition or because of the burden of imbricating complex events, both the temporal arrangement of these lines and the unstable progression of their causal structure has risen to the surface.73

71 72 73

See De Jong 2007, esp. 28. Kirk 1985: 54. For formulae in relation to complexity, see Kahane 2018, 2019, forthcoming, etc.; also Bozzone 2014.

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Such instability is perfectly normal, but that is precisely the point. It resides in the nature of cognition as an emergent, complex phenomenon, which, like nature itself, cannot be reduced to a logically coherent progression. It was Apollo, who set off the quarrel. The ‘confirmatory/causal’ γὰρ (Denniston74) in line 9 points to a cause: ‘… because he [Apollo] was angry’. But this is not a strict sequential ‘efficient cause’. Apollo’s anger sets off the plague, but the quarrel is a compound affected by many other factors. It is precisely the incompleteness of Aristotelian causal logic that defines the use of γὰρ here. Denniston’s taxonomy of particles is thus ‘incomplete’, not because of philological shortcomings, but concomitant to the natural complexity of affect. Moving on to (ii) and (iii) in lines 9–10 we note the absence of final particles. Such paratactic absence is common, but is, again, a formal expression of the complex and ‘incomplete’ relation between language and cognition. In line 10, we find the causal conjunction οὕνεκα (‘since’). This is grammatically unremarkable.75 Yet in terms of causal logic, it meshes imperfectly with line 8 and the γὰρ in line 9: ‘It was Apollo, because he was angry, since the son of Atreus dishonoured the priest’. Unnecessary, this surplus of causation may nevertheless be an expression of the narrator’s emotional investment. As scholars have noted, the runover patronymic ‘emphatically places the blame’ on Agamemnon.76

Conclusions Let us stress again: beyond a vague sense of fluidity, there is nothing amiss with these Homeric lines. That, however, is precisely the methodological point on which a ‘narratology of the emotions’ and perhaps a more general narratology of complexity might rest. Variation, deviation, and imperfection are not, as de Saussure might have seen them, the incidental aberrations of parole relative to the otherwise essential structure of langue. Imperfections are not exceptions to the rule. Rather, imperfections and exceptionality are themselves the rule. As often in contemporary mathematics and science, complex, stochastic emergence is a natural expression of the ontic state of the world, of human subjectivity, and ‘unstable’ natural time. And, as I have tried to demonstrate, imperfections are the substance of narrative emotions in Homer’s Iliad too.

74 75 76

Denniston 1954: 58. Bibliography in LfgrE sub voc. εἵνεκα. Edwards 1966: 135.

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‘Accidents of emotion’ are fundamentally ‘accidental’, but as such they are no accident. That is why, in the first part of this essay, we went to such length to situate our reading of the temporality of emotions within the wider discourse of contemporary scientific thought. Time is, indeed, embedded in narrative. And narrative, as Hogan says, is ‘encoded emotionally’. To speak of time, then, is to speak of narrative. To speak of narrative is to speak of emotion. To speak of emotion is to speak of the inherent complexity of human experience.

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Ricoeur, P., Time and Narrative, 3 vols. (Chicago 1984–1988). Russo, J.A., ‘The Formula’, in Ian Morris and Barry Powell (eds.), A New Companion to Homer (Leiden 1997) 238–260. Saxonhouse, A.W., ‘Thymos, Justice, and Moderation of Anger in the Story of Achilles’, in C.H. Zuckert (ed.), Understanding the Political Spirit. Philosophical Investigations from Socrates to Nietzsche (New Haven, CT 1988) 30–47. Scarantino, A., de Sousa, R., ‘Emotion’, in E.N. Zalta (ed.) The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (plato.stanford.edu/entries/emotion 2018). Scarantino, A., The Routledge Handbook of Emotion Theory (London 2020). Scheffel, M., Weixler, A., Werner, L., ‘Time’, in P. Hühn, J.C. Meister, J. Pier, W. Schmid (eds.), Handbook of Narratology, Vol. 1 (Berlin 2014, 2nd edn.) 868-886. Schein, S.L., Homer, Iliad Book i (Cambridge 2022). Scully, S.P., ‘Reading the Shield of Achilles: Terror, Anger, Delight’, HSPh 101 (2003) 29– 47. Searle, J.R., Vanderveken, D., Foundations of Illocutionary Logic (Cambridge 1985). Segal, C., The Theme of the Mutilation of the Corpse in the Iliad (Leiden 1971). Spinoza, B., Ethics, trans. R.H.M. Elwes (London 2008). Thalmann, W.G., ‘“Anger Sweeter than Dripping Honey”: Violence as a Problem in the Iliad’, Ramus 44 (2015) 95–114. The Postclassicisms Collective, Postclassicisms (Chicago 2020). The Postclassicisms Collective, ‘Untimeliness’, Postclassicisms (Chicago 2020) 161–181. Walsh, T.R., ‘Some Refractions of Homeric Anger in Athenian Drama’, in T. Pepper (ed.), A Californian Hymn to Homer (Cambridge, MA 2010) 105–129. Watkins, C., ‘À propos de μῆνις’, BSL 72 (1977) 187–209. Wehrs, D.R., Blake, T. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Affect Studies and Textual Criticism (London 2017).

chapter 2

Narrative and Emotion in the Iliad: Andromache and Helen Angus Bowie

In a poem whose first word is ‘wrath’ it is not surprising that emotion should play a large part, an expectation immediately validated by the angry exchange between Achilles and Agamemnon. Emotion in Homer has been variously studied, especially anger,1 but it is only recently that it has been studied from a strictly narratological point of view, especially in the work of those looking at ‘enactivity’2 and the question of what constitutes the ‘vividness’ of Homeric narrative.3 Here I want to look at two case-studies where emotion is not explicitly described at any length, but presented in two different ways. The variety involved suggests that further study would reveal many complexities in Homer’s handling of emotion. First, there is what one might call a ‘displaced’ way, whereby narration of events, past, present, and future, is used to evoke the emotions of characters, but in such a way that it is the narratees, primary and secondary, who are made to experience what the character is going through rather than the characters themselves expressing it.4 The second way involves not displacement of emotion from a character, but the ambiguous presentation of the emotions through a complex series of focalizations and silences of characters and the narrator. In 1 See e.g. generally Monsacré 1984; on anger Adkins 1969; Muellner 1996; Austin 1999; Cairns 2003; Most 2003; on laughter Halliwell 2008: 51–99; on pity Casadio 1970–1972; Scott 1979; on shame Cairns 1993: 48–146; on expressions of sorrow Rijksbaron 1997. As to anger in archaic epic poetry, see also the contributions of Van Emde Boas, Kahane, Koning, Van der Mije, and Pelling in this volume. 2 ‘Enactive’ theory is particularly interested in the way that descriptions of events involving bodily actions are especially effective in making the narrative graphic for narratees: this is a feature we shall encounter below. 3 See for instance for orientation on these ideas Allan 2019 and in this volume; for examples Allan et al. 2017; Grethlein and Huitink 2017. See also the good points made earlier in De Jong 2004: 149–194. 4 On the ancient scholia’s interest in the effect of the text on the primary narratees see Nünlist 2009: 135–156, esp. 139–149 (emotional response), 153–155 (primary narratees as ‘spectators’ (θεαταί, ἀκροαταί)) and 194–198 (enargeia); also Meijering 1987: 39–44. The scholia on Andromache’s speeches regularly point to passages they find especially emotive.

© Angus Bowie, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_004

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the case of Helen these ambiguities then provide a perspective on one of the mysteries of the poem: how responsible was Helen for the war?

Narrative and ‘Displaced’ Emotion: Andromache In the Iliad narration is regularly found at critical and emotional moments, often at notable length: Odysseus persuades the fleeing Greeks to stay by reminding them of the omen of the sparrows and the snake at Aulis (2.299– 329); Nestor recounts his own exploits to encourage Patroclus to get Achilles to aid the Greeks (11.670–762); and during the Embassy Phoenix tells his own story and that of Meleager and the Calydonian boar (9.438–599). The length of these narratives means that the expression of emotion is only a small part of the story,5 but there is a small sub-set of such narratives where a character responds to critical events which, though again of universal significance, affect them personally in a very direct way. In such cases it is notable how they do not give vent to full-blown outpourings of emotions, but recount previous or future events which imply their feelings and thus evoke them in both primary and secondary narratees. This technique appears in outline in the very similar scenes when Achilles and Thetis receive news of the death of Patroclus, and Priam news of that of Hector. The reactions of Thetis and Achilles are intertwined. Achilles’ feelings are made clear by the description of his self-abasement and his companions rushing to help him (18.22–35). This is then interrupted as Thetis brings the sea-nymphs to Troy, and leads a lament which begins with a brief personal statement before continuing with an account of Achilles’ birth and development and regret that she will never in future welcome him back to Peleus’ house (18.51–64). Achilles then completes his pattern, combining talk of the past, Patroclus’ death and the origin of his own armour at Thetis’ wedding, with talk of the future in the repetition of her remark about not returning home and a statement of his future plans (18.79–93). The same structure reappears with minor variations after the death of Hector (22.405–436). His mother Hecuba like Achilles performs self-abasement and tells of Hector’s status in the city; the Trojans gather to lament and try to restrain Priam from his suicidal desire to rush out of the city. He then speaks of his plan to go to Achilles, recalling his birth to Peleus and his earlier killing of his sons, before wishing that Hector had died in his arms. 5 It is noteworthy that they are not introduced by ‘emotional preambles’ as is more the case in the Odyssey, for which see De Jong 2001: 75–76.

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In both cases, the characters say little specifically about their emotions, and the emotional power comes in part from the narrator’s descriptions, but mainly from the characters’ own brief narrations. Their emotions are thus not specified but indirectly evoked, and the important interpreters and indeed creators of the emotions raised by the events are the narratees, primary and secondary. The full awfulness of the immediate and related events is laid bare by the characters, but the appreciation of that awfulness lies with the audiences, aided perhaps by the descriptions of the reactions of characters such as Achilles’ women-servants, Antilochus and the serving-women. This technique appears in extenso in three speeches by Andromache, which all use narration more or less substantially but in different ways.6 In the first analepsis dominates, in the second prolepsis, while in the last there is a much more complicated interweaving of past, present, and future, where emotion is also more explicitly expressed.7 Andromache’s first speech comes when Hector has returned to the city. Homer’s description of her follows his usual method of summing up his characters’ mood or appearance in the briefest possible terms:8 we are told simply that she ran through the city ‘like a maenad’ (6.389), and that she was in tears (6.405). After a short personal complaint about Hector’s neglect of her and Astyanax (6.407–409), she conveys her great fear of being left alone by recounting the past history of the destruction of her whole family.9 I have no father nor queenly mother. Divine Achilles killed my father and sacked high-gated Thebes, a prosperous city of the Cilicians. He slew Eëtion, but he did not despoil him—he had too much respect for that— but he burned him with his well-wrought armour and piled up a gravemarker. Around it the mountain-nymphs, daughters of Zeus of the aegis, planted elms. I had seven brothers in our halls all of whom went to Hades on one day, since swift, divine Achilles slew them all when they were attending their shamble-footed cattle and white sheep. My mother, who was queen in wooded Plakos, after he had taken her with the rest of the spoils, he freed for a boundless ransom; but Artemis the shooter of arrows struck her down in my father’s halls. 6.413–428 6 On these speeches see also Lohmann 1988; Gagliardi 2006. On the use of lament in them see especially Foley 1999: 188–198; Dué 2002: 68–72; Tsagalis 2004: 118–129. 7 On analepsis and prolepsis and their place in Homer and Homeric scholarship see De Jong 2004: 81–90. 8 See Bowie 2019: 4–9. 9 Translations are my own.

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All of this Hector knows and the details in the account go well beyond what is ‘realistically’ demanded by the situation, so the audience could be seen to be the principal narratees. Reference to Achilles’ sack of Thebes is referred to a number of times in the poem,10 which could suggest it was a well-known story, but even so the detailed account makes the audience relive the whole unpleasant business as it evolved, step by bloody step. The sense of Andromache’s growing isolation is graphically portrayed by the sequential accounts of the death and burial of her father; the wholesale killing of her brothers, apparently unarmed, in the meadows; and the fate of her mother, whose return to her father’s house appears to offer a glimmer of light which is snuffed out by her sudden death. It is not a matter therefore of the audience now sharing Andromache’s emotion, because she does not express it, but of experiencing the emotions she felt at the time. Other features underline the lack of overt emotion. This passage is notably less agitated than the first and last parts of the speech. Her language is largely unemotional and factual: rhetorically, only πάντες … ἰῷ … ἤματι … πάντας (‘all on one day, all’), said of her brothers (421–422), mildly raises the temperature. All the lines are self-contained or end-stopped, and the rhythm of this section lacks the tension with the rhythm of the hexameter line found at the start.11 The account of her father’s death emphasizes the positive aspects, the lack of despoliation, the proper funeral and memorial grave-marker, and the divine consolation of the elms planted there (6.416–420); her mother’s death is given simply as a fact (6.428). At the time of this scene, though she is worried about what she considers Hector’s rashness, Andromache sees the past as the best way of influencing the future. When she next appears however, the past is now over, and it is the future which she must confront, a future which will be even less pleasant than her past: prolepsis now becomes more prevalent than analepsis. In her lament (22.477–514) the time modulates from past to present to future and back to the past. She begins with the common fates of herself and Hector and her childhood in Thebes, with a brief direct expression of her feelings in the wish she had never been born (22.477–481), and then talks of Hector, now in Hades, and of herself and Astyanax bereaved (22.482–485). It is however the proleptic view of the future which carries the weight, as the bulk of the speech concerns the consequences for Astyanax.

10 11

See 1.366–367; 9.186–188; 16.152–154; 23.826–829; Zarkar 1965; Taplin 1986; Easterling 1995. See Bakker 2005: 52–55.

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If Astyanax escapes the woeful war with the Achaeans, he will always have trouble and sorrow in future: others will remove the boundary-stones from his fields. The day a boy is made an orphan cuts him off completely from his companions; he has his head down all the time and his cheeks are stained with tears. In need, the boy goes to his father’s friends, tugging at the cloak of one and the tunic of another. If they pity him, one gives him a small taste of the cup: he wets his lips but his palate he does not wet. What’s more, the boy with two parents (amphithales) throws him out of the feast, striking him with his hands and insulting him: ‘go on, get out! Your father does not dine with us’. In tears the boy returns to his widowed mother—Astyanax!, who before on his father’s knees used to eat only marrow and the rich fat of sheep. When sleep overcame him and he stopped playing, he would sleep on his couch in the arms of his nurse, on a soft bed having filled his heart with pleasures. 22.487–507

Important for the emotional tone of the passage is the shift from specific to general and back, which is marked largely by changes in tenses. There is too a shift in focalization, as it gives first the view of Astyanax and then that of a generic child. In 487–493 presents, futures, and perfects indicating states describe the future which is initially clearly that of Astyanax, but a hint of generalization comes in 490 with the sententious ‘the day a boy is made an orphan cuts him off completely from his companions’.12 This generalization is then formalized by the introduction of the four gnomic aorists in 494–498 marked in italics in the translation. This is a mixture found in other sententious contexts, as in 13.730–734 on divine gifts to men: ‘to one the god gives (aor.) warlike deeds, to another dancing, to another the lyre and song, in another he implants (pr.) intelligence and many listen to him (pr.) and he saves (aor.) cities and he is especially conscious of this (aor.)’.13 In the other passages however the tenses are mixed up, whereas Andromache concentrates the aorists in this central passage, before ἄνεισι returns in 499 (picking up the same word in 492) and Astyanax explicitly becomes the subject again. This shift in tenses provides a modulation in the emotional effect of the passage, which starts with serious problems of property and social status specifically concerning Astyanax, moves to the generalized picture of the orphan at a feast culminating in the viciously 12 13

Such gnomic utterances are a feature most often of character-speech: see Villemonteix 1979; Lardinois 1997, 2000. See also 9.508–512; 24.334–335; and shorter examples in 1.218; 17.99–100; 18.309; also Chantraine 1963: 185.

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unkind words of the amphithales, before returning suddenly and effectively to Astyanax himself, whose name, appearing at the start of line 500, reminds us sharply that the apparently generalized section referred to him too. The short generalized passage thus has the effect of moving the focus from Astyanax specifically, thus cooling the emotion slightly, before his surprising return. The past then reappears in the description of Astyanax’ cossetted life-style (22.500– 504), where the past frequentatives and potentials suggest that this is already a feature of time gone by, and the contrast with the refusal of nourishment at the feast is poignant. As with Thetis above therefore, Andromache is given a brief personal outburst at the start, but after that it is narrative, again with virtually all the lines end-stopped, which creates the emotion, and it is the narratees, primary and secondary, who feel the effect. Andromache’s final speech operates in a very different way (italics mark analepses, bold present situations, and bold italics prolepses): Husband, you died young, before your time, and you leave me a widow in our halls. The child, still a baby, whom we created, you and I in our misfortune, I don’t think will reach manhood: before that this city will be sacked from top to bottom. You, its guardian, are dead; you looked after it and protected its noble wives and little children, who will soon board the smooth ships, and I with them. You, my child, will either follow me to where you would do shameful tasks toiling for a heartless master; or one of the Achaeans will take your hand and throw you from the tower, a dreadful death, in his anger, whose brother perhaps Hector killed, or father or even son, since many Achaeans bit the great earth with their teeth at the hands of Hector: your father was not gentle in dread fighting. Therefore the people lament him throughout the city, and you left cursed laments and grief to your parents, Hector. But to me especially there will be left grievous pains because, when you died you did not stretch out to me your hand from the bed, nor did you say a final word, which I could remember by night and day as I weep. 24.725–745

In the previous two speeches, she began with personal statements about herself and her feelings, before narrative, proleptic and analeptic, took over. In this lament however a personal perspective is maintained throughout, and prolepsis, analepsis, and present description are mingled together, often with rapid changes and in very short sections rather than with one being prevalent. The personal involvement is shown too by the shifts in addressee, from Hector to Astyanax at 732 and then back to Hector without warning in 741–742. The emo-

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tionalism can be seen also in the way that, in contrast to the previous two passages, half of the lines are not end-stopped. On the other hand, there is an underlying structure with two sections of six lines enclosing the most affecting nine, which comprise five on the futures of Andromache and Astyanax, followed by four on Hector in the past. The sequence ends with four lines of Andromache’s sad comment that she will have no last words to remember in the future. The passage is thus, in its constant shifts of time and varying addressees, much more emotional than the other two, but there is still a rhetorical structure to it, so that the narratees can appreciate its force rather than being faced with uncontrolled emotion. From these three passages one can conclude that, until the last, most tragic moment, Homer’s use of narration does portray characters in high emotion, but the focus is less on the personal expression of the characters’ feelings and more on generating those feelings in the narratees or audience, who are taken through what it is like to lose all of one’s family, be an orphan or face a future which, though yet to come, is all too easy to construct.14 The expression of emotion in these passages is thus rhetorical rather than emotional, aimed at moving the audience rather than directly depicting actorial feelings.

Focalization and Emotional Ambiguity: Helen One of the great questions about the Iliad is the extent to which Helen is responsible for the war, and part of the uncertainty comes from the way her emotional feelings about the abduction and her situation at Troy are ambiguously presented.15 The complexity of this question is conveyed by a varying mixture of voices which offer contrasting focalizations, with the result that the truth remains uncertain. Helen appears first when Iris in disguise brings news of the impending duel between Paris and Menelaus. The news has surprised everyone, but we shall gain little insight into Helen’s feelings in this initial appearance at least, as she is silent throughout16 and the language ambiguous. 14

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16

For an investigation into the personal expression of characters’ feelings in tragedy, see Wakker in this volume. Astyanax’ fate, hinted at by Andromache in her speech, is a standard topic in Greek vase-painting: see Jurriaans-Helle in this volume. The bibliography on Helen is considerable: see especially Reckford 1964; Kakridis 1971: 25– 40; Clader 1976: esp. 5–23; Kennedy 1986; Taplin 1992: 97–103, 118–120; Roisman 2006 with 9–23 on Helen in Book 3; Worman 2002 passim (esp. 47–55); Edmunds 2019. On silent characters generally in the Iliad see De Jong 1987; Montiglio 2000: 46–81; on silence in other genres and contexts Angeli Bernardini 2015.

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She was working at a great loom on a purple double-folded garment, and she embroidered on it many trials of the horse-taming Trojans and bronze-clad Achaeans, which they suffered because of her at the hands of Ares. 3.125–128

She is at the loom as befits the Greek male ideology of the wife, but the topic of the weaving is intriguing. Why is the war specified?17 It could be an unimportant detail, but since Helen is, at least in part, responsible for the war, this choice could be read as her focalization of affairs: she is as responsible for the sufferings in reality as she is for those on the loom. However, in the final line the narrator’s ἕθεν εἵνεκ’ (‘because of her’) is ambiguous: whether or not it is Helen’s focalization, there is still the question of whether it means ‘because of her’, thus implying her responsibility as cause, or simply ‘in pursuit of her’, without any implication of fault. Furthermore, any responsibility of hers is moderated by the addition of the expression ‘at the hands of Ares’, which is not only unusual (cf. only 7.105 and 24.738) but takes on extra force when Ares actually joins the battle in Book 5. The answer to the question of responsibility is thus left unclear. Helen’s reaction is further blurred by the narrator’s ambiguous description of the effect of Iris’ words. Lines 139–140 ὣς εἰποῦσα θεὰ γλυκὺν ἵμερον ἔμβαλε θυμῷ | ἀνδρός τε προτέρου καὶ ἄστεος ἠδὲ τοκήων could mean simply ‘so saying Iris caused sweet desire in her heart for her former husband, her city, and her parents’, i.e. as a result of Iris’ words Helen felt nostalgia for her past life. But it could also have a more pregnant meaning, ‘after she had said this, Iris put sweet desire …’, i.e. that she herself caused Helen to feel as she did, as in so many cases of the gods ‘putting’ emotions in humans. The latter is the force of line 139 in the only other place it appears, of Aphrodite with Anchises in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite 143, where the sense is made more precise by the next line, ‘and passion seized Anchises’. If the phrase is understood thus, the narrator would be ascribing Helen’s emotion specifically to the goddess and not to Helen herself, which opens the question of what exactly Helen would have felt without this divine intervention. Helen leaves ‘shedding rounded tears’ (3.42), and the phrase τέρεν δάκρυ (the singular in the Greek is formulaic, not an indication of number which would otherwise have been significant) is always used of tears shed for those lost or thought lost, as by a widow for her dead husband (Od. 16.332), Patroclus for 17

For the idea that Helen sees a compensation for the negative effects she has created in the fame this weaving will bring her, as she says explicitly of the events themselves to Hector (6.354–358), see Collins 1988: 42–43.

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a dead warrior (16.11), and Peleus for Achilles (19.323). The tears are no doubt genuine therefore, but the initial impetus could have been an external one, not one spontaneously generated by the events. The ambiguity remains, and it is noticeable that, not only is her view obscured, but that she says nothing. This ambiguity is then highlighted at the start of the scene on the walls where, as the old men chunter, Priam immediately says that he blames the gods not Helen for the war (3.164–165). She however presents a different view, blaming herself and saying she wishes she had died before coming to Troy (3.173– 174). This contradiction will persist through the poem: she wishes she had died also at 6.345–348 and 24.764; she thinks her brothers are absent because they are too ashamed of her (3.241–242); and she calls herself ‘dog-faced’ (3.180), ‘an evil-working, frightful bitch’ (6.344), ‘a dog’ (6.356), and ‘hateful’ (3.404), claiming ‘everyone shudders at my presence’ (24.775). On the other hand, though she will later talk of the unkind remarks people regularly made (24.768–772), in the poem no one else openly criticizes her, the closest being Achilles calling her ‘shudder-making’ (19.325): even the old men on the walls say nothing about her culpability, commenting solely on her beauty and potentially fatal effect (3.158–160). This varied focalization of the situation continues as the scene unfolds and the Greek warriors are identified.18 The meaning of Helen’s earlier tears becomes clearer in the accompanying narratives given by herself and others: there is a twist however in that the primary external narratees know that her feelings are not just deep but also misguided. Of Agamemnon she says ‘he was my brother-in-law, dog-faced me, yes, indeed he was’ (3.180):19 the past tenses suggest she thinks that this is over forever. When she identifies Odysseus, Antenor recalls his and Menelaus’ embassy to negotiate Helen’s return (3.203–224): Helen does not speak, but again she is faced with an event in the past whose failure suggests she will not be leaving Troy soon, and as with Andromache a narrative takes the place of explicit emotion. On Idomeneus she herself reminisces nostalgically about his past frequent visits to her and Menelaus (3.232–233). Finally, she speculates on the absence of her brothers, not realizing that things are worse than she suggests and their absence is not simply a matter of family pride. In this section therefore the accounts by Helen, Antenor, and the narrator make Helen’s desire for home clear, and her certainty that that is beyond reach apparently equally so. The secondary narratees thus can share her sense of nostalgia, but the primary external ones are treated to a 18 19

For a linguistic analysis of this passage, focusing on the ways in which demonstrative pronouns are used to express emotional proximity, see Rijksbaron in this volume. For the meaning of the last clause see Bowie 2019: 128–129.

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much more complex picture, since they know both her nostalgia and her concern about her brothers are misguided. Two subsequent scenes then examine Helen’s feelings about Paris, and again there is a scene of ambiguity followed by one in which greater, though not total, clarity is offered. Later in Book 3 Aphrodite in disguise tells her that Paris wants her, describing him in attractive terms, and immediately the narrator introduces ambiguity in a phrase not dissimilar to that used of Iris earlier, τῇ δ’ ἄρα θυμὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν ὄρινε (‘she aroused Helen’s heart in her breast’, 3.395). This formula is used elsewhere to describe the arousal of a variety of emotions, such as relief (2.142), anger (13.648), and eagerness (11.804). Whether the emotion is spontaneous or externally caused is also again raised, but the nature of the emotion here is doubly obscured, since it may have changed from an emotion caused by the suggestion of going to Paris when apparently made by a trusted servant to one caused by the realization that it is from a goddess whom she does not trust (3.396–399). Things are not much clearer as the scene progresses, where ambivalent language, action, and silence are interwoven. Faced with Paris she ‘turned her eyes away’ (ὄσσε πάλιν κλίνασα, 3.427), which could be either a gesture of aversion, as in 21.415 where Athena turns dismissively away from Ares, or an expression of lack of interest, as with Zeus unwisely looking away from events at Troy (13.3–9). The wish that he had died at Menelaus’ hands seems clear enough, especially given her mocking instruction to him to back up his previous boasts by challenging Menelaus again (3.430–433a), but the ambiguity is immediately revived by her mid-line change of mind in 3.433b–436. The contradictory nature of the remarks suggests that scorn and affection are inextricably interwoven. However, when Paris has made his great declaration of passion, ‘he led the way and his wife followed’ (3.447): her absence of response and silent compliance, recalling the same reaction to Iris, again raises questions of just how enthusiastic she is. Hovering over all of this too is the question of how far one should imagine the goddess of love influencing Helen’s (and Paris’) feelings. In this passage, brief comments by the narrator and remarks by Helen combine to produce the ambiguity, but in the comparable scene with Hector and Paris in Book 6 Helen alone expresses her feelings whilst the narrator stays almost entirely silent, merely describing her words by the ambiguous μειλιχίοισι ‘gentle’, which ‘can range in tone from mild persuasion … to deviousness’.20 Here her feelings are expressed more explicitly. She describes herself as ‘a cold,

20

Graziosi and Haubold 2010: 175; cf. Worman 2001: 27–28.

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evil-working bitch’ and wishes she had perished before things happened as they did (6.344–348). She is very clear about her view of Paris: but since the gods have contrived these things so unfortunately, I wish I were the wife of a better man, who was sensible to the criticism and great scorn men have for him. But this man’s mind is not stable nor ever will be, so I think he will get his reward (ἐπαυρήσεσθαι). 6.349–353

Kirk sees this as ‘a decisive condemnation’, conveyed through the reference to ‘this man’ in Paris’ presence, ‘the contemptuous definition of his mental and moral inadequacy’, and the idea that Paris will never change.21 It is interesting however that her concern is with Paris’ moral failings, not his military or other failings criticized by Hector: the scorn suggested in 3.430–436 is here apparently replaced by exasperation. Her final remark is curiously ambiguous however: what come-uppance has she in mind from Paris’ insouciance? The context suggests she means something from the Trojans, but there is little sign of threats to Paris from them, opportunities for making him pay for his actions having been ignored. The verb ἐπαυρέομαι can express a range from the legitimate enjoyment of good things to biting sarcasm,22 but the absence of a genitive specifying the precise source of Paris’ retribution introduces a little moderating imprecision. Helen’s emotions in these scenes are clearly complex, but there remains the question of what ultimately it is that Helen is having those feelings about. This then brings up the question of what happened in Sparta when she eloped. I have argued elsewhere that the scene with Paris and Aphrodite in Book 3 is a ‘re-run’ of that in Sparta, so that it takes its place amongst the scenes which rework ones from the early part of the war.23 That Aphrodite disguises herself as a Spartan servant (3.386–388) is an early hint; Helen’s complaint about being taken east to a toy-boy would have been more appropriate in Sparta than in response to an invitation to go home to her husband (3.399–402); and Paris refers specifically to the abduction from Sparta (3.442–446). Helen’s contradictory advice to Paris would then stand as an indication of her mixed feelings about the man when the question of eloping was raised, and Aphrodite’s fierce reaction to her resistance (3.414–417) would be an indication of the lack 21 22 23

Kirk 1990: 206; Graziosi and Haubold 2010: 177–179 take a similar view. See Il. 1.140; 15.17; Pi. P. 3.35–37; A. Pr. 28; Eur. Hel. 469, etc.; and West 1978: 216–217 on Hes. Op. 240. Bowie 2019: 9–15, with 12–15 on Helen.

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of choice she actually faced. In suggesting this narrative of events in Sparta, Homer thus allows us to deduce that Helen was perhaps not entirely averse to the elopement, but that she could not anyway have opposed the force of the goddess of love, whether this involved divinely inspired sexual passion or angry commands. Thus she can blame herself, since after all she did go and thus played her part in causing the war; but, either because of Paris himself or because of the residual power of Aphrodite, there remains affection and, one imagines, a sense that she is not entirely to blame. The ambiguities in the presentation of her emotions, through narratorial description and varied focalizations, provide a complex but realistic picture of what she was going through. The depiction of emotions of these two women at least is thus not a matter of explicit exposition of emotion by the characters. With Andromache the emotions are ‘displaced’ onto the narratees, primary and secondary, through varied use of analepsis and prolepsis. Analepsis is used to allow the secondary narratees to share her experiences; prolepsis offers her grim views of the likely future which affects the primary narratees because of their greater knowledge of what will actually happen. With Helen the ambiguities in the differing focalizations of her position not only convey the complexity of her emotions but also contribute to the mysterious question of what in fact happened that day in Sparta.

Bibliography Adkins, A.W.H., ‘Threatening, Abusing, and Feeling Angry in the Homeric Poems’, JHS 89 (1969) 7–21. Allan, R.J., ‘Narrative Immersion: Some Linguistic and Narratological Aspects’, in J. Grethlein, L. Huitink, A. Tagliabue (eds.), Experience, Narrative, and Criticism in Ancient Greece. Under the Spell of Stories (Oxford 2019) 15–34. Allan, R.J., Jong, I.J.F. de, Jonge, C.C. de, ‘From Enargeia to Immersion: The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept’, Style 51 (2017) 34–51. Angeli Bernardini, P., Le funzioni del silenzio nella Grecia antica. Antropologia, poesia, storiografia, teatro (Pisa / Rome 2015). Austin, N.J.E., ‘Anger and Disease in Homer’s Iliad,’ in J.N. Kazazis, A. Rengakos (eds.), Euphrosyne. Studies in Ancient Epic and its Legacy in Honor of Dimitris N. Maronitis (Stuttgart 1999) 11–49. Bakker, E.J., Pointing at the Past. From Formula to Performance in Homeric Poetics (Washington 2005). Bowie, A.M. (ed.), Homer. Iliad iii (Cambridge 2019).

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Cairns, D., Aidōs. The Psychology and Ethics of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greek Literature (Oxford 1993). Cairns, D., ‘Ethics, Ethology, Terminology. Iliadic Anger and the Cross-Cultural Study of Emotion’, in G.W. Most, S. Braund (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003) 11–49. Casadio, V., ‘L’eleos nell’epica’, MCr 5–7 (1970–1972) 54–59. Chantraine, P., Grammaire homérique. Tome 2: Syntaxe (Paris 1963). Clader, L.L., Helen. The Evolution from Divine to Heroic in Greek Epic Tradition (Leiden 1976). Collins, L., Studies in Characterization in the Iliad (Frankfurt 1988). Dué, C., Homeric Variations on a Lament by Briseis (Lanham, MD 2002). Easterling, P.E., ‘Holy Thebe’, in A. Fol, G. Mikhailov (eds.), Studia in honorem Georgii Mihailov (Sofia 1995) 161–167. Edmunds, L., Toward the Characterization of Helen in Homer. Appellatives, Periphrastic Denominations, and Noun-epithet Formulas (Berlin / Boston 2019). Foley, J.M., Homer’s Traditional Art (University Park, PA 1999). Gagliardi, P., ‘I lamenti di Andromaca nell’ Iliade’, GAIA 10 (2006) 11–46. Graziosi, B., Haubold, J. (eds.), Homer. Iliad vi (Cambridge 2010). Grethlein, J., Huitink, L., ‘Homer’s Vivideness. An Enactive Approach’, JHS 137 (2017) 67–91. Halliwell, S., Greek Laughter. A Study of Cultural Psychology from Homer to Early Christianity (Cambridge 2008). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Silent Characters in the Iliad’, in J.M. Bremer, I.J.F. de Jong, J. Kalff (eds.), Homer, Beyond Oral Poetry. Recent Trends in Homeric Interpretation (Amsterdam 1987) 105–121. Jong, I.J.F. de, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London [1987] 2nd edn. 2004). Kakridis, J.T., Homer Revisited (Lund 1971). Kennedy, G.A., ‘Helen’s Web Unraveled’, Arethusa 19 (1986) 5–14. Kirk, G.S. (ed.), The Iliad. A Commentary. Vol. ii. Books 5–8 (Cambridge 1990). Lardinois, A., ‘Modern Paroemiology and the Use of Gnomai in Homer’s Iliad’, CPh 92 (1997) 213–234. Lardinois, A., ‘Characterization through Gnomai in Homer’s Iliad’, Mnemosyne 53 (2000) 641–661. Lohmann, D., Die Andromache-Szenen der Ilias. Ansätze und Methoden der HomerInterpretation (Hildesheim / Zurich / New York 1988). Meijering, R., Literary and Rhetorical Theories in Greek Scholia (Groningen 1987). Monsacré, H., Les larmes d’Achille. Le héros, la femme et la souffrance dans la poésie d’Homère (Paris 1984).

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Montiglio, S., Silence in the Land of Logos (Princeton 2000). Most, G.W., ‘Anger and Pity in Homer’s Iliad’, in G.W. Most, S. Braund (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003) 50–75. Muellner, L.C., The Anger of Achilles. Mēnis in Greek Epic (Ithaca, NY 1996). Nünlist, R., The Ancient Critic at Work. Terms and Concepts of Literary Criticism in Greek Scholia (Cambridge 2009). Reckford, K.J., ‘Helen in the Iliad’, GRBS 5 (1964) 5–20. Rijksbaron, A., ‘Further Observations on Expressions of Sorrow and Related Expressions in Homer’, in E. Banfi (ed.), Atti del secondo incontro internazionale di linguistica greca (Trento 1997) 215–242. Roisman, H.M., ‘Helen in the Iliad; causa belli and Victim of War. From Silent Weaver to Public Speaker’, AJPh 127 (2006) 1–36. Scott, M., ‘Pity and Pathos in Homer’, AClass 22 (1979) 1–14. Taplin, O.P., ‘Homer’s Use of Achilles’ Earlier Campaigns in the Iliad’, in J. Boardman, C.E. Vaphopoulou-Richardson (eds.), Chios (Oxford 1986) 15–19. Taplin, O.P., Homeric Soundings. The Shaping of the Iliad (Oxford 1992). Tsagalis, C., Epic Grief. Personal Laments in Homer’s Iliad (Berlin / New York 2004). Villemonteix, J., ‘Remarques sur les sentences homériques’, La Licorne 3 (1979) 85–96. West, M.L. (ed.), Hesiod. Works and Days (Oxford 1978). Worman, N., ‘The Voice which is not One. Helen’s Verbal Guises in Homeric Epic’, in A.P.M.H. Lardinois, L. McClure (eds.), Making Silence Speak. Women’s Voices in Greek Literature and Society (Princeton 2001) 19–37. Worman, N., The Cast of Character. Style in Ancient Greek Literature (Austin 2002). Zarkar, J.W., ‘King Eëtion and Thebe as Symbols in the Iliad’, CJ 61 (1965) 110–114.

chapter 3

Fear and Loathing at the Xanthus Evert van Emde Boas

I have used Irene de Jong’s Narratology and Classics much in my teaching in recent years. Students appreciate the book for the clarity of its exposition, its well-chosen examples, and for the pay-off that it offers by allowing them to see things in texts that they had not seen, or at least not seen clearly, before. Apart from the always eye-opening chapter on focalization, the chapter that they seem to find most immediately useful is that on narratological time. We usually end up spending a good part of a class debating the definitions of fabula and story (and the complications that arise from the further distinction of a ‘main story’);1 once we get, though, to the various narratorial manipulations that these concepts allow us to identify—of order, frequency, and rhythm, students are typically quickly able to employ these concepts in confident analyses of Greek and Roman narratives. It is perhaps unsurprising that narratological time, the description of which is notably consistent across the models of Genette, Bal, and other (‘classical’) narratologists,2 is felt to be so readily applicable. Here we have, it seems, an ‘objective’ method of analysis: one simply compares the order and duration of events as presented in the story with those in the reconstructed fabula— for instance A-B-C-D-E-F (fabula) vs. B-C-D-Aaa-C’-D-F (story)—and, more or less automatically, the machine spits out the appropriate label for the relevant type of analepsis or prolepsis; of scene, summary or slow-down; of repetition or iteration. Of course, such a mechanical exercise remains just that, unless it is combined with sensitive literary interpretation of why narrators employ their various anachronies and manipulations of rhythm. It is not least for how masterfully she pulls off that crucial step that De Jong’s applications of narratology are so often memorable. And yet, any notion of objectivity is a mirage. As De Jong herself makes clear, the fabula is no objective measuring standard but a construct: ‘it should be understood that the fabula always is a reconstruction, made by the narratees 1 De Jong 2014b: 77; cf. De Jong 2007: 18–19. I am grateful to the editors and to Felix Budelmann for their helpful comments. 2 Genette 1980 [1972]: 33–160; Bal 2009: 77–112; cf. e.g. Rimmon-Kenan 2002: 43–58. For a more diverse variety of perspectives and extensive bibliography, see Meister and Schernus 2011.

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on the basis of the story … in order to provide a standard against which to gauge the alterations in the story’.3 Such a reconstruction inevitably already entails selection: which events make it into the reconstruction as the fabula’s A, B, C, and so forth? If I tell a story about how I entered my classroom (A), sat down (B), and asked my student Mary about her weekend (C), an analysis of narratological time may not need to expand the (relevant portion of the) fabula much beyond those three events. But on what basis should my reconstruction exclude such (putative or real) events as the door falling shut behind me, the breaths taken by my other student John, the fly silently hovering near the window of the classroom, the cars riding past behind that window, or the fact that at that very moment in Kuala Lumpur someone was boiling an egg? To frame this (more properly) from the narratee’s perspective, given that their reconstruction is ‘made … on the basis of the story’ and the story can and will only give us only so much information (typically, not the egg-boiling in Kuala Lumpur), what we are left with is that the notionally unfiltered, unmanipulated fabula has to be (re)constructed exclusively from filtered, manipulated story stuff. The fabula too, then, is inevitably filtered: specifically, it will consist of events that somehow matter, to the characters, to the narrator and narratee. Even the seemingly objective standard against which a story is measured is, in the end, a human one. And insofar as human perception of time is never fully objective (more on this below), the notion that a story can ever serve as the basis for an empirical reconstruction of ‘actual’ fabula time is also not feasible. When the story layer is peeled away, what we find hiding beneath narrative’s surface is not time, but the subjective experience of time.4 All this raises, I think, fairly fundamental questions about the fabula-story division. For my purposes in this contribution, however, we can retreat to a more comfortable position and assert merely that there is, at the level of a story, no such thing as unfiltered narration. This is entirely in line, in fact, with De Jong’s views: rejecting, with Bal, Genette’s ‘zero-focalization’, she maintains that in narrative there is always ‘a form of mediation and hence filtering of events’, and thus that ‘narration always entails focalization’.5 The same point has been

3 De Jong 2014b: 47. 4 There are potentially important research implications here. For instance, when De Jong argues that ‘[n]arratological “time” does not help us to understand “time” as a mental construct in antiquity’ (2014b: 101), that is perhaps needlessly pessimistic. Careful analysis of the temporal structuring of narratives from antiquity may in fact give us some sense of how time was experienced. See also Kahane’s observations on time in this volume. 5 De Jong 2014b: 47.

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made by Patrick Colm Hogan, who adds the insight—and this is where this volume’s theme comes in—that such filtering is always, inherently, emotional:6 Without the systems of emotion and motivation, we would not … direct our attention to one thing rather than another, select some information as being of interest and ignore other information … Research in emotion in recent decades has shown that we would not successfully engage in reasoning processes without emotion. … Put differently, a true Star Trek Vulcan, operating on pure logic alone, is impossible. In part due to the stress on linguistic models of narrative … we have tended to treat narrators as Vulcan-like. But a purely Vulcan narrator would not narrate. … Narrators necessarily have emotions. Zero-focalization, then, is a situation in which there is a narrator with emotions—emotions that lead him or her to select certain facts of the story world and not others. In a series of publications that amount to a research programme of ‘affective narratology’,7 Hogan has developed this insight to show how, at various levels and in various ways, the very structure of narratives is the product of emotion systems. Thus, at the higher level of plot construction, ‘emotion systems govern … what sorts of things protagonists do or encounter, … what counts as a resolution, and so on.’8 My focus in this contribution, however, will lie on the lower, more detailed level of the construction of individual scenes, and specifically on how the temporal structuring of events in them, and focalization more broadly, appear to evoke our emotion-driven experience of the world.9 In Homeric narrative too, I argue, focalization and rhythm can often be fruitfully analysed as emotionally structured. That I will find similar processes at work in the Iliad as Hogan identifies in (for example) Anna Karenina, may be taken as underscoring that such processes constitute a—if not perhaps ‘the’— fundamental component of narrative, and moreover as evidence that they are underpinned at least in part by certain physiological universals. At the same time, I do not wish to push too strong a case for universality: it is not least in the 6 7 8 9

Hogan 2011b: 77. E.g. Hogan 2011a; 2011b; 2018. Hogan 2011a: 2. This is the topic of Hogan’s first chapter in Affective Narratology (2011a). Hogan’s approach fits into a broader trend in cognitive narratology that emphasizes how narrative presentation can correspond to (or deviate from) the ways in which our cognitive-affective systems structure our experience of the world (cf. also the ‘cognitive realism’ of e.g. Troscianko 2014, focusing on visual perception; more broadly, for experientiality as essential to narrative, cf. Fludernik 1996). See also Huitink in this volume.

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case of the (lexicon of) emotions, of course, that we should make ample allowance for cultural differences.10 Again, Irene de Jong can serve as the model here: she more than anyone has shown how many devices and aspects of narrative can be traced back already to Homer, while being entirely open to the notion that things may not be the same across cultures, literatures, and time.11

Fear As soon as Hector concludes his great interior monologue in Book 22, his foe draws near: So he deliberated as he waited (ὣς ὅρμαινε μένων). But he, Achilles, came near to him (σχεδόν), alike to Enyalius, warrior of the quivering helmet, brandishing the Pelian ash over his right shoulder, his terrible spear (δεινήν); and all around the bronze flashed like the glare of a blazing fire or of the rising sun. Hector, when he caught sight of him, was taken by shuddering (Ἕκτορα δ’, ὡς ἐνόησεν, ἕλε τρόμος). No longer did he dare remain there, but he left the gates behind, and ran off in fearful flight (βῆ δὲ φοβηθείς). hom. Il. 22.131–137

De Jong has offered insightful commentary on this passage more than once, and I will have reason below to agree with more or less everything that she says about it. My own reading will proceed, however, along slightly different lines: what I am interested in here is how the structure of the narrative at this point mirrors the experience of fear which we see take hold of Hector.12 First, there is the way in which our (and, presumably, Hector’s) attentional focus is directed, as Achilles comes into (closer) view, at the most salient possible causes for a fearful reaction. As Hogan explains:13

10

11 12

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This is, rightly, a commonplace in the discussion of Greek emotions (see e.g. Konstan 2006: ix), but also ought not to be taken too far. For an informed discussion of the need to find the middle ground between ‘the naive assumption of shared humanity and unsustainable strategies of alienation’, see Cairns 2004 (quotation p. 12). See e.g. De Jong 2014a. In this volume, Coray and Krieter discuss the fear that takes hold of Agenor, when pursued by Achilles in Iliad Book 21 (a passage that anticipates Hector’s fear and flight). Fear in Plato is discussed by Finkelberg and Morgan, and in Herodotus by Rutherford. Hogan 2011a: 34.

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When we experience an emotional spike, our cognitive response is partially automatic. … Almost immediately upon experiencing an emotion, … we narrow our attentional focus to candidate causes, attributing a cause very quickly. This is crucial because causal attribution is a necessary prerequisite for any actional outcome. Put very crudely, if I am afraid, I need to know what I am afraid of in order to run away in the right direction. This is precisely what happens in our passage: our attention is focused on Achilles’ spear (encoded in enjambment as being ‘terrible’, δεινήν), his armour (with an emphasis on its visual impact), and through the Enyalius-simile possibly also on his helmet—in short, on the plausible candidate causes for an emotional burst of fear.14 The second way in which the Iliadic narrative here mirrors the affective encoding of experience relates, as suggested in my introduction, to narratological time—specifically rhythm. The lines are perhaps too few to allow for a clean labelling exercise: does the four-line description of Achilles’ visual aspect amount to scenic narration? A slow-down? Perhaps even a brief pause? What matters for my argument is that there is a certain temporal unevenness in the passage, and that this unevenness appears to be emotionally conditioned. As Hogan stresses, ‘the temporality of our being-in-the-world … is … organized— or more precisely, encoded—emotionally’.15 We may compare Hogan’s analysis of a moment early in Anna Karenina, which focuses on the expression on Dolly’s face and the letter she is holding (the potential cause of Stiva’s fear):16 [What stands out sharply] is the image of Dolly with the letter, “looking at [Stiva] with an expression of horror, despair, and fury” (2). What is striking here is that this immediately divides the experience into an almost atemporal focus and a broader periphery. The focal moment is in some way the key experience. … There is of course a larger event here. Dolly presumably moves and speaks; so does Stiva. The occurrences that constitute the event involve change. But this key moment is compressed, almost frozen. … In short, the temporal landscape here is uneven, and the 14 15

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The order in which the weaponry is mentioned—helmet, spear on the shoulder, armour— could be seen as mirroring the ‘scanning’ of visual perception. Hogan 2011a: 31. Cf. ‘Time flies when you’re having fun’. For an overview of the science of subjective time perception, see e.g. Wittmann 2016 and the special issue of Timing and Time Perception (4.1, 2016). Fear, specifically, has been experimentally shown to cause perceivers to overestimate the duration of fear-inducing events relative to others: see e.g. Droit-Volet et al. 2011; Droit-Volet 2013. Hogan 2011a: 32.

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unevenness is emotional. Some of the occurrences that constitute this sequence … are highly salient and consequential; others are downplayed. For ‘the image of Dolly’ substitute ‘the image of Achilles’, and Hogan’s description comes close, I suggest, to accurately capturing the temporal dimensions of our Iliad-passage. Just like in Anna Karenina, some presumable occurrences here are suppressed—Achilles’ forward steps,17 Hector’s own breathing and his adjustments of body position, and so forth. Rather, the narrative freezes momentarily on the terrifying image of Achilles, before skipping ahead immediately to Hector’s emotional reaction and his flight (136–137). Hector’s trembling and his flight neatly round off what Hogan calls an emotional event: ‘the emotion-provoking incident … [Achilles moving within range], causal attribution … [his terrifying aspect], target isolation for the emotional expression [this overlaps, here as often, with causal attribution], and expressive and actional outcomes [trembling and flight, respectively]’.18 With the mention of Hector’s affective response in 136 we have also come to what De Jong might call the ‘explicit’ marker of embedded focalization in the passage, ὡς ἐνόησεν (‘when he caught sight of him’). Both in her excellent commentary on Book 22, and previously in Narrators and Focalizers, De Jong cites that phrase as evidence that in 132–135 we are dealing with ‘[Hector’s] perception of Achilles and all the details of his armour’.19 This is persuasive, and it raises an obvious question: if I am right to claim that the narrative structure of the passage, in its attentive and temporal selectiveness, mirrors the human experience of fear, whose fear is being mirrored? That of Hector, that of the narrator, or (by way of empathetic response) that of the narratee? In light of the ‘explicit’ marker of embedded focalization, the most straightforward answer would seem to be Hector; yet perhaps we should avoid exclusive answers. Since there is no such thing as unemotional narration, the dividing line between narratorial and character focalization becomes harder to draw.20 Indeed, Anna Bonifazi’s recent reinterpretation of embedded focalization as ‘viewpoint blending’ (2018) suggests that there will inevitably be traces of the narrator in even the most clear-cut cases of embedded focalization.21 If we are to draw a general 17

18 19 20 21

By contrast with the Anna Karenina scene, our passage does contain reference to movement, Achilles’ ‘swaying’ of his spear (σείων, 131). But in fact this underscores the point: there is no sense of temporal progression ‘outside’ of the description; Achilles’ spearbrandishing is, as it were, a moving image which is itself frozen in time. Hogan 2011a: 40. De Jong 2012: on 131–135; De Jong [1987] 20042: 127; De Jong [1987] 20042: 129. De Jong stresses that focalization is often ambiguous, 2014b: 54. In our passage, moreover, the fact that the verb of perception follows the visual description

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conclusion here, it is that a cognitive-affective approach suggests that overly schematic models of focalization are liable to be misleading. The wider context of our passage in Book 22 offers scope for a further point about how narrative structure can evoke fear in a cognitively realistic way. De Jong has well described the subtle development from Hector’s initial sighting of Achilles at 92–97, before his interior monologue, and his reaction in the passage just discussed. In the former, Hector’s focalization of Achilles as a ‘monstrous shape approaching’ (πελώριον ἆσσον ἰόντα, 92) and the snake simile of 93–97 combine to give a sense of ‘Hector’s real feelings’22—that is, not just heroic determination but also fear; but nevertheless Hector stays and waits. After the monologue, however, once Achilles has come ‘close enough (σχεδόν, 131) for [Hector] to discern details’, this perception ‘suffices to put him to flight’.23 The different actional outcomes (fight and flight) in these two moments are suggestive of different emphases on two sides of the same coin—sides which within affective science and philosophy have led to fullyfledged schools of thought on emotion, appraisal theory and perception theory.24 Appraisal accounts argue that we do not respond emotionally to simple perceptual facts, but to interpretations of the meaning of those facts, in terms of the relation between an occurrence and our long-term goals and desires. When I respond fearfully to the sight of a snake, what I am responding to on an appraisal account is my estimation (consciously arrived at or not) that my survival is threatened. Perception theory, on the other hand, starts from the fact that (at least some) emotional reactions appear to be fully automatic and governed precisely by aspects of experience in which evaluation is not involved. Catching sight of a snake can cause me to squeal, jump up, and experience a sudden burst of fright before I have even fully recognized the snake as a threat (or even as a snake). Underpinning such a reaction is, on this account, a perceptual system which is configured to immediately respond to certain types of shape, motion, etc., by triggering shifts of attentional focus and an avoidance reaction (my jump and squeal).

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may mean that the ambiguity is more pronounced until the narrative reaches line 136— only there does the embedded focalization become fully apparent. De Jong [1987] 20042: 130. De Jong [1987] 20042: 129; 273 n. 84. For appraisal theory, see also the Introduction to this volume. The term ‘perception theory’ is not widely used but rather Hogan’s stopgap term for a body of thought which ‘does not have a common name’ (2011a: 42). I use it here for ease of reference. For a helpful up-to-date overview of emotion theories, see Scarantino and de Sousa 2018: this article emphasizes, as does Hogan, the need for a hybrid model. My own suggestion that different aspects are emphasized in Hector’s two reactions should not be taken to suggest that in either one only appraisal or perception is at work.

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In his discussion of fear in Greek literature and thought, David Konstan finds something of an antecedent to appraisal theory in Aristotle (Rh. 1382a21–25, ch. 2.5),25 and applies the Aristotelian model to Hector’s fear of Achilles in the Iliad. Konstan summarizes:26 Greek fear, as Aristotle analyses it, is not instinctive avoidance. As he awaited the onset of Achilles, Hector took counsel with himself, like a good Aristotelian. … In the end, he ran. No doubt the proximity of harm was a factor in his deliberations. But in Homer too, fear involves cognition. This reading, however, perhaps too easily lumps together Hector’s first reaction with his second. In the latter, ‘cognition’ (in Konstan’s terms) appears to play at best a marginal role: what we get, rather, is the perception of the terrifying thing followed immediately by the expressive and actional response to it. Relevant here, too, is the term used to describe Hector’s reaction, τρόμος (136). In his indepth study of the vocabulary and psychology of fear in Homer, Zaborowski observes that τρόμος27 semble se situer au niveau élémentaire, peut-être réactif … et signifie une forte crainte se manifestant physiquement (ou psychiquement) par un tremblement. Il peut devenir un prélude à des craintes plus intériorisées, approfondies et moins somatiques. In our passage τρόμος is not so much the ‘prélude’ to a fear which is ‘plus intériorisée’, but rather it follows it: it is Hector’s apparent perceptual emotional reaction to a fear source which previously (when Achilles was not as close) was the object of a sustained, overt exercise in appraisal (the monologue). The key point for my discussion is that the dynamics of the more appraisalfocused and the more perception-focused versions of Hector’s fear are reflected in the narrative’s selection of events and in its use of narrative time. In the latter passage, as I have argued, the narrative freezes on a moment of perception, before moving immediately ahead to expressive and actional outcomes. As for the former: De Jong has rightly interpreted Hector’s monologue as an example of the ‘fill-in technique’: it ‘effectively “fills in” the time Achilles needs to get near to him’.28 Since all of 99–130 is in the form of direct speech, this partic25 26 27 28

Konstan 2006: 136–139; 143. Konstan 2006: 143. Zaborowski 2002: 161–162. De Jong 2012: on 91–137. On the ‘fill-in technique’, see also De Jong 2001: xiv.

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ular instance of filling-in seemingly occurs at scenic pace, so that we might imagine Achilles approach between 98 and 131 taking as long as it would take to utter Hector’s monologue. But of course the monologue, being directed by Hector ‘to his proud heart’ (πρὸς ὃν μεγαλήτορα θυμόν, 98), is not normal direct speech—indeed, presumably not speech at all—and the ‘actual’ amount of time taken up by his interior monologue is highly obscure. I suggest that, for this scene again, a comparison of story time with ‘actual’ fabula time is not the most helpful approach. What we have here, rather, is a narrative which focuses (i.e. spends time) on the emotionally most salient aspect of the scene, against a temporally indeterminate background. That most salient aspect is in this case not a perceptual event, but rather Hector’s fulsome imagination of possible scenarios (fleeing to the city 99–109; surrender 110–128; fighting 129– 130) and no-longer-possible scenarios (following Polydamas’ advice, 103)—an imaginative activity which in itself involves a complex range of emotional correspondences (including not just fear but also competing, inhibiting emotions such as αἰδώς, 105).

Anger My argument so far can be summed up as follows: during the various stages of Hector’s wait for Achilles, the presentation of the narrative seems to be driven by, and indeed to mirror, emotional factors. The events that the narrator (selectively) attends to and the way that he attends to them—we may well call all this focalization—are such as we might expect from someone imagining or perceptually responding to a fear-inducing stimulus. Moreover, by foregrounding those specific aspects and suppressing others, the narrative’s temporal structure—its rhythm—mirrors how someone feeling fear might experience the flow of time. Hogan appears to suggest that this mode of analysis could be extended to virtually all narrative (‘narrative time is fundamentally organized by emotion’).29 I am not sure I would take it that far; but as a complementary mode of analysis alongside Genettean models based on order, rhythm, and frequency, an emotional view of narrative time may allow us better to capture certain aspects of narrative presentation, and the experiences narratives can represent and evoke. A test for this approach would be to see if we can differentiate between different permutations of narrative associated with different emotions. In the

29

Hogan 2011a: 16.

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remainder of this contribution, I will examine, briefly and (even) more speculatively, a passage which prominently features another emotion, anger. In certain respects, this is perhaps not the best choice. Anger shares important parts of its physiological make-up30—and, so far as this has been investigated, its effects on subjective time perception31—with fear: we might therefore expect similar styles of narrative to reflect them. On the other hand, if the main difference sometimes identified between the two emotions—that between an emotion of withdrawal (fear) and one of approach (anger)32—is somehow mirrored in their narrative presentation, that may in fact strengthen my case. Scamander’s growing anger in Book 21 is described several times as χόλος. After Achilles has cruelly dispatched Lycaon, ‘the river grew all the more angry (χολώσατο) within’ (136), and a few lines later he inspires Asteropaeus, ‘angered as he was (κεχόλωτο)’ (146) about Achilles’ killing spree. Again, just before approaching Achilles in human form to demand that he cease, Scamander is described as ‘having grown angry (χωσάμενος)’ (212).33 Then, when Achilles refuses to stop slaying Trojans, Scamander’s literally seething anger against him literally overflows: he ‘rushed on him, boiling up in a swell’ (ἐπέσσυτο οἴδματι θύων, 234), ‘stirred up and roused his streams’ (ὄρινε ῥέεθρα κυκώμενος, 235), his ‘swirling wave rose up terribly’ (δεινὸν … κυκώμενον ἱστατο κῦμα, 240), and, with a magnificent hapax, ‘he rose up in a dark-crested wave’ (ὦρτο … ἀκροκελαινιόων, 248–249). After the intervention of Poseidon and Athena, Scamander’s anger increases again (ἔτι μᾶλλον χώετο, 305–306), as he ‘raised himself on high and crested in the surge of his flood’ (κόρυσσε … κῦμα ῥόοιο ὑψοσ’ ἀείρομενος, 306–307), until he is at last checked by Hephaestus.34 My use of ‘literally’ in the previous paragraph was considered: Scamander’s waters rushing to overwhelm Achilles could be seen as the physical realization 30

31 32

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Anger and fear have been seen as ‘opposite but interdependent sides of the same adaptational coin’ (Lazarus 1991: 225). For more recent contrastive analyses, see e.g. Stemmler 2004; Stemmler et al. 2007. See n. 15 above. For the psychological sense of ‘approach’ here, see below. Of course, at least one form of anger in the Iliad, μῆνις ‘wroth’, is prominently configured as an emotion of withdrawal. It is helpful here, as in the case of fear, to distinguish between more immediate emotional reactions to an emotional trigger (Achilles’ anger notably starts off with a potential moment of violent approach, thwarted by Athena: 1.188–222) and longer-term emotional states whose trigger is not directly present. I am grateful to Jacqueline Klooster for discussion of this point. For the near-synonymy of χολόομαι and χώομαι, see Cairns 2004: 29–30. For a detailed analysis of Achilles’ desperate prayer to Zeus in this passage, see Coray and Krieter in this volume. The contributions of Bowie, Kahane, Koning, Van der Mije, and Pelling also discuss aspects of anger in archaic epic poetry.

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of the common metaphorical conception of anger (based on embodied experience) as a fluid contained within or erupting out of a pressurized container—a cross-culturally attested metaphor to which, as Douglas Cairns and others have shown, the pattern of use of Greek χόλος corresponds with no little precision.35 This reading may strike some as too daring; indeed, in spite of the ancient tradition of allegorical readings of Scamander,36 I have not found the link between his surging waters and his surges of anger described in this way elsewhere, with the exception37 of a recent article by Brooke Holmes:38 For Scamander cholos qua ‘whole-body reaction’ takes on new meaning: violent anger ‘is’ seething water that swells up into a wave. … The attack enacts the fluid dynamics of anger outside the frame of the human form, in terms proper to a river’s mode of power but continuous with the behavior of anger within a human being. However daring, my (and Holmes’) embodiment-of-metaphor reading may be strengthened with reference to, again, narrative style. If Scamander’s attack serves as the physical representation of the experience of anger, can we also see this experience reflected in the presentation of the narrative? A complication here is that, in a way that is probably only possible in literary metaphor, the expressive and actional outcomes of an affect—that is, the physical feeling of anger and the attack that it gives rise to, respectively—are one and the same. In other words, we will not be able neatly to map, à la Hogan, portions of text or story time onto the different elements of an emotional event.39 Nevertheless, there are aspects of the passage that still can be construed in relevant

35

36 37 38 39

‘Quite clearly, … the prototypical scenario of cholos is identical to … that … for anger in American English … its basic ontological metaphor … is identical; … it is experienced as a force or fluid within a pressurized container; it is a fire, a beast, an opponent with whom one can struggle … These correspondences are systematic, not accidental … Homeric cholos labels the same concept as English anger’ (Cairns 2004: 25–26). We may note that Scamander is also compared to a beast when he ‘bellows like a bull’ (237). For the crosscultural metaphor anger is a fluid in a container, see Kövecses 2010, with references. For discussion and examples of χόλος as fluid, see (alongside Cairns 2004) Clarke 1999: 90–97; Redfield 1994 [1975]: 14; Padel 2016: 78–98; on other χόλος metaphors, Walsh 2005: 206–226. See e.g. Squire and Elsner 2016: 69–72. Walsh 2005: 157 comes close. Holmes 2015: 41. We might, however, see Scamander’s initial sweeping away of corpses (235–238), including the brief analepsis of Achilles’ killings at 236, as a kind of recapitulation of the emotionprovoking incident (this is what has triggered the river’s anger).

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ways. In part, I need only cite a helpful note in Richardson’s ‘Cambridge blue’ commentary:40 Virtually all this passage concentrates on the river’s actions. The style and structure reflect this: notice the very high frequency of enjambment, especially periodic and progressive. In 18 verses these two types occur 12 times, i.e. 66%, more than twice as often as the average frequency (… 24.8%). This is naturally accompanied by a high frequency of internal pauses. The effect is of a great piling-up of sentences, as the river deploys all its forces to defeat Akhilleus. I would elaborate on two aspects of this. First, if we frame the way in which the narrative ‘concentrates on the river’s actions’ as a matter of focalization, this indeed seems to assimilate primarily to Scamander. It is certainly not consistent throughout: even in the lines discussed by Richardson, we intermittently follow Achilles’ attempts to hang on or escape (242–243; 246–248), and we get a brief hint of his fear (δείσας, 243); and such glimpses of Achilles’ perspective persist throughout the episode. Nevertheless, from the moment that Achilles puts himself ‘in the middle of the water’ (μέσσῳ κρημνοῦ, 233–234), we ‘see’ him mainly as the river does: as a target, to be rushed, attacked, surrounded. Notably, Scamander’s movements all have a strong sense of targeted directionality: the river either moves upwards (see the phrases quoted above), like anger, whose metaphorical conceptualization typically involves vertical ‘levels’ of intensity; or he moves forward (often from his raised position) against his target Achilles (‘rushed on him’ ἐπέσσυτο, 234, ‘about Achilles’ ἀμφ’ Ἀχιλῆα, 240, ‘fell and beat on his shield’ ὤθει … ἐν σάκεϊ πίπτων, 241, ‘against him’ ἐπ αὐτῷ, 248). This latter sense of directionality could be linked to the narrowing of attentional focus on a target that anger induces,41 and more generally to anger’s classification as an emotion of approach: anger ‘promotes an effort to inflict pain or harm on the offending other’ and, as such, ‘an act of approaching a particular desired condition’.42 Second, with this sense of unrelenting forward motion we might also connect the comparative sparsity of end-stopped lines

40 41 42

Richardson 1993 ad 21.233–250. See e.g. Finucane 2011. Carver and Harmon-Jones 2009: 184. To be precise, both anger and its actional outcomes are seen as approach-oriented: anger arises from thwarted goal-oriented movement, and results in behaviour that in turn is aimed at new desired goals, namely harming an offending other and/or rectifying an injustice (both motivations are explicitly ascribed to Scamander, 249–250): we may note that appraisal is implicit in such a description.

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in this passage observed by Richardson (‘a great piling-up’): the inexorable forward movement of the metre mimics the forward rush that characterizes our experience of anger.43 Finally, I return once more to narratological time. The narrative of Scamander’s assault is lengthy and complex—too complex to analyse in great detail here. The first phase of the attack alone (233–271) includes several separate sequences narrated in more or less scenic rhythm (240–250), at least two similes (251?; 252–254; 257–263), and then two descriptions overtly marked as iterative (‘ever’ αἰεί, 263; ‘every time that …’ ὁσσάκι … τοσσάκι, 265–271). The combined effect of this rich temporal structure is perhaps to underscore the relentlessness of the river’s onslaught (‘the great god did not cease’, 248), and accordingly to validate Achilles’ distress (270). What it also does, however— and in this again we may see something similar to the actual experience of anger—is to foreground and expand what is emotionally relevant at the expense of all else. When Scamander sees red, all that we get as narratees are the events that are pertinent to his anger. This passage, then, again offers little scope for the reconstruction of a more ‘objective’ timeline as a standard against which Scamander’s attack could be measured. To mention some potential problems that such a reconstruction would run into: to how many iterations do the iterative descriptions actually refer? What are the Trojans hiding in Scamander’s eddies (238) doing while the river pounds upon Achilles’ shield? What about the other Trojans and Greeks, or the (other) gods? Of course, such questions do not actually arise: they do not really matter in the moment—and what matters cannot be separated from emotion. In the end, the only fabula we can possibly reconstruct on the basis of this scene is one shaped by the emotions of its protagonists.

Conclusion The mode of analysis I have attempted above has, as already suggested, potential implications for standard narratological models of time. Perhaps the fairest way to think about these implications is to stipulate that narratology has always been interested in the subjective nature of narratological time, but that it has usually framed that subjectivity in negative terms, as deviations from a some43

For links between rhythm/metre and emotion in literature, see Burke 2010: 126–129. Anger has been experimentally shown to reinforce (and be reinforced by) notions of forward directionality in other domains of embodied experience (specifically, time): Hauser et al. 2009.

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how more objective standard (the fabula). What an affective approach might offer is a more positive description of how the subjectivity works, not as deviation, but as a fundamental aspect of experience. Current trends in cognitive science suggest that we inevitably experience the world as we act on it, not as something that is there in its own right.44 Narrative time is, in this respect, no different. What about implications for (our view of) Homeric poetics? We do not need to suppose that epic poets were psychologists or cognitive scientists, meticulously analysing the various processes of emotion and consciously recreating them in their narratives. What my two examples do reaffirm, however, is a sense of the Homeric narrator as a master storyteller who knows exactly how to push his narratees’ emotional buttons, leaving them—as Irene de Jong has so often shown us—fully under his spell.45

Bibliography Bal, M., Narratology. Introduction to the Theory of Narrative (Toronto [1985] 3rd edn. 2009). Bonifazi, A., ‘Embedded Focalization and Free Indirect Speech in Homer as Viewpoint Blending’, in J.L. Ready, C. Tsagalis (eds.), Homer in Performance. Rhapsodes, Narrators, and Characters (Austin 2018) 230–254. Burke, M., Literary Reading, Cognition and Emotion. An Exploration of the Oceanic Mind (London 2010). Cairns, D.L., ‘Ethics, Ethology, Terminology: Iliadic Anger and the Cross-Cultural Study of Emotion’, in G.W. Most, S. Braund (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2004) 11–49. Carver, C.S., Harmon-Jones, E., ‘Anger is an Approach-Related Affect: Evidence and Implications’, Psychological Bulletin 135 (2009) 183–204. Clarke, M., Flesh and Spirit in the Songs of Homer. A Study of Words and Myths (Oxford 1999). Droit-Volet, S., ‘Time Perception, Emotions and Mood Disorders’, Journal of Physiology—Paris 107 (2013) 255–264. Droit-Volet, S., Fayolle, S., Gil, S., ‘Emotion and Time Perception: Effects of Film-Induced Mood’, Frontiers in Integrative Neuroscience 5 (2011), art. 33. Finucane, A.M., ‘The Effect of Fear and Anger on Selective Attention’, Emotion 11 (2011) 970–974. 44 45

See e.g. Newen et al. 2018. De Jong 1992.

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Fludernik, M., Towards a ‘Natural’ Narratology (London 1996). Genette, G., Narrative Discourse. An Essay in Method, tr. by J.E. Lewin (Ithaca, NY [1972] 1980). Hauser, D.J., Carter, M.S., Meier, B.P., ‘Mellow Monday and Furious Friday: The Approach-Related Link between Anger and Time Representation’, Cognition and Emotion 23 (2009) 1166–1180. Hogan, P.C., Affective Narratology. The Emotional Structure of Stories (Lincoln 2011a). Hogan, P.C., ‘A Passion for Plot: Prolegomena to Affective Narratology’, Symploke 18 (2011b) 65–81. Hogan, P.C., Literature and Emotion (London 2018). Holmes, B., ‘Situating Scamander: ‘Natureculture’ in the Iliad’, Ramus 44 (2015) 29–51. Jong, I.J.F. de., In betovering gevangen. Aspecten van Homerus’ vertelkunst (Amsterdam 1992). Jong, I.J.F. de., A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de., Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London [1987] 2nd edn. 2004). Jong, I.J.F. de., ‘Homer’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Narrative (Leiden 2007) 17–38. Jong, I.J.F. de. (ed.), Homer. Iliad Book xxii (Cambridge 2012). Jong, I.J.F. de., ‘Diachronic Narratology (The Example of Ancient Greek Narrative)’, in P. Hühn, J. Pier, W. Schmid, J. Schönert, J.C. Meister, W. Schemus (eds.), The Living Handbook of Narratology, lhn.uni‑hamburg.de/node/95.html (updated 2014a). Jong, I.J.F. de., Narratology and Classics. A Practical Guide (Oxford 2014b). Konstan, D., The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks. Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto 2006). Kövecses, Z., ‘Cross-Cultural Experience of Anger: A Psycholinguistic Analysis’, in M. Potegal, G. Stemmler, C. Spielberger (eds.), International Handbook of Anger (New York 2010) 157–174. Lazarus, R.S., Emotion and Adaptation (New York 1991). Meister, J.C., Schernus, W. (eds.), Time. From Concept to Narrative Construct. A Reader (Berlin / Boston 2011). Newen, A., De Bruin, L., Gallagher, S. (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of 4E Cognition (Oxford 2018). Padel, R., In and Out of the Mind. Greek Images of the Tragic Self (Princeton 2016). Redfield, J.M., Nature and Culture in the Iliad. The Tragedy of Hector (Durham [1975] 2nd edn. 1994). Richardson, N.J., The Iliad. A Commentary, vol. vi: Books 21–24 (Cambridge 1993). Rimmon-Kenan, S., Narrative Fiction (London 2 edn. 2002). Scarantino, A., de Sousa, R., ‘Emotion’, in E.N. Zalta (ed.), The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Stanford 2018).

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Squire, M.J., Elsner, J., ‘Homer and the Ekphrasists: Text and Picture in the Elder Philostratus’ “Scamander” (Imagines i.1)’, in J. Bintliff, N.K. Rutter (eds.), The Archaeology of Greece and Rome. Studies in Honour of Anthony Snodgrass (Edinburgh 2016) 57– 99. Stemmler, G., ‘Physiological Processes during Emotion’, in P. Phillippot, R.S. Feldman (eds.), The Regulation of Emotion (Mahwah 2004) 33–70. Stemmler, G., Aue, T., Wacker, J., ‘Anger and Fear: Separable Effects of Emotion and Motivational Direction on Somatovisceral Responses’, International Journal of Psychophysiology 66 (2007) 141–153. Troscianko, E.T., Kafka’s Cognitive Realism (New York 2014). Walsh, T.R., Feuding Words and Fighting Words. Anger and the Homeric Poems (New York 2005). Wittmann, M., Felt Time. The Psychology of How We Perceive Time (Cambridge, MA 2016). Zaborowski, R., La crainte et le courage dans l’ Iliade et l’ Odyssée. Contribution lexicographique à la psychologie homérique des sentiments (Warsaw 2002).

chapter 4

Metaleptic Apostrophe in Homer: Emotion and Immersion Rutger Allan

ἔνθ’ ἄρα τοι Πάτροκλε φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή Then, Patroclus, the end of your life appeared. hom. Il. 16.787

∵ On a number of occasions in the Iliad and Odyssey, the narrator-performer sheds his usual reticent persona and directly addresses a character by means of a vocative, a second person pronoun or a second person verb form, a phenomenon known as metaleptic apostrophe.1 Metaleptic apostrophe is a subtype of apostrophe as it also involves metalepsis, a deliberate transgression of the boundary between the world of the narrator and the world of the characters.2 The function of apostrophe in Homeric epic is debated.3 Roughly three approaches can be discerned: either the apostrophes are explained (1) as a narrative device to create pathos and to establish a feeling of closeness and sympathy for the addressed character;4 or (2) as a marker of turning points 1 For the terminology, see Richardson 1990: 170–173; De Jong 2009. The cases of metaleptic apostrophe in Iliad and Odyssey are: Patroclus (8 ×: Il. 16.20; 584; 692f.; 744; 754; 787; 812; 843); Menelaus (7 ×: Il. 4.127, 146; 7.104; 13.603; 17.679, 702; 23.600); Apollo (2 ×: Il. 15.365–366; 20.152); Achilles (1 ×: Il. 20.2) and Melanippus (1 ×: Il. 15.582); Eumaeus (15 ×: Od. 14.55, 165, 360, 442, 507; 15.325; 16.60, 135, 464; 17.272, 311, 380, 512, 579; 22.194). 2 Metalepsis has been put on the narratological map by Genette 1972: 243–245. An excellent introduction to metalepsis is Pier’s entry in the online living handbook of narratology (LHN). For metalepsis and metaleptic apostrophe in classical literature and art, see Eisen and von Möllendorf 2013. In this volume, see also the contributions of Van den Broek, Heerink and Verhelst, and Finkelberg, n. 4. 3 Overviews of the debate are given by De Jong 2009: 94–95; Brügger 2018: 26–27. 4 This view goes back to the scholia; see also Parry 1972; Block 1982; Edwards 1987: 37–38; Yamagata 1989; Richardson 1990: 170–173; Kahane 1994: 104–113; Dubel 2011.

© Rutger Allan, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_006

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in the flow of the narrative;5 or (3) as a metrically determined phenomenon, rather than aimed at conveying a special effect.6 Each of these three accounts seems to have its own merit, and more importantly, they do not necessarily exclude one another. The metrical explanation is perhaps the least satisfactory of the three; it has been invoked particularly to account for the 15 cases of narratorial addresses of Eumaeus in the Odyssey. These 15 verses contain the vocative Εὔμαιε συβώτα and seem to be an adaptation of older formulae,7 created to accommodate Eumaeus’ name into the second part of the verse, the nominative being less convenient for that purpose. However, even for the apostrophes of Eumaeus a metrical account does not tell the whole story. In 14.121 (τὸν δ’ ἠμείβετ’ ἔπειτα συβώτης, ὄρχαμος ἀνδρῶν) and 14.401 (τὸν δ’ ἀπαμειβόμενος προσεφώνεε δῖος ὑφορβός), the poet uses thirdperson alternatives, which shows that the variant involving apostrophe is not merely metrically determined, but may also have been a conscious choice of the poet, for example, to express a sense of affinity with the sympathetic character of Eumaeus.8 Irene de Jong, while acknowledging the explanatory value of the three aforementioned approaches, points out an additional aspect of metaleptic apostrophe: their contribution to the well-known enargetic quality of epic poetry.9 In De Jong’s words: ‘the events are presented in such a way that they seem to take place before the eyes of the narratees. Addressing characters directly is as “enargetic” as the many speeches, when the narratees seem to actually hear the characters, impersonated by the narrator.’10 Taking my cue from De Jong’s enargetic view, I will approach metaleptic apostrophe as a device contribut-

5 6 7 8

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Block 1982: 8; Mackay 2001. E.g. Bonner 1905; Matthews 1980; Yamagata 1989. Heubeck and Hoekstra 1989: 195–196. See Parry 1972: 21, who stresses the similarity between the apostrophized characters Eumaeus, Patroclus and Menelaus (‘altruistic, loyal, sensitive, vulnerable’); see also Block 1982: 16; Kahane 1994: 111–113, 153–155. On a more general note, explanations in terms of metrical factors in fact provide an answer to a different question: why did the extra-textual author/poet took resort to the use of metaleptic apostrophe? This type of explanation does not address a recipient/reader-response-oriented question in which I am interested here: what effect did metaleptic apostrophe have on the audience? This same distinction should, of course, be carefully maintained for many other metrically determined textual features in Homer. Metrically determined textual features are not necessarily devoid of any significance for a recipient of the text. Recent discussions of Homeric vividness/enargeia/visual style include Ford 1992: 54–56; Bakker 1993, 1997, 2005; Clay 2011; Tsagalis 2012; Allan et al. 2014, 2017; Grethlein and Huitink 2017; Allan 2019, 2020. De Jong 2009: 95.

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ing to immersion, ‘the experience trough which a fictional world acquires the presence of an autonomous, language-independent reality populated by live human beings.’11 For a brief and transient moment, the usually strictly observed boundary between the world of narration and the story world is suspended and narrator and character are staged as sharing the same space. As Clay formulates it: ‘The speaker momentarily turns his back on the audience, as it were, and is absorbed into the story world, directly addressing a Patroclus or a Menelaus as if they were standing here and now in the very space of a performance. The real world seems to recede as the past almost becomes palpably present.’12 The two worlds are not collapsed entirely, however. Bakker rightly points out that the narrator does not switch to a present tense, which signals that ‘the performer and the public remain aware of a distance between themselves and the event, no matter how vividly it is represented.’13 By directly addressing the story character, the narrator treats the character as a ‘real’ person, a person that can be spoken to and with whom one can entertain a personal relationship. In this way, the narrator creates a sense of intimacy with the character, at the same time encouraging the narratee, in his wake, to feel the same affective closeness: ‘By getting the narratee to cross the bridge that separates them onto the second narrative level, the narrator engages the narratee’s sympathy by establishing a close alliance between the narratee and the character who inspires the transgression.’14

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Ryan 2015: 9. Clay 2011: 20. Bakker 2005: 103. It should be noted that Bakker (1997: 172–173; 2005: 103) conceptualizes the addressed Patroclus as being outside the story world, watching the action as if it were a movie, together with the narrator. Richardson 1990: 173–174. Cf. also Block 1982. The apostrophes of Apollo, admittedly, do not seem to inspire much sympathy or compassion: he is addressed when he shows himself at his most powerful and violent. These two apostrophes may well have a different historical background, having been derived from a hymnic context (De Jong 2009: 95–96). The apostrophe of Achilles may be explained as a narrative turning point, as De Jong 2009: 95 thinks (he is about to return to battle for the first time). However, Achilles is certainly also worthy of our compassion, if ever he was: he has lost Patroclus, and his horse Xanthus has just emphatically prophesied his death (19.408–417), to which he expresses his awareness that he will die, far from home (19.420–422). The address to the minor character Melanippus (15.582) does not seem to involve much affinity of the narrator, either. However, the apostrophe still shows its power as an ‘enargetic’ device. The narrative is highly immersive: his near-death at the hands of Antilochus is told in a very suspenseful way, in vivid detail, underscored by two similes.

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Immersion Immersion can be defined as the feeling of being mentally transported to a virtual world to the extent that one experiences it—up to a point—as if it were the actual world.15 Immersion as a theoretical notion originates in virtual reality technology, referring to the feeling of a person of being immersed in a computer-generated, digital world, but it has also found its way into literary and cultural studies through the work of Marie-Laure Ryan.16 In her seminal book Narrative as Virtual Reality of 2001 (revised in 2015), she analyses how a fictional world—whether it is created by a literary narrative or by a computer game—is able to acquire a sense of presence, developing a ‘Poetics of Immersion’, an inventory of textual features and mental operations responsible for an immersive reading experience. Drawing on Ryan’s ‘Poetics of Immersion’, it is possible to distinguish a number of linguistic and narratological features which immersive narrative typically possesses: (1) the text provides indications of the spatial arrangement of the scene (e.g. through spatial adverbs, prepositional phrases and motion verbs); (2) the text provides strategically selected sensorimotor details (physical objects or bodies and their movements) and refers to objects or settings that activate experientially rich cognitive schemas/frames or personal memories, enabling an embodied mental simulation of the sights, sounds and movements in the described scene;17 (3) the text shows an iconic temporal organization and a relatively slow pace (scene narration): no deviations from

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Immersion is often described metaphorically as a movement of a reader towards the story world, using expressions as ‘being transported to’, ‘travel to’, ‘plunge into’, ‘being absorbed by’. It should be stressed that these are no more than metaphorical expressions. Immersion can also be conceptualized just as well as a transfer of the story world towards the immersed reader—enclosing (‘overwhelming’) the reader. Essential to immersion is only the resulting mental state: the immersed reader has a sense of presence of the story world, while the presence of the real world is felt less intensely—a certain self-awareness and awareness of the real world never disappear entirely. For this dual awareness, see Tan et al. 2017. In literary studies, several terms are used to refer to phenomena related to immersion, such as aesthetic illusion, absorption, and transportation (see Wolf’s entry ‘Illusion (aesthetic)’ in the living handbook of narratology (LHN) online, and also Hakemulder et al. 2017). There is considerable (and growing) empirical evidence for the role of embodiment (sensorimotor and emotional simulation) in language comprehension. Overviews of empirical research can be found in Zwaan 2004; Miall 2009; Sanford and Emmott 2012; Kaschak et al. 2014; Hakemulder et al. 2017. For embodiment approaches to Greek literature, see e.g. Grethlein and Huitink 2017; Huitink 2019; Allan 2019, 2020; and several contributions in Mocciaro and Short 2019 and Grethlein et al. 2020.

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chronological order (anachronies) or time compressions (i.e. summary narration); (4) the text contains a perspective-shift (‘recentering’), inviting the recipient to vicariously experience (‘view’) the situation from a spatio-temporal or cognitive-emotional viewpoint located on the scene. This may be typically realized by a shift to an actorial, scenic standpoint or, more specifically, to an embedded focalizer, but it may also be effected by a shift to direct speech, dialogue or free indirect speech; (5) the text gives rise to an emotional response, either (a) by steering the recipient’s emotional evaluation of the character’s and their behavior (such as admiration, sympathy, pity or contempt), or (b) by arousing feelings of identification and empathy, ‘a vicarious, spontaneous sharing of affect, (…) provoked by witnessing another’s emotional state, by hearing about another’s condition, or even by reading’,18 or (c) by engendering plotdriven emotions, such as suspense, curiosity or surprise, which are generated by the interplay between the progression of narrated (represented) time and the dynamics of narrating time;19 (6) the text directs the recipient’s attentional focus firmly to the represented scene; the focus does not shift towards ‘offstage’ elements such as the narrator, the text itself as a medium, and the extradiegetic discourse world.20 Narrative immersion usually depends on a synergetic interplay of these textual dimensions: the intensity of the immersive experience will vary in the course of the narrative, depending on the presence of immersion-enhancing or immersion-disrupting textual features. This variability creates a profile of ‘peaks and valleys’, oscillating between a more immersive and a more detached, reflective readerly experience.

Metalepsis and Immersion The question of whether metalepsis reinforces or disturbs immersion cannot be answered in a general way—it crucially depends on the particular type of metalepsis at issue. A general tendency appears to be that descending metalepsis, a move from the extradiegetic level (world of narration) to the intradiegetic

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Keen 2007: 4. For surprise, suspense and curiosity as the three universal effects of narrative, see Sternberg 1978. For a discussion of immersive textual features in Greek literature, see also Allan et al. 2014, 2017; Allan 2018, 2019, 2020. In this volume, Van Gils and Kroon apply some of these to the narrative of Livy, and Kirstein demonstrates how elements of politeness in speeches of the Odyssey increase suspense.

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level (story world), is immersive, whereas ascending metalepsis, a transgression from the embedded world to the embedding world (for example, a character emerging from the cinema screen in Woody Allen’s The Purple Rose of Cairo) tends to be anti-illusionistic and therefore anti-immersive. That descending metalepsis tends to be more immersive can be understood by the fact that it involves a movement parallel to immersion, in that there is a transgression from the embedding world towards the embedded world.21 A partial explanation that Homeric metaleptic apostrophe does not produce an anti-immersive effect is that it is of the descending type: the narrator (and, in his wake, the narratee) briefly intrude into the story world, an imaginative movement coinciding with the experience of immersion.22 Another relevant feature of Homeric metaleptic apostrophe is that, even though the narrator implicitly makes his presence felt as the voice addressing the character, he is not speaking about himself—thereby bringing himself as an extra-diegetic entity into full view—, but still about the story world. The audience’s focused attention and emotional engagement therefore remain firmly directed towards the story world and its characters; there is no distraction to the extra-diegetic world and no emphasis on the fictionality of the narrative.23 Homeric metaleptic apostrophe is a form of what Ryan (2004) calls rhetorical metalepsis, rather than ontological metalepsis. ‘Rhetorical metalepsis interrupts the representation of the current level through a voice that originates in or addresses a lower level, but without popping the top level from the stack. … Rhetorical metalepsis opens a small window that allows a quick glance across levels, but the window closes after a few sentences, and the operation ends up reasserting the existence of the boundaries.’24 Homeric metaleptic apostrophe does not entirely and permanently collapse the ontological boundary between the story world and the discourse world. An important point is that the apostrophe of the narrator addressing the story character is a one-way form of

21 22

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24

The relation between metalepsis and immersion is discussed by Fludernik 2003; Wolf 2013; Pier 2016. For example, if Patroclus or any of the other addressed characters would have responded to the singer’s apostrophes (a form of ascending metalepsis), this would have had a strong, ‘postmodern’, anti-illusionist effect. In this respect, Homeric metalepsis is fundamentally different from the deliberately illusion-disrupting (i.e. alienating, sometimes comical, often foregrounding the fictionality of the work) type of metalepsis as we find it in post-modern literature and cinema; see also De Jong 2009: 91–92; Allan et al. 2017: 44; Grethlein 2017: 143–144. Ryan 2004: 442. The ontological type of metalepsis, more strongly associated with postmodern literature, ‘opens a passage between levels that results in their interpenetration, or mutual contamination’.

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communication, which falls on deaf ears at that—Patroclus clearly does not hear the narrator predicting his death. Metaleptic apostrophe, in other words, is not intended by the narrator as an invitation to embark upon an actual conversation with the character. In what way does metaleptic apostrophe contribute to narrative immersion? The key aspect of Homeric metaleptic apostrophe that makes it immersive lies in the fact that the addressed fictional character acquires, up to a point, the presence of a real live human being with whom one can interact as we do with our fellow human beings in real life. However, if we examine the occurrence of metaleptic apostrophe more closely, other aspects of immersion come into play as well. A major factor in the immersive effect of metaleptic apostrophe is its emotional dimension (cf. feature nr. 5 above): it often creates pathos and feelings of affective closeness and sympathy for the apostrophized character. But, as I will argue in the following section, the immersive power of metaleptic apostrophe does not depend on this particular emotional effect alone: it is also used to arouse plot-driven emotions such as surprise and suspense, and it typically shows an interplay with other immersive narrative techniques such as reference to sensorimotor (‘vivid’) details, simile, direct speech, scenic narration, and scene-internal perspective-taking. It should be stressed, at this point, that metaleptic apostrophe does not always have an immersive effect. A classic example is the poet’s address to Nisus and Euryalus in the Aeneid: Fortunate pair! If my songs have any power, no day shall blot you out from the memory of time, so long as the house of Aeneas shall dwell on the immovable rock of the Capitoline and a Roman father shall hold sovereign power. verg. Aen. 9.446–449

Unlike the Homeric cases, this form of metalepsis has a strong anti-illusionistic effect: we are suddenly jolted out of the epic world, transferred to the poet’s world, looking forward even further into the future of Rome. The narrator explicitly directs the audience’s attention away from the story world, by referring to himself (mea carmina) in his role as an extradiegetic poet, and to his power to ensure the remembrance of the two heroes in the future Rome, which includes the poet’s own time. Even though we are not immersed in the epic story world any longer, the effect of this apostrophe is no less invested with pathos, but with a pathos of a more reflective kind: the poet steps back from the tragic death of the two young heroes and meditates on its significance from a perspective distant in time: ‘in his final comment on the Nisus and Euryalus story we see a

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more Homeric idea …, in the end the only lasting result of heroic struggle and death is undying kleos.’25

Patroclus’ Death As an illustrative example of how metaleptic apostrophe is combined with various other immersive techniques I will discuss the famous address to Patroclus in Iliad 18.787, the introductory chord of the sequence of events leading up to his death. And Patroklos charged at the Trojans with murder in his heart. Three times then he charged like the swift war-god himself, shouting fearfully, and three times he killed nine men. But when for the fourth time he flung himself on like a god, then, Patroklos, the ending of your life was revealed. Phoibos met you in the battle’s fury, terrible god (ἔνθ’ ἄρα τοι Πάτροκλε φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή· | ἤντετο γάρ τοι Φοῖβος ἐνὶ κρατερῇ ὑσμίνῃ | δεινός). Patroklos did not see him moving through the rout. Apollo came against him hidden in thick mist, and stood behind him, and struck his back and broad shoulders with the flat of his hand, so that his eyes spun round. hom. Il. 16.783–792, tr. hammond

In the lines preceding the apostrophe in 787, the narrative shows a mix of immersive and distancing elements. Contributive to immersion are sensorimotor details, which help the audience to mentally picture the situation: Patroclus flings himself swiftly on the Trojans like Ares, screaming fearfully; we are also informed of his emotional state (κακὰ φρονέων). The iterative mode of narration, on the other hand, signalled by the numerals τρίς and ἐννέα, is a form of time compression, and therefore points to a more distanced mode of narration. The apostrophe in line 787 functions as a switch to a more suspenseful and therefore immersive mode of narration. The address to Patroclus is accompanied by several linguistic signs that we are dealing with a crucial turning point in the narrative (a Peak). The combination ἀλλ’ ὅτε δή (‘but the moment he …’, 786) frequently occurs at narrative breaks.26 The anaphoric adverb ἔνθ’ (‘at that moment …’, 787) underscores the significance of the moment in the flow of the narrative. Patroclus’ reversal of fortune is introduced by ἀλλ’, marking that the

25 26

Hardie 1994: 153. For a discussion of this apostrophe, see also D’Alessandro Behr 2005. See De Kreij in Bonifazi et al. 2016: ii.3.3 § 51.

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following event counters the audience’s expectation: the fourth time Patroclus strikes turns out differently. The contribution of the particle ἄρα to the narratee’s emotional involvement and immersion is more difficult to assess due to a lack of consensus on its precise function. If we follow Ruijgh’s view in taking ἄρα as a marker of an interesting, often surprising, new fact,27 we may take it as a subtle immersive device steering the narratee’s emotional response to the event. The interpretation of ἄρα as a surprise marker aligns well with the counter-expectative function of ἀλλ’ in 786. If we accept Bakker’s analysis of ἄρα as a marker of evidentiality,28 we may interpret it as a signal to the addressee Patroclus, and indirectly to the audience, that it should be evident that his death is imminent, an interpretation which is in harmony with the import of the verb φάνη (which will be discussed below). Especially its indirect effect on the audience may be seen as immersioninducing.29 Returning to the passage at hand, the apostrophe in line 787 itself (τοι Πάτροκλε) prompts the audience to imagine that they are face to face with Patroclus for a fleeting moment.30 As noted by the bT scholia on 16.787, the apostrophe expresses sympathy for Patroclus and effects pathos;31 in other words, it contributes to the audience’s emotional immersion in the events. The announcement φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή ‘Then the end of your life came into view/became clear’ raises questions as to its type of focalization. At first glance, the prolepsis announcing Patroclus’ death suggests a narrating focalization, by a retrospective omniscient narrator who is in the know about what will happen next.32 However, the intriguing use of the verb φάνη points at a scene-internal experiencing mode of focalization. The middle verb φαίνομαι may refer to a process of becoming visible (perception), or of becoming epi-

27 28 29 30

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Ruijgh 1971: § 350–353; De Jong [1987] 20042: 63–64, 68. Bakker 1993: 15–23. If we interpret ἄρα as a marker of consequentiality (roughly ‘then’), as proposed by George 2018, we might see the particle as a signal of a transition to a new narrative segment. Note that the content of the apostrophe (φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή·/ ἤντετο γάρ τοι Φοῖβος) is hybrid. Not only is it a form of what Benveniste 1966 calls discours (vocative, second person pronoun), it is also histoire (past tense): it introduces new information to the storyline, thus casting Patroclus also in the role of a narratee. This is typical of Homeric apostrophe and different from, for example, the apostrophe of Nisus and Euryalus in Virgil (A. 9.446– 449), discussed earlier. See Block 1982: 15–17; De Jong [1987] 20042: 13; Janko 1992 ad loc. For the distinction between narrating and experiencing focalization, see De Jong 2014: 65–68.

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stemically evident (cognition). What is crucial, however, is the fact that φαίνομαι always requires a subject of consciousness: a person for whom the state of affairs becomes visible or evident. This person may be referred to by an explicit dative complement, but it may also remain implicit—as in our case. Φάνη, in other words, implicitly evokes an anonymous observing consciousness on the scene, and we might paraphrase φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή as ‘it became evident (to anyone who was present) that your death was approaching.’33 (Note that Patroclus himself cannot be identified as the ‘implied dative’ of φάνη: Patroclus does not see Apollo coming and he is attacked from behind.) Φάνη contributes to the immersive effect of the apostrophe as it invites the audience to take the position of an anonymous bystander on the scene, who suddenly realizes that Patroclus’ death is now inevitable. The presence of φάνη ‘came into sight’ makes it clear that Patroclus’ future fate was located between two poles: it was neither the case that Patroclus would die at that precise moment in time, nor was it still open at what moment in the more remote future he would die. The phrase φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή stresses the imminence of his death: the fatal mechanism inevitably leading to Patroclus’ death had been set in motion. His death had come into sight at the horizon, and would steadily and irreversibly come closer.34 It goes without saying that not only the address itself but also its particular content increases the pathos and suspense of the moment.35 Since the audience already know that Patroclus will die through several internal prolepses, we are not dealing with What suspense, but with How suspense: the way in which his death will come about is still unknown. However, this is not the only way this scene creates suspense. Also operative is a form of suspense which Baroni calls ‘suspense par contradiction’,36 a tragic tension generated by a contradiction between cognition and volition—what the audience know about what will happen (Patroclus will die) and what they want to happen (Patroclus will not die). After the apostrophe, the suspense is sustained. Apollo approaches Patroclus, menacingly. The emotionally-charged adjective δεινός, emphatically

33 34

35 36

The narrator’s evocation of an imaginary observing bystander is a form of hypothetical focalization. For this type of focalization, see De Jong 2014: 68–69, 212. That φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή implies the inevitability of death is also shown by Iliad 7.104 (ἔνθά κέ τοι Μενέλαε φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή), where the counterfactual indicates that it did not come to the point where Menelaus’ death was inevitable. Indeed, he is saved by the Achaean kings. See also Bakker 2005: 103–104. Baroni 2007: 290.

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placed in hyperbaton and enjambment, not only reveals Apollo’s hostile intentions but also carries a sense of his menacing divine superiority.37 The audience expects Patroclus to respond to the threat, an expectation which is contradicted in the next line: Patroclus did not notice (οὐκ ἐνόησεν) Apollo as he was covered in a thick cloud (ἠέρι γὰρ πολλῇ κεκαλυμμένος). With the anaphoric pronoun ὅ, the narrative returns to the third person reference to Patroclus. The dramatic irony arising at this point (‘Watch out, behind you!’) continues the pathos and suspense: we strongly empathize with Patroclus but are unable to rescue him.38 These lines show a form of epic regression:39 (C) Patroclus’ death came in sight, (B) Apollo came to Patroclus menacingly, (A) Patroclus did not see him coming. (B) is a chronologically anterior event explaining (C), and (A) explains and is anterior to (B). Although this constitutes a deviation of the iconic chronological order of narrative, and therefore might be seen as detrimental to immersion, I would argue that, on balance, the effect is still immersive: the reverse order increases the suspense considerably.40 The sequence now starts in medias res with a statement of the immediate threat posed by Apollo (C). Next, an answer is provided as to why Patroclus does not react: he had not seen him coming (B). Finally, we are informed why Patroclus had failed to notice Apollo: he was covered in a cloud (A). The explanations given by (B) and (A) function as a retardation, suspensefully delaying the answer to the question to (C) (‘But what did Apollo to Patroclus?’) which is not provided until 791. Nar37

38

39 40

Although it appears attractive to interpret the imperfect ἤντετο as signaling an unbounded scene-internal viewpoint (‘Phoebus was approaching you’) and as evoking the gaze of an observing witness on the scene, this is not entirely warranted. The form ἤντετο in Homer frequently seems to express bounded events, thus functioning similar to an aorist (see LfgrE s.v.). The particle γάρ has its general explanatory function: it introduces the facts on the basis of which one can conclude that Patroclus’ death was indeed evident. More specifically, one can say that γάρ here shows its narrative-embedding function, ‘announcing an event and then going back in time and filling in the details as to how this event came about’ (De Jong 1997: 179); see also Bakker 1997: 113. For the counter-expectative function of presentation through negation, see De Jong [1987] 20042: 61–68, who also discusses Il. 16.789–790. De Jong rightly analyses this type of negation as a form of narrator-narratee interaction. I do not consider this type of narrator activity as necessarily detrimental to immersion. Although there is an increased activity of the narrator, the narratee’s attention remains firmly directed towards the story world (and its actors) and is not distracted to the persona of the narrator himself. To use an analogy, the narrator does not appear on stage as an actor but remains offstage, as the director of the play. Bakker 1997: 114. The suspense-increasing effect of epic regression is also observed by a scholion on Il. 11.671–761.

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rating the events in their actual chronological order would have deprived the sequence of much of its suspense: (A) Apollo approached Patroclus covered in a cloud, (B) Patroclus did not see him coming, (C) Apollo came to Patroclus menacingly.41 In 791, the narrative resumes its chronological order: Apollo stands behind Patroclus, strikes Patroclus’ back with his flat hand (791–792), demonstrating his godly superiority by overpowering a human hero—note the significant detail of Patroclus’ broad shoulders—with his bare hand. The graphic detail of Patroclus’ rolling eyes (792), expressed by the evocative compound verb στρεφεδίνηθεν, suggests a brief close-up standpoint, located in front of Patroclus, again suggesting a viewpoint on the scene.42 The narrative in lines 793–796 (not cited) continues in an immersive mode: graphically highly detailed, low speed (slow motion),43 and suspenseful. The example of Patroclus’ death shows that Homeric metaleptic anastrophe is part of a larger immersive narrative strategy, in which an appeal to the audience’s emotions is vital, not only through the apostrophe itself—by inspiring sympathy, for example—but also through a subtle play with scene-internal viewpoints and scenic narration, and through narrative elements such as pathos, suspense and graphic description. An interplay of immersive devices can also be observed in other Homeric cases of metaleptic apostrophe; for example, slow motion (Il. 4.127), close-up (Il. 4.146; 17.679), similes (Il. 15.365, 582; 16.583, 744, 754; 17.679), adjacency to direct character speech (Il. 16.20, 842; 17.744; all apostrophes of Eumaeus in Odyssey), ἄρα (Il. 15.365; 16.787; 17.702; 23.600), suspense-raising negation (Il. 4.127; 16.813; 17.702),44 pathos-enhancing descriptions (‘your beautiful thighs were stained with blood’, Il. 4.146–147; ὀλιγοδρανέων ‘weak, with his last breath’, 16.843; ‘when the gods called you to your death’, 16.693), reference to the character’s emotional state (Il. 15.367; 16.20, 754, 842; 17.702, 744; 23.600), and, as noted earlier, most cases occur at a particularly crucial (peaks, turning points) or otherwise suspenseful moment in the flow of the narrative. As we have seen, according to Marie-Laure Ryan, immersion is ‘the experience through which a fictional world acquires the presence of an autonomous, language-independent reality populated by live human beings.’ Seen in

41 42 43 44

For epic regression functioning as suspense-increasing retardation, see De Jong 2001: xiv, 476. For γάρ in epic regressions, see De Jong 1997: 177. For the various types of spatial standpoints in epic narrative, see De Jong and Nünlist 2004; De Jong 2014: 60–65. Cf. Janko ad loc.; De Jong 2007: 38. The suspense-creating function of negations is discussed by De Jong [1987] 20042: 66–68.

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this light, metaleptic apostrophe is indeed an immersive narrative technique. In speaking to a character the Homeric narrator-performer treats a fictional world and its inhabitants as if it is a ‘real’ world, and encourages the audience to follow in his wake. Metaleptic apostrophe is not employed as an immersive technique in an isolated manner: it shows an effective interplay with other immersive devices such as description of sensory details and movements, direct speech, scenic or close-up spatial standpoint, scenic (or even slow motion) narration—techniques geared towards reinforcing the audience’s spatial and temporal immersion. Metaleptic apostrophe also plays a significant part in effecting emotional immersion: as the ancient scholia and many modern scholars observed, it often creates a sense of pathos and engenders feelings of affective closeness and compassion with the addressed character. But this is not the only sense in which it contributes to the audience’s emotional response. Metaleptic apostrophe often also appeals to feelings of empathy by referring to the addressed character’s emotions, and—perhaps even more importantly—it is used at crucial junctures in the flow of the narrative, as an instrument to spark plot-driven emotions such as surprise and suspense.

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Benveniste, E., Problèmes de linguistique générale, 1 (Paris 1966). Block, E., ‘The Narrator Speaks: Apostrophe in Homer and Vergil’, TAPhA 112 (1982) 7–22. Bonifazi, A., Drummen, A., Kreij, M. de, Particles in Ancient Greek Discourse. Five Volumes Exploring Particle Use across Genres (Washington 2016). Bonner, C., ‘The Use of Apostrophe in Homer’, CR 19 (1905) 383–386. Brügger, C., Homer’s Iliad. The Basel Commentary. Book xvi (Berlin / Boston 2018). Clay, J.S., Homer’s Trojan Theater. Space, Vision, and Memory in the Iliad (Cambridge 2011). D’Alessandro Behr, F., ‘The Narrator’s Voice: A Narratological Reappraisal of Apostrophe in Virgil’s Aeneid’, Arethusa 38 (2005) 189–221. Dubel, S., ‘Changements de voix: sur l’apostrophe au personnage dans l’Iliade’, in E. Raymond (ed.), Vox poetae. Manifestations auctoriales dans l’épopée gréco-latine (Paris 2011) 129–144. Edwards, M.W., Homer. Poet of the Iliad (Baltimore, London 1987). Eisen, U.E., von Möllendorff, P. (eds.), Über die Grenze. Metalepse in Text- und Bildmedien des Altertums (Berlin, Boston 2013). Fludernik, M., ‘Scene Shift, Metalepsis, and the Metaleptic Mode,’ Style 37 (2003) 382– 400. Ford, A., Homer. The Poetry of the Past (Ithaca, NY 1992). Genette, G., Figures iii (Paris 1972). George, C., ‘Homeric ἄρα. An (In)consequential Particle’, CPh 113 (2018) 241–254. Grethlein, J., Huitink, L., ‘Homer’s Vividness: An Enactive Approach’, JHS 137 (2017) 67– 91. Grethlein, J., Aesthetic Experiences and Classical Antiquity. The Significance of Form in Narratives and Pictures (Cambridge 2017). Hakemulder, F., Kuijpers, M.M., Tan, E.S., Bálint, K., Doicaru, M.M. (eds.), Narrative Absorption (Amsterdam / Philadelphia 2017). Hammond, M., Homer. The Iliad (Harmondsworth 1987). Hardie, P.R., Virgil. Aeneid Book ix (Cambridge 1994). Heubeck, A., Hoekstra, A., A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, vol. ii. Books ix–xvi (Oxford 1989). Huitink, L., ‘Enargeia, Enactivism and the Ancient Readerly Imagination’, in M. Anderson, D. Cairns, M. Sprevak (eds.), Distributed Cognition in Classical Antiquity (Edinburgh 2019), 169–189. Janko, R., The Iliad. A Commentary. Vol. iv: Books 13–16 (Cambridge 1992). Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R., ‘From Bird’s Eye View to Close-Up. The Standpoint of the Narrator in the Homeric Epics’, in A. Bierl, A. Schmidt, A. Willi (eds.), Antike Literatur in neuer Deutung (Leipzig 2004) 62–83. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Γάρ Introducing Embedded Narratives’, in A. Rijksbaron (ed.), New Approaches to Greek Particles (Amsterdam 1997) 175–185.

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Wolf, W., ‘Illusion (Aesthetic)’, in P. Hühn, J.C. Meister, J. Pier, W. Schmid (eds.), The Living Handbook of Narratology (Hamburg 2016), lhn.uni‑hamburg.de/article/​ metalepsis‑revised‑version‑uploaded‑13‑july‑2016 [view date: 14 August 2020]. Yamagata, N., ‘The Apostrophe in Homer as Part of the Oral Technique’, BICS 36 (1989) 91–103. Zwaan, R.A., ‘The Immersed Experiencer. Toward an Embodied Theory of Language Comprehension’, in B.H. Ross (ed.), The Psychology of Learning and Motivation. Vol. 44 (New York 2004) 35–62.

chapter 5

In Mortal Danger: The Emotions of Two Fighters in the Iliad Marina Coray and Martha Krieter

How do fighters act and behave in deadly peril?1 What do they feel? In the battle description in Book 21 of the Iliad, it is told how two fighters stand up to an enemy superior to them and get away alive through divine intervention only: Achilles first, who is in danger of becoming overwhelmed by the masses of water during his fight against the river god Scamander (21.233–342), then the Trojan Agenor, seeing his comrades fleeing from Achilles, who is now once more in battle frenzy (21.544–598). In both scenes the emotional pressure on those fearing for their lives is released in a direct speech that makes their feelings recognizable (21.272–283 and 552–570).2 With this contribution we would like to thank Irene de Jong very much for all her help for the Basel commentary on Homer’s Iliad. As an external expert, she saves us from many mistakes when reviewing our texts and improves our work with advice, suggestions and critical questions. We aim to show in analysis of these two examples how subtly and sensitively to specific characters and contexts the author of the Iliad depicts the emotions of the heroes.3 On the one hand Agenor’s speech displays the sense of inferiority and fear of death as he is confronting death by the hand of a superior enemy. The poet conveys this by a conventional decision monologue, comparable to those held in similar contexts by Odysseus, Menelaus and Hector. For the latter three however the fear of losing face should they choose to flee from their opponents, is an additional concern. On the other hand, in Achilles’ speech, the fear of death without honour is enormously enhanced: in the exceptional situation of a fight with an all-powerful divinity his despair is not focusing on the risk of death but of failure to reach his chosen aim in life, namely to die young but honourably and thus to get posthumous glory. 1 The article is based on our work on the Basel Commentary on Iliad 21, published in the fall of 2021. We are very grateful to Dr. Lindsay Hall and Dr. Margaretha K. Debrunner for substantial improvements of the English of this paper. 2 For fear in Homer, see also Van Emde Boas in this volume, whereas fear in Plato is discussed by Finkelberg and Morgan, and in Herodotus by Rutherford. 3 The description of such extreme situations has found extensive attention: e.g. Schein 1984; Shay 1991 and 1994. © Marina Coray and Martha Krieter, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_007

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Achilles’ Despair, Il. 21.273–283 The son of Peleus looked up to the wide high sky and groaned aloud: Father Zeus, to think that none of the gods has brought himself to save me from the river, pitiful as I am! After this, I could face any ordeal. But none of the dwellers in the high sky is as much to blame as my own mother, who beguiled me with lying words, saying that I would die under the walls of the armoured Trojans, struck down by the swift arrows of Apollo. How I wish that Hector, the best man bred here, had killed me; a champion would have been the slayer, and a champion the slain. But now I am fated to die a wretched death, trapped in a great river like a young swineherd, who is swept away by a torrent as he tries to cross it in a rainstorm.4 hom. Il. 21.273–283

Achilles’ speech begins after the description of a life-threatening situation: the best fighter among the Greeks before Troy has killed many Trojans on the banks and in the water of the Scamander (21.1–210). As a result, he has angered the protective god of Troy, the river god Scamander, so much that the god attacks him and threatens to overwhelm him (21.136–138, 145–147, 211–327). He assaults him with powerful waves, floods his banks and makes it impossible for him to flee (21.233–327). The raging water now also increasingly removes the ground from under his feet, bringing Achilles close to drowning (21.270–271).5 The narrator expresses his feelings with a character speech introduced by ᾤμωξεν (21.273–283), but also with the help of secondary focalization before and after the speech. In the introduction to the speech (21.272), the predicate ᾤμωξεν (‘groaned aloud’) indicates an actual outbreak of despair of the speaker; the second statement, the gaze to heaven (21.272b), concerns primarily the gesture, the typical prayer attitude towards the abode of the gods, but may also reveal a feeling of being lost in front of the endless horizon above the water.6 It also fits the characterization of the speaker’s feelings in the introduction that the speech itself only has the address to Zeus in common with prayers, whereas a request is missing; on the other hand, the complaint is expanded by 4 The translation follows largely Verity 2011. 5 For a discussion of time and movement in Homer’s narrative of Scamander’s anger at Achilles see Van Emde Boas in this volume. 6 Pucci 2012: 427, 432, 436.

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a description of the situation (21.273b–283). This is reminiscent of other accusatory speeches, which are, however, made in comparatively less dramatic situations and for other reasons (1.352–356: Achilles complains about Agamemnon having taken away Briseis; 3.364–368: Menelaus about the unsuccessfulness of his attacks on Paris; 8.236–244: Agamemnon before Hector’s onslaught; 12.164– 172: Asius on the resilience of the Greeks). After the address to father Zeus, the speech begins with the astonished exclamation that none of the gods is helping (21.273–274). This appears to be Achilles’ conclusion from his attempt to resist the current and to test whether all gods are really against him (21.266–267). The emphasized οὔ τις (emphatically before the penthemimeres/caesura B 1) indicates that he feels abandoned; and in the statement that no god undertakes to help (21.273 ὑπέστη), we should perhaps also feel the echo of Achilles’ feeling that no god deems him worthy of being rescued. The self-designation as ἐλεεινόν (21.273) could speak for this: it is used concessively; the speaker sees himself in a situation that should give the impetus to act.7 The fighter who just pushed away a supplicant who had appealed to his pity (21.74) now finds himself in a similar situation with respect to the gods.8 However, the complaint (and thus implicitly also the request for rescue) is immediately modified: the desired rescue from the river (first half of the verse) is opposed to subsequent death, which is readily accepted (21.274): ἔπειτα δὲ καί τι πάθοιμι ‘After this, I could face any ordeal’, that is the death; πάσχω is often used with τι in a euphemistic sense for ‘death, die’.9 This almost casual mention of death makes it clear that it is not about the fear of death itself. This is just not the scenario that Achilles had in mind. The subsequent weighting (21.275–276: none of the gods is responsible for the situation to the same extent as his divine mother Thetis) acts like an attempt to relieve the gods of the charge on the one hand, but perhaps there is also the fear of finally alienating the gods, or maybe just the need to be able to express himself about the true culprit: the sea goddess Thetis, his mother, who betrayed him with false promises (21.276). The words ψεύδεσσιν ἔθελγε (‘[she] beguiled me with lying words’) are a sign of the speaker’s belief that he was betrayed about the future, in a flattering manner that appears to correspond to a loving mother who took advantage of her son’s trust.10

7 8 9 10

Paul 1969: 7; Kim 2000: 63 n. 56. See also Eustathios (Commentary on the Iliad 1236.45–48 = 4.501.20–502.4 ed. Van der Valk): before he had described himself as καλός τε μέγας τε (108); schol. bT on 282 (p. 191 Erbse). LfgrE s.v. πάσχω. φίλη is only possessive, as in 9.555 (Meleager grudges his mother): Kakridis 1963: 5.

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In Thetis’ statement (21.276–277), reproduced in indirect speech in speech (embedded indirect speech11), Achilles emphasizes the expectation of another death in a remarkable verse (21.278) containing only four words:12 a death in front of Troy (21.277), through a missile sent by a god (21.278). Since Achilles’ early death before Troy is repeatedly remembered throughout the epic, also by Achilles himself and with those details (1.352; 9.410–416; 18.98–101; 19.421–422; 21.110–113), the sudden declaration that this early mortality is a fraud, becomes all the more an expression of bewilderment.13 From the beginning of the epic, the narrator portrays Achilles as someone who is sensitive to what he perceives as fraud: in Books 1 and 9, because of Agamemnon’s deprivation of his gift of honour and his reparation, which was felt to be insincere; after Patroclus’ death he has been repeatedly deprived of his goal of killing Hector, most recently by Apollo’s deception (20.449–451).14 The death prophesied to Achilles is presented as a good death: the arrows of the god Apollo protecting the Trojans hit quickly (λαιψηροῖς at the beginning of 21.278), and being overpowered by a god is honourable (as was Apollo’s blow to Patroclus in 16.784–806 and Athena deceiving Hector in 22.215–247); the Olympic Apollo ranks far above the river god Scamander, and according to Achilles a death by him would be preferable to drowning. Also, a death in an open fight includes a corresponding funeral and glory, embodied in a tomb. Scamander later threatens to bury Achilles under the mud and to refuse him a tomb (21.316–323). It would therefore be even better to be killed by Hector (21.279), as Achilles puts forward by way of an unrealizable wish. Even if this death were more visible, the Trojan leader, of all people, who killed his best friend Patroclus (Book 16), and against whom he and his compatriots vowed unrelenting revenge (18.114–126), would be preferable as a deadly opponent to the Scamander. Revenge is now less important than the need for death in an open duel (the anaphora ἀγαθὸς … ἀγαθόν, a struggle among the capable, indicates the heroic ideal). In response to Scamander’s request to stop clogging the water with corpses, Achilles had only announced this open-ended duel as his goal (21.225–226). If Hector is described as the best among the Trojans (21.279, ἄριστος emphasized at the end of the verse), the superiority of the speaker, who is generally considered the best Greek fighter, is made clear. Death in the Scamander does not go with this: λευγαλέῳ (‘wretched’) as the epithet of death,

11 12 13 14

On this De Jong [1987] 20042: 168–179. On such verses Bassett 1919. The myths about Achilles’ invulnerability and his vulnerable heel are only attested after Homer: Burgess 2009: 9–15; West 2013: 150–151. Nannini 1995: 12.

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also in character language, prominently before the caesura B 1, expresses his fear and disgust (the word denotes something that instills disgust, i.e. a mixture of suffering, pity, and reluctance).15 It is not a fight, it is a defeat without resistance (the speaker describes himself as ἐρχθέντ(α), ‘trapped’ by the flow, which is characterized by μέγας) and the feeling of hopelessness is emphasized: on the one hand, by describing the mode of death as a fixed fate unknown to the speaker (εἵμαρτο ‘it was fated’, 21.281; contrast: the mother ‘said / claimed’ ἔφατο, 21.277); on the other hand, in the paraphrase of dying with θανάτῳ ἁλῶναι, lit. ‘getting into a hopeless situation through death, getting caught in death’ (21.281): death in the river is the gripping winner. This death is as pitiful as that of a young swineherd when crossing a mountain stream swollen by winter rain (21.282–283). In the simile, this is probably underlined by the fact that the swineherd is likely of humble status, perhaps careless due to his youthful age, and can be presented alone and in isolation.16 This underlines the feeling of helplessness in a situation that is not appropriate to the fighter.17 The understanding of the speech as a primary indication of the fear of drowning is prepared by the narrator by basing Achilles’ attempt to flee over a fallen tree as a dam with δείσας ‘frightened’ (21.248), prominently at the beginning of the verse; nowhere else does he comment on Achilles’ behaviour in such a way (the characterization of the wave as δεινόν, ‘enormous, fearsome’ in 21.240, from the same root as δείσας, is probably in secondary focalization accordingly18). The scene following the speech also confirms Achilles’ fear, on the one hand with the address of Poseidon, who appears to him together with Athena: he asks him not to wince too much or to despair (μήτ’ ἄρ τι λίην τρέε μήτε τι τάρβει, 21.288).19 We should think of a corresponding movement by Achilles. The feeling of being abandoned by the gods is balanced by an external sign, the grasping of the right hand by both gods: Achilles is given a hold in the water. Once the gods are identified as the Achaean-friendly Poseidon and Athena

15 16

17 18 19

In Od. 5.312 of Odysseus in the same manner about the death in water; Anastassiou 1973: 173–176. On the social position of shepherds and their isolation Richter 1968: 64–69; Elliger 1975: 89; on the general characterization of children in the epic Fränkel [1921] 1977: 90; Scott 1974: 74; Ingalls 1998: 17, 20. Schadewaldt 1965 [1944]: 290 speaks of the ‘deepest humiliation’ of Achilles. Compare the use of δεινή to describe Achilles’ spear when Hector catches sight of him when he approaches in the distance (22.134), cf. Van Emde Boas in this volume. This divine encouragement is typical in such situations, for example also in 24.171 (Hermes to Priam) and in oriental texts, for example the Christmas story, Luc. 1:29f., 2:9–10.

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(21.289–290)20 and Zeus has been referenced (21.290a), it becomes clear that the father of the gods had heard the complaint. The feeling of being betrayed is particularly taken up: Athena and Poseidon commit themselves (ἐπιστώσαντ’ ‘they made themselves reliable, committed themselves’, 21.286) by announcing Scamander’s defeat, Hector’s death and coming fame for Achilles (21.291–297), that is exactly what Achilles had no longer believed in (εὖχος ‘fame’ in 21.291 takes up λευγαλέῳ to a certain extent). Accordingly, Achilles’ reaction follows in the narrative: he succeeds in taking steps into the plain (21.299–304), justified in more detail by the narrator: he feels driven, with new strength (21.299, 304). The sinking and treading in place are finished, concretely and figuratively as an expression of an inner blockade: things now look brighter again for Achilles, and he no longer complains about his expectations to drown in the floods of Scamander. Achilles, however, has to let the gods help him—he, the best fighter of the Achaeans, can only be saved in this way when the Scamander rages against him (324–342).21 The rare narratorial commentary in 264 on the superiority of the gods over men, along with this speech, is a first sign of the need to recognize limits (here the strength of the river god; later the gods’ order to give Hector to Priam for burial).

Agenor’s Fear, Il. 21.550–580 Achilles, strengthened by Poseidon and Athena, resumes pursuing the Trojans and rushes after the fleeing troops towards the open city gate; there is no resistance among the Trojans. Only Agenor, a Trojan lieutenant, ventures to challenge Achilles, who is far superior to him. This scene fits into a series of duels on this day of battle in which individual fighters, some of them strengthened and driven by gods, face Achilles and are either saved by gods or are killed: first Aeneas (20.158b–352, driven by Apollo, saved by Poseidon), Hector (20.364– 454, saved by Apollo) and Asteropaeus (21.139–204, strengthened by the river god Scamander, but finally killed); then Agenor, strengthened by Apollo, opposes Achilles to prevent him from entering the city along with the fugitives, and is rescued by Apollo (21.544–598); the climax of this series is the

20 21

Poseidon only speaks of himself in the first person, but the narrator clearly identifies him, 21.284. The threat and wounding of the hero in a so-called aristeia, his extraordinary heroic deeds, is a standard element, especially in Book 11, but here it is heightened compared to the aristeiai of Diomedes, Agamemnon and Hector: Krischer 1971: 27.

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clash between Hector and Achilles, with Hector first fleeing from Achilles, then facing the pursuer and being killed in the duel (22.25–367). The narrator clearly signals that the situation at the end of Book 21 is particularly dramatic and that it requires special effort to prevent Achilles from immediately storming the city of Troy: first, with a so-called ‘if-not’ situation (The sons of the Achaeans would have taken Ilion, had not Apollo sent Agenor, 21.544–546), which usually marks a dramatic moment in the course of a battle, when the worst is prevented by a god or a hero (driven by a god) who averts the danger of a mass flight or inspires newly awakened resistance;22 then with a three-stage process of the action, as Achilles is slowed down in his furor: Apollo instills boldness in Agenor and is at his side (21.547–548, clarified linguistically by the singular expression ἐν … οἱ κραδίῃ θάρσος βάλε and the emphasis via enjambment πὰρ δέ οἱ αὐτός | ἔστη); he saves him before Achilles can make use of his spear (21.595–598), and then he flees in Agenor’s shape and steers Achilles away from Troy (21.599–605/22.7–19). The feelings of Agenor when seeing Achilles, how frightened he is and how he overcomes his fear, are voiced in a soliloquy (21.550–570) in direct speech and in a simile (21.573–580) illustrating his new spirit of resistance and aggression23 In this structure the scene resembles three similarly designed scenes, all of which are built according to the same pattern:24 a lonely fighter faces a superior enemy (Odysseus versus a superior number of Trojans, 11.401–413; Menelaus versus Hector and other Trojans, 17.89–107; Hector versus Achilles, 22.96–131), vacillates between fleeing and facing the enemy and makes a decision in a soliloquy (typical elements are the introduction with the address to oneself ὤ μοι ἐγών and the formulaic verse 562 with which the speaker stops the preceding reflections and directs the decision in an new direction);25 a simile clarifies the situation and the behaviour of the fighter; he fights and is saved (Odysseus and Agenor), or he escapes by seeking reinforcements (Menelaus), or he is killed (Hector). In contrast to the scenes with Odysseus, Menelaus and Hector, however, in the case of Agenor, there is a hint that the option of escape and its consequences considered by the speaker will not occur and that he will decide to fight (21.552–570), as the narrator signals at the very beginning of

22 23 24 25

Fenik 1968: 154, 175–177, 122; De Jong [1987] 20042: 68–81; Louden 1993. For examples of the representation of emotions in Homeric similes, see De Jong [1987] 20042: 127–136; Lonsdale 1990: 133–135; Heath 2005: 42–51. Fenik 1968: 96–100, 163–164, 1978: see especially 77–81. The soliloquy belongs to the speech type ‘monologue of decision making’; on this, see Hentze 1904; Pelliccia 1995: 121–122 and 200–213 (‘θυμός-speech’); De Jong 2001: 140–141 (on Od. 5.299–312), 2012: 80–81 (on Il. 22.91–137).

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the scene, indicating that Apollo directs Agenor’s actions to save Troy (21.545– 548). However, through the soliloquy of the character, who doesn’t know about the divine support (κεκάλυπτο δ’ ἄρ’ ἠέρι πολλῇ, 21.549: Apollo is invisible), and through the simile that follows, the narrator lets the narratee follow the inner conflict and the change in the state of mind step by step, from a feeling of powerlessness and paralyzing fear of death by the hand of Achilles to the weak self-encouragement and faint hope of a coup until the spirit of resistance is strengthened. At the same time, the reason for this change is made perceptible by demonstrating how Agenor recognizes and assesses the situation and the various options for action. Already in the preparation of the soliloquy, the narrator shows Agenor’s fear and agitation at the sight of Achilles. The introduction to the speech consists of a formulaic verse for inner monologues of any kind (21.552), with the participle ὀχθήσας for ‘(mentally) under pressure, harassed’; but the speaker’s state of mind is additionally made recognizable, first in the content of his perception, which triggers the speech (ὡς ἐνόησεν Ἀχιλλῆα πτολίπορθον, 21.550: Agenor sees the ‘destroyer of cities’, cf. 21.583–584),26 then in an unusual wording for the inner conflict during the speech: κραδίη πόρφυρε (‘the heart waved’, 21.551) is a strong image as compared to other formulations (such as ἦτορ μερμήριξεν, κῆρ ὥρμαινε), and the verb πορφύρω (meaning ‘wave, surge’, posthomeric also ‘grow red’ as in the adjective πορφύρεος, which can mean both ‘purple’ and ‘heaving’, see LSJ s.v.) is only found twice in the early Greek epic, here and Il. 14.16, where Nestor’s indecisiveness is illustrated by a comparison with the surging of the sea in a storm (ὡς δ’ ὅτε πορφύρῃ πέλαγος ‘as when the open sea waves’). What Agenor is afraid of, and why, is showed in the clearly structured soliloquy:27 … If I flee before mighty Achilles to where the rest have been driven in panic-stricken tumult, he will still overtake me and cut my defenceless throat; but if I leave these others to be driven in confusion by Achilles, son of Peleus, and if my feet take me by another way in flight from the wall to the plain of Ilium, and bring me to the spurs of Ida where I can hide in its undergrowth— then in the evening I could wash myself in the river and dry the sweat from my body and get back to Ilium. 26 27

On secondary focalization through perception of a character, see De Jong [1987] 20042: 102–110. Hentze 1904: 14–16; Voigt 1934: 87–97; Fenik 1968: 98–99, 1978: 70–71 77–81; Lohmann 1970: 37–40; Schmitt 1990: 196–198; Gill 1996: 80–82.

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But why does my dear heart speak with me in this way? I am afraid Achilles will see me leaving the city for the plain and will come after me on his swift feet and overtake me. Then I shall no longer be able to escape death and its spectres, for he is surpassingly mighty, far beyond all mankind. But what if I were to go out to face him in front of the city? It must be that his flesh too can be wounded by the sharp bronze, and there is but one life in him, and men say that he is mortal, even though Cronus’ son Zeus is giving him the glory.28 hom. Il. 21.553–570

He considers two options of how he could escape the approaching Achilles by fleeing, weighing the chances of survival (21.553–566 two conditional clauses): either fleeing in the crowd of the other fugitives towards the city and getting killed by Achilles as a defenceless victim (21.555), or fleeing separately from the mass, away from the city into the Ida mountains, and returning home in the evening after the end of the battle. Realistically assessing Achilles’ physical superiority, he pushes both options aside as hopeless (21.562–566). When considering the first option, Agenor is dominated by the image of the panicstricken crowd and by the feeling of weakness and of being at the mercy of the pursuer (see the phrases ἀτυζόμενοι κλονέονται ‘they mass-panicked’, 21.554; and αἱρήσει με …, καὶ ἀνάλκιδα δειροτομήσει ‘he will catch me … and cut my throat, without me resisting’, 21.555). When considering the second option, Agenor thinks about self-determined action away from the mass (εἰ δ’ ἂν ἐγὼ τούτους μὲν ὑποκλονέεσθαι ἐάσω | … ἄλλῃ | φεύγω ‘If I leave these men mass-panicked … and flee in another direction’, 21.556–558). At this moment of highest threat, he unfolds before the inner eye a beautiful, albeit unrealistic wishful thinking about hiding and returning home (21.558–561). The topographical references embedded therein (the plain of Ilion, the Ida mountains, the river Scamander) create an imaginary landscape, in which the idea of wideness makes Agenor’s feeling of oppressive tightness in the mass flight comprehensible. Diving into the forests and gorges of the Ida mountains (Ἴδης τε κνημοὺς κατά τε ῥωπήια δύω, 21.559), possibilities for hiding, is an expression of his desire for safety and security. Then Agenor imagines how in the evening, after bathing in the cleansing water of the river, the unharmed return to the city could be possible (21.560–561);29 this idea shows his longing that everything could come to a good end. 28 29

Translation by Verity 2011. The motif of the bath, by which sweat and blood are washed off, is also found as a con-

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The formulaic verse at 21.562 breaks off this line of thought (compare 11.407, 17.97, 22.122); Agenor returns to reality and expresses his still dominating fear that Achilles might discover him, catch up with him and finally overwhelm him (with an independent fear clause μή μ’ … νοήσῃ | καί με … μάρψῃ, 21.563– 565). But now, in a new line of thought, a faint hope is glimmering (21.567–570); the only way out appears to be a duel with Achilles. How much Agenor has to struggle in order to come to the decision to fight against this opponent and how strong the doubts are, can be derived from his formulations: the conditional clause 21.567 (εἰ δέ κέ … κατ’ ἐναντίον ἔλθω) ends with aposiopesis; he does not dare to say that he could defeat him,30 and rather continues with a kind of self-encouragement: even Achilles is vulnerable, and he is said to be mortal (21.568–570a). However, the final sentence of his speech shows his great fear to be overcome; not only does he believe that Achilles is stronger (21.566), but he also believes that he is favoured by Zeus (αὐτάρ οἱ Κρονίδης Ζεὺς κῦδος ὀπάζει, 21.570b). As for structure, this speech corresponds to those in the three comparable scenes mentioned above (Odysseus 11.401–413, Menelaus 17.89–107, and Hector 22.96–131). In terms of content, it is closest to Hector’s soliloquy, because both speakers realistically assess Achilles (Agenor his superior fighting power, 21.563–566; Hector his mercilessness, 22.123–128), and therefore reject any unrealistic wishful thinking before facing him in combat. As for argumentation, Agenor’s speech differs from all three speeches in the comparable scenes: in his considerations, the warrior’s honour and the fear of losing face when fleeing play no role (differently Odysseus 11.404–405a, 408–410; Menelaus 17.94–95, 98–101; Hector 22.105–110);31 decisive for Agenor is his assessment of how likely he is to survive. The situation in which Agenor finds himself when he is pursued by Achilles, and how Agenor’s state of mind has changed with his soliloquy, is illustrated with a hunting simile (21.573–580):32 a leopard leaves its hiding place and fearlessly confronts the hunter and his pack of hounds, for it is ready to fight to the death. The narrator emphasizes the animal’s fearlessness (οὐδέ τι θυμῷ | ταρβεῖ οὐδὲ φοβεῖται ‘is not frightened in its heart and is not put to flight’, 21.574b–57533) when it leaves its hiding place (21.573), and its unrestrained will to defend itself

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cluding element in epic depictions of a fighter’s return from battle (Il. 10.572–576; 14.6–7; 22.442–444; suggested 5.905; 23.39–41); on this, see Dué and Ebott 2010: 378–381. On aposiopesis due to shyness or excitement, see Schwyzer [1950] 1988: 702. De Jong 2012: 80, 88 (ad Il. 22.111–130). Fränkel [1921] 1977: 61; Lonsdale 1990: 36–38; Naiden 1999: 194–196; Ready 2011: 250–251. φοβέομαι is mostly used by Homer in the meaning ‘fleeing’, but in contrast to φεύγειν (580),

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(οὐκ ἀπολήγει | ἀλκῆς ‘will not give up fighting’, 21.577–578) and to take the risk of death. Likewise Agenor is now filled with fighting spirit (ἐν δέ οἱ ἦτορ | ἄλκιμον ὡρμᾶτο πτολεμίζειν ἠδὲ μάχεσθαι ‘its defensive heart was urging him to fight’, 21.571–572), after previously fearing to be discovered and caught by Achilles (21.563–565; see also Agenor’s idea to hide 21.558–561.). Both his instinctive impulse to flee and his fearful doubt at the thought of the duel (21.570b) have given way to the wish to face Achilles, even though the outcome of the fight is extremely uncertain and Agenor has barely a chance of survival. In verse 21.580 (οὐκ ἔθελεν φεύγειν, πρὶν πειρήσαιτ’ Ἀχιλῆος), the conjunction πρίν with optative, in Homer otherwise combined with the subjunctive, signals secondary focalization, i.e.: Agenor now wants to face Achilles.34 Face to face confrontation with the enemy is also illustrated with an animal simile in two of the three comparable scenes, in which the decision to fight is made in a soliloquy:35 Odysseus, surrounded by Trojans, defends himself like a boar that keeps the hunters and dogs at bay with its dangerous tusk (11.414– 420); the simile illustrates the actions of all the characters involved. Hector waits for Achilles like a snake waiting for a man in front of its lair (22.93–97); as in the case of Agenor, the simile additionally illustrates the fighting spirit of the waiting warrior (see 22.94 χόλος, the snake’s wrath, and 22.96 ἄσβεστον … μένος, Hektor’s battle lust).36 Only in Agenor’s case it is mentioned that the animal opposes the enemy free of fear, i.e. a further point of comparison is included. Agenor has overcome his fear. This careful presentation of Agenor’s fear of Achilles also illustrates the restoration of Achilles’ fighting power. After he himself has shown fear (δείσας, 21.248), has fought for his life in desperation, and has been helped out by the gods (21.288–292, see especially Poseidon: μήτ’ ἄρ τι λίην τρέε μήτέ τι τάρβει, 21.288; and μέγα γὰρ σθένος ἔμβαλ’ Ἀθήνη, 21.304), his superiority is now again visible. The long-announced duel between Achilles and Hector can take place.

34 35 36

it also contains a psychological component (‘startled fleeing’) and here approaches its later meaning ‘being afraid’ (LfgrE s.v. φοβέω). For the use of the optative to express thoughts of a character: KG [1904] 1992: 548; Schwyzer [1950] 1988: 334 and 655; Chantraine [1953] 1986: 223. On similes for the standing of a fighter (e.g. like a rock, a tree, or aggressive like a boar) see Krischer 1971: 67–69. On this simile, which is placed before the monologue, see De Jong [1987] 20042: 129–130, 2012: 81–82 (on Il. 22.93–97 and the verses 94 and 96).

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Abbreviations KG LfgrE

LSJ

Kühner, R., Gerth, B., Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache, Zweiter Teil: Satzlehre, Zweiter Band (Hannover [1904] 1992). Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos. Founded by Bruno Snell. Prepared under the authority of the Academy of Sciences in Göttingen and edited by the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae (Göttingen 1955–2010). Liddell, R., Scott, R., Jones, H.S., A Greek-English Lexicon (Oxford [1940] reprint with revised supplement 1996).

Bibliography Anastassiou, I., Zum Wortfeld ‘Trauer’ der Sprache Homers (Hamburg 1973). Bassett, S.E., ‘Versus tetracolos’, CPh 14 (1919) 216–233. Burgess, J.S., The Death and Afterlife of Achilles (Baltimore 2009). Chantraine, P., Grammaire homérique. Tome 2: Syntaxe (Paris [1953] 6th ed. 1986). Dué, C., Ebbott, M., Iliad 10 and the Poetics of Ambush. A Multitext Edition with Essays and Commentary (Cambridge, MA / London 2010). Elliger, W., Die Darstellung der Landschaft in der griechischen Dichtung (Berlin / New York 1975). Erbse, H., Scholia graeca in Homeri Iliadem (scholia vetera), 7 vols. (Berlin 1969–1988). Fenik, B.C., Typical Battle Scenes in the Iliad. Studies in the Narrative Techniques of Homeric Battle Description (Wiesbaden 1968). Fenik, B.C., ‘Stylization and Variety: Four Monologues in the Iliad’, in B.C. Fenik (ed.), Homer. Tradition and Invention (Leiden 1978) 68–90. Fränkel, H., Die homerischen Gleichnisse (Göttingen [1921] 2nd ed. 1977: unaltered reprint with an afterword and bibliography, ed. by E. Heitsch). Gill, C., Personality in Greek Epic, Tragedy, and Philosophy. The Self in Dialogue (Oxford 1996). Heath, J., The Talking Greeks. Speech, Animals, and the Other in Homer, Aeschylus, and Plato (Cambridge 2005). Hentze, C., ‘Die Monologe in den homerischen Epen’, Philologus 63 (1904) 12–30. Ingalls, W.B., ‘Attitudes Towards Children in the Iliad’, EMC 42 (n.s. 17) (1998) 13–34. Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London [1987] 2nd edn. 2004). Jong, I.J.F. de, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de, Homer. Iliad Book xxii (Cambridge 2012). Kakridis, H.J., La notion de l’amitié et de l’hospitalité chez Homère (Thessaloniki 1963). Kim, J., The Pity of Achilles. Oral Style and the Unity of the Iliad (Lanham, MD 2000).

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Krischer, T., Formale Konventionen der homerischen Epik (München 1971). Lohmann, D., Die Komposition der Reden in der Ilias (Berlin / New York 1970). Lonsdale, S.H., Creatures of Speech. Lion, Herding, and Hunting Similes in the Iliad (Stuttgart 1990). Louden, B. ‘Pivotal Contrafactuals in Homeric Epic’, ClAnt 12 (1993) 181–198. Naiden, F., ‘Homer’s Leopard Simile’, in M. Carlisle, O. Levaniouk (eds.), Nine essays on Homer (Lanham, MD 1999) 177–203. Nannini, S., Nuclei tematici dell’ Iliade. ‘Il duello in sogno’ (Florence 1995). Paul, A., Die Barmherzigkeit der Götter im griechischen Epos (Vienna 1969). Pelliccia, H., Mind, Body, and Speech in Homer and Pindar (Göttingen 1995). Pucci, P., ‘Iterative and Syntactical Units: A Religious Gesture in the Iliad’, in F. Montanari, A. Rengakos, C. Tsagalis (eds.), Homeric Contexts. Neoanalysis and the Interpretation of Oral Poetry (Berlin / Boston 2012), 427–443. Ready, J.L., Character, Narrator, and Simile in the Iliad (Cambridge 2011). Richter, W., Die Landwirtschaft im homerischen Zeitalter. Mit einem Beitrag ‘Landwirtschaftliche Geräte’ von W. Schiering, in F. Matz, H.G. Buchholz (eds.), Archaeologica Homerica. Die Denkmäler und das frühgriechische Epos (Göttingen 1967–2015), chap. H (1968). Schadewaldt, W., ‘Hektors Tod’, in W. Schadewaldt, Von Homers Welt und Werk. Aufsätze und Auslegungen zur homerischen Frage (Stuttgart [1944] 4th ed. 1965) 268–351 (Original contribution to the 1st ed. of 1944). Schein, S.L., The Mortal Hero. An Introduction to Homer’s Iliad (Berkeley 1984). Schmitt, A. Selbständigkeit und Abhängigkeit menschlichen Handelns bei Homer. Hermeneutische Untersuchungen zur Psychologie Homers (Mainz/Stuttgart 1990). Schwyzer, E., Griechische Grammatik auf der Grundlage von Karl Brugmanns Griechischer Grammatik, 2. Band: Syntax und syntaktische Stilistik, completed and ed. by A. Debrunner (München [1950] 6th ed. 1988). Scott, W.C., The Oral Nature of the Homeric Simile (Leiden 1974). Shay, J., ‘Learning about Combat Stress from Homer’s Iliad’, Journal of Traumatic Stress 4 (1991) 561–579. Shay, J., Achilles in Vietnam. Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character (New York 1994). Valk, M. van der (ed.), Eustathii Archiepiscopi Thessalonicensis commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem pertinentes ad fidem codicis Laurentiani editi, 4 vols. (Leiden 1971–1987). Verity, A., Homer. The Iliad, translated by A. Verity, with an Introduction and Notes by B. Graziosi (Oxford 2011). Voigt, C., Überlegung und Entscheidung. Studien zur Selbstauffassung des Menschen bei Homer (Berlin 1934). West, M.L., The Epic Cycle. A Commentary on the Lost Troy Epics (Oxford 2013).

chapter 6

Poseidon’s Anger in the Odyssey Sebastiaan van der Mije

Anger is a predominant emotion in the Homeric epics.* The Iliad has Achilles’ anger at the way he was treated by Agamemnon as its very subject. Even before this anger has run its full course, it is succeeded by another anger, this time directed against Hector: a very different kind of anger, not ‘sweeter than honey’ like the first (Il. 18.109), but bitter and desperate, which is dropped only by the end of the poem. The Odyssey is the story of Odysseus’ revenge on the suitors—in the end, he kills them all, along with his faithless servants—but one would not characterize Odysseus as consumed by anger throughout the poem. He is more in our minds as the object of Poseidon’s anger than as one harbouring anger himself. Anger is also very present with the gods of the Iliad and Odyssey. In the Iliad, that of Hera and Athena against all the Trojans and their allies (because of Paris’ judgment) is most prominent;1 in the Odyssey, or at least the first half, it is Poseidon’s persecution of Odysseus (because of the blinding of Polyphemus).2 The anger of the ‘easy living gods’,3 who must not fear the catastrophes that mark human existence, are typically sparked by hurt pride or challenged status. But their privileged condition makes them feel any slight to their status all the more keenly. ‘The humans have received an enduring heart,’ as Apollo points out (Il. 24.49). By implication, the gods have not.4 In fact, though, Apollo himself is remarkably forgiving towards the Trojans, as Poseidon points out to him (Il. 21.441–460), referring to the treatment the two had received by Priam’s father Laomedon. Poseidon is anti-Trojan for that reason. But he is not consumed by hatred to the degree that Hera and Athena are; the difference between the two is highlighted by Poseidon’s suggestion to save Aeneas and Hera’s reply (Il. 20.293–317). Irmscher observes that Homer portrays ‘the * I wish to thank the editors of this volume and Tineke Jong for their valuable comments on an earlier version of this paper. 1 See the conversations of Hera with Zeus (Il. 4.30–54) and Poseidon (20.293–317). 2 For anger in archaic epic poetry (notably that of Achilles) see also the contributions of Bowie, Van Emde Boas, Kahane, Koning (on Zeus’ anger at Prometheus), and Pelling in this volume. 3 θεοὶ ῥεῖα ζώοντες Il. 6.138; Od. 4.805; 5.122. 4 On the placability of the gods see also Il. 9.497 and Od. 3.147, although these lines are spoken by human actors and thus lack the authority of the primary narrator. © sebastiaan van der mije, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_008 This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the cc by 4.0 license.

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woman who failed to win the beauty prize as more enraged than the man who instead of receiving the fee for his work is sent off in disgrace’, and despite modern sensibilities, this may be a valid observation regarding the Iliad, where women are generally portrayed as emotional. But it is also relevant that the injury of the goddesses is fresher than Poseidon’s and is being perpetuated as long as the Trojans support Paris.5 The desperate anger Achilles feels after Patroclus’ death has no parallel among the gods: it is true that they have mortal children and that they can feel deep sadness when they die. Thetis is the prime example, but Ares, Poseidon, and Zeus also lose children in the Trojan War. Upon hearing of the death of his son Ascaphalus, Ares wants to avenge him but is stopped by Athena, who points out that it is impossible (for a god) to save all one’s mortal offspring (Il. 15.140– 141). No gods are so close to their mortal children as Achilles is to Patroclus (with the possible exception of Thetis). This is also true of Poseidon’s relation to his son Polyphemus, and his lasting anger is, I submit, primarily motivated by pride and prestige. If his offspring calls on him for revenge, he must follow this up in order to assert his status as a formidable god. After being blinded and taunted by Odysseus, Polyphemus prays to his father Poseidon that Odysseus may either not return home at all, or, should that be contrary to moira, that he may return late, destitute, alone, and on a ship not his own. We know from Zeus that Poseidon put into effect this second option (1.74–75). But was this Poseidon’s own decision, as when he killed the lesser Ajax forthwith in response to his blasphemous boast (4.499–510), or did he first consult with Zeus, as when he wanted to punish the Phaeacians for the honour they bestowed on Odysseus (13.125–164)? Or is it impossible to know, because this information is not given? I will proceed to argue that this information is given: not through direct narration, but through indirect external analepsis. To argue this, I will now review some aspects of the presentation of past events in the Iliad and Odyssey.

Analepsis and Repetition Homer has been praised, from Aristotle onwards,6 for his choice not to recount all of Odysseus’ adventures in the Odyssey nor the whole of the Trojan War in the Iliad but to focus on one coherent and connected sequence of events: The

5 Irmscher 1950: 46. 6 Arist. Po. 1451a23–30.

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story of the Iliad—from Chryses’ arrival at the Greek camp (leading to the pestilence and to Achilles and Agamemnon falling out) to Hector’s funeral—spans a mere 51 days in the tenth and last year of the war, of which only some 20 days are recounted in any detail. The main story of the Odyssey—from the divine gathering (leading to Telemachus’ quest for his father and to Odysseus’ departure from Ogygia) to the cessation of hostilities on Ithaca—spans a mere 41 days in the tenth and last year of Odysseus’ voyage home, of which only some 20 are recounted in any detail.7 Attractive as this correspondence is, it is also slightly misleading. About the start of the Iliad’s story, there is no uncertainty: its narrator asks the Muse to start the tale ‘from the moment when Agamemnon and Achilles fell out’ (1.6–7). But the Odyssey’s narrator starts by referring to the episode on Thrinacia, which will be part of the Apologoi (Odysseus’ account, before the Phaeacians, of what happened between Troy and Ogygia), and concludes the proem by asking the Muse to start τῶν ἁμόθεν ‘at some point in this story’ (1.10). This suggests that in defining the story of the Odyssey, we should include these adventures. De Jong distinguishes between the story of the Odyssey, which includes the ‘embedded stories’ and thus encompasses all ten years of Odysseus’ wanderings, and the main story, which takes 41 days.8 This difference between the two epics impacts the status of external analepses (references to events prior to the story). I give one example from the Iliad (3.373–447), which contains both a direct and an indirect reference to a past event, the abduction of Helen. Aphrodite has rescued Paris from the hands of Menelaus and first tempts, then forces Helen to join Paris in love. Paris declares that he never desired her so much as he does now, not even when he had just abducted her from Sparta—a direct external analepsis. Both Helen’s reluctance and Paris’ acute desire for her fit the present situation well. But at the same time, this scene (indirectly) evokes the time when Helen first met Paris—an evocation which is backed up by Paris’ words—and thus both reiterates that situation and exculpates Helen, who would then (one may surmise) have had as little choice as she has now. The narrator thus backs up Priam’s earlier words to her, ‘I blame not you but the gods’ (3.164).9 How is the situation in the Odyssey? We have already seen that the main story’s immediate past has been told by means of an embedded story, which

7 For story of the Iliad, see BK Prolegomena; Zur Struktur der Ilias section 21 with graph 1. 8 See De Jong 2001: xi–xix (Glossary) s.v. ‘fabula’, ‘main story’, and ‘story’, and 587–588 (Appendix A). See also Arist. Po. 1455b17–23 on the λόγος of the Odyssey: it is not completely clear if he includes the wider story or just the main story. 9 On this passage see also Bowie in this volume.

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can be seen as a sustained direct analepsis. There are also several direct external analepses, i.e. to events before Odysseus left Troy, for instance Menelaus’ recollection of Odysseus’ sang-froid in the Trojan Horse (4.271–289). But I cannot think of any indirect external analepses referring to these events. There are, however, allusions in the main story to the wider story: for instance, the Olympian scene with Poseidon accosting Zeus in 13.125–158 mirrors the Olympian scene with Helios accosting Zeus in 12.374,10 but such a case would seem to have more in common with indirect internal analepses, which abound in both Iliad and Odyssey.11 To give just one example of the latter from the Iliad: Achilles vainly runs after Apollo in the guise of Agenor in 21.595–607 (continued in 22.7–20), shortly before his pursuit of Hector, a pursuit which is also in vain as long as Apollo is helping Hector (22.138–212). Reichel classes this under implizite Fernbeziehungen and notes that the Iliad is pervaded by such implicit distant connections.12 Fenik would qualify this example as a doublet, a category which is in itself an instance of the even more pervasive phenomenon of repetition. ‘Repetition on almost every level—phrases, lines, groups of lines, motifs etc.—is one of the fundamental stylistic features of Homeric poetry’.13 Indirect external analepsis as we encounter it in the Iliad (also called allusion, suggestion, evocation, retelling without narrating, re-enactment, Einspiegelung, etc.14) invokes a situation or event that is not told in the Iliad itself. This being so, can it be classed as a doublet? I think it can: one may legitimately define external analepsis as a doublet with one part implied. This implied part can be supplemented by the narratee from myth (as in the case of Helen’s abduction) or from inference, for instance the earlier phases of the war that are suggested by the view from the walls (Teichoscopy) in Book 3, the mustering of the troops (Epipolesis) in Book 4, the building of the Achaean wall in Book 7, etc.15 This is quite subtle; but the pervasiveness of repetition in the Iliad and 10 11 12 13

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Closely examined by Fenik 1974: 208–230 (cf. n. 18 below). De Jong 2001: 11 (Glossary) s.v. ‘analepsis’ classes all references to events prior to the main story as external analepsis. Reichel 1994: 49: ‘Die gesamte Ilias ist von einem Geflecht derartiger impliziter Fernbeziehungen überzogen.’ Fenik 1974: 231; Compare BK Prolegomena; Poetik s.v. ‘Antizipation von Szenen/Motiven (Motivdopplung, ‘anticipatory doublet/echo’).’ Doublets are here considered a special form of prolepsis. For direct external analepses in the Iliad, see Kullmann 1960: 6–11. For indirect analepses in the Iliad see Kullmann 1960: 365–379; Kullmann 1968: 15–37; Schein 1996: 352–355; BK Prolegomena; Zur Struktur der Ilias section 22 (2); Book 3, introduction; Book 4 on v. 13–19; and Book 7, introduction (pp. 11–13), all with further literature. There are corresponding indirect external prolepses (references to events after the story’s

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Odyssey presupposes a narratee who is awake to manifest repetition (indirect internal analepsis) but also to implied repetition (indirect external analepsis). But even if the narratee of the Odyssey is receptive to implied references, that does not prove that the Odyssey has any actual use for them. In the next section, I will argue that it has.

Indirect Presentation of Poseidon’s Activity in the Apologoi The poet’s decision to have Odysseus recount his adventures between Troy and Ogygia was doubtlessly a happy one. For one thing, it places the primary narratee in the same position as the secondary narratee: both are equally and synchronically ‘enraptured’ (13.2) by Odysseus’ tales. This structure also allows the narrator to have a short and compact main story, as in the Iliad, but at the same time recount the adventures which we not only relish for their own sake, but which have also shaped Odysseus into the man who is able to reassert himself at Ithaca. It is a long way from the Iliadic Odysseus who rejected the option of retreating before a majority of adversaries as incompatible with the ethos of an aristeus (Il. 11.404–410), to one who chooses to endure the humiliations by the suitors and, even more bitter, his own servants. It is his powerlessness against monsters and ogres during his adventures that has taught him endurance. He himself makes this connection in reflecting that he must control his rage at the faithless maids: ‘endure, my heart; you have endured worse than this, on the day when the Cyclops was eating your companions’. (20.18–20). If we, the audience, had not been presented the Cyclops adventure in full colour, this recollection would have little meaning for us. But there is a price to pay for having a big part of the story told by Odysseus: unlike the primary narrator, a human secondary narrator cannot describe events on the Olympian plane. And the story demands divine intervention: we are told that Poseidon heard his son’s prayer for revenge (9.531), and we expect him to act on it—especially after Zeus’ confirmation in Book 1 that Poseidon was persecuting Odysseus. But we hear nothing of the kind from Odysseus’ mouth, and neither should we expect to, given the restrictions of character speech (or rather: character focalization). This circumstance was not taken into account by nineteenth-century analyst scholars, who took the absence of Poseidon from the adventures following the

end), especially to the death of Achilles and the fall of Troy, but these I will leave out of account here for reasons of economy.

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blinding of Polyphemus as an indication that the Odyssey was never a unified composition. This very issue was the starting point for the investigation of Jörgensen 1904, which resulted in the famous ‘Jörgensen’s law’ according to which characters in the Homeric epics as a rule do not identify individual Olympians but use θεός, θεοί, δαίμων or Ζεύς when they, rightly or wrongly, suspect divine action. One consequence of this, for Jörgensen, was that we should not expect to see Poseidon mentioned as active in the Apologoi. A second consequence, and this part of his investigation is less well remembered, is that these words θεός, θεοί, δαίμων and Ζεύς can function as indirect indications of Poseidon’s activity in the text. In fact, some of these cases had been identified even in the scholia, and after Jörgensen, this point has been taken up in the entries on Poseidon in the LfgrE and in The Homer Encyclopedia, and recently by Murgatroyd 2015. I list these indications here: – Right after the Polyphemus episode, Odysseus and his men are entertained by Aeolus and given the ‘bag of winds’ on their way to ensure a swift journey. But within sight of Ithaca, Odysseus falls asleep at the helm and the men open the bag, at which they are blown back to Aeolus, who infers from Odysseus’ return that a god has duped him (10.64) and throws him out as one ‘hated by the gods’ (72–75). – At their next encounter, with the Laestrygonians, all ships except that of Odysseus are moored in the harbour, where they are trapped and sunk, and their crews are killed to a man (10.121–132). The fact that Odysseus gives no explanation for his decision to moor his ship outside the harbour suggests that Poseidon may have planted that idea with him. The outcome is in any case a big step towards fulfilling Polyphemus’ curse that Odysseus may return alone. – In the following Circe episode (10.135–12.142), there are no signs of intervention by Poseidon. But it does contain the prophecy by Tiresias’ ghost, which points at Poseidon as hindering his homecoming and singles out Thrinacia as a decisive station (11.100–115). At his return, Circe also warns Odysseus about Thrinacia (12.137–141 = 11.110–114), but she does not mention Poseidon.16 – When Odysseus’ ship next arrives at the Sirens, again something unexpected happens: a sudden calm. This time, Odysseus ascribes it to a δαίμων (12.169). 16

One might ask if Circe, herself a divine being, would not be in the know about Poseidon and could have informed Odysseus, as Proteus informed Menelaus in Book 4? Or perhaps she did and Odysseus suppresses, before the Phaeacians, his knowledge with a view to the ties between Poseidon and his audience. On the other hand, 12.374–390 (Calypso heard about Helios from Hermes) suggests that isolated deities are not automatically informed about every event on the divine plane. One can only speculate here.

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– Scylla and Charybdis are passed without Olympian interference (though not without loss of life), but when they next approach Thrinacia and Odysseus beseeches the crew to sail on, they will not listen, ‘and then I realized that a δαίμων was plotting harm’ (12.295). – Once at Thrinacia, ‘Zeus’ raises a storm (12.312–315) preventing them to sail off again, and they are trapped on the island for a whole month (12.325–326). The ascription is wrong (or rather, to be taken in Jörgensen’s sense), but it is nevertheless a signal of divine activity. – When Odysseus withdraws to pray to the gods, ‘they poured sweet sleep on me’ (12.338), again (as in the Aeolus episode) at a very unfortunate moment, and again the companions work fatal mischief during Odysseus’ slumber. The sleep that befalls Odysseus first at the helm and then on Thrinacia (observe the repetition) aids the interpretation of both passages: in the Aeolus episode, Odysseus offers exhaustion as ‘natural’ explanation of his falling asleep, but Aeolus, himself a god, detects divine agency. On Thrinacia, there is no reason for assuming exhaustion, which points to divine agency (and in turn supports Aeolus’ suspicion on the earlier occasion). That Poseidon worked on the crew’s minds on both occasions is reinforced by Odysseus’ unmotivated decision to moor his ship outside the Laestrygonian harbour, which is hard to explain without invoking divine suggestion, and again this reinforcement is mutual.17 On Thrinacia, Odysseus himself has no doubt that ‘Zeus’ and/or ‘the gods’ did this to him (cf. 12.370–372), but he does not specifically suspect Poseidon, which may be surprising after the information he had received from Tiresias in the Underworld, and also after he has himself stated that ‘the earthshaker heard his [Polyphemus] plea’ (9.536). Possibly Odysseus avoids blaming one specific god, as that might incur that god’s displeasure—naming Zeus is different, because this is meant in a general rather than a specific way.18 But it seems safest to assume that he was simply unaware. On the receiving side, we cannot know if the Phaeacian audience makes any inferences based on these indications—we have no indications that they do, so it is safest to assume that they do not. But we can say that for the primary narratee, who knows both from the narrator (1.19–21) and from Zeus (168–175) that Poseidon is hindering Odysseus’ homecoming, these indications are sufficient to identify the god as Poseidon in each of these episodes. In sum, Poseidon’s activity has been worked into the text, but not in a straightforward way—the restrictions of first-person narrative did not allow 17 18

For divine suggestion, cf. for instance Athena’s activity in Od. 18.155–156 and 20.284–286. Failing to take ‘Zeus’ in a general sense has led a.o. Fenik 1974: 208–230 to miss the facts and the rationale of the gods’ actions in the Odyssey, as Friedrich 1987 has shown.

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that. It has escaped generations of modern readers, but that is not surprising, as they were not as receptive as the Homeric narratee to indirect references to events that are meaningfully connected to the present context yet not directly represented, such as the indirect external analepses that we find in the Iliad. The Odyssey goes one step further: the ‘covert’ action of Poseidon within Odysseus’ narrative is communicated by the primary narrator to the primary narratee through a probably largely unaware secondary narrator, Odysseus, talking to a likewise probably unaware secondary narratee, the Phaeacians. This would mean that we have here an instance of dramatic irony, a device that is well represented in the Odyssey; a relevant case is 13.135–138, where Poseidon complains to Zeus about the treasures the Phaeacians have heaped on Odysseus. In voicing his complaint, he unwittingly uses the very words that Zeus earlier used when spelling out to Athena (and the other gods present) the compensation he wanted Odysseus to receive for his sufferings at the hands of Poseidon (13.136–138 = 5.38–40).19 In this case, the primary narratee is aware of this echo, but so is the secondary narratee, Zeus himself.20

Consulting Zeus on Odysseus In the last two sections, it was shown that (1) when indirect external analepses in the Odyssey refer to an event in the Apologoi, they tend to have more in common with internal analepses (because they refer to something that is narrated in the poem) than with the Iliadic external references, which invariably refer to something not narrated in the poem; (2) the Apologoi contain narrative that is not directly narrated but is implied: Poseidon’s actions. By combining these two notions, one may imagine the case of an external indirect analepsis from the main story to the Apologoi which refers to this implied narrative. Such a case would come close to the Iliadic type, referring

19

20

For another example of dramatic irony that is near to our context see the one and only argument advanced by Eurylochus for landing on Thrinacia (12.286–290) and against sailing on: there may be dangerous winds at night. As it turns out, a storm is raised once they are on the island (and because they are there), and the crew will die in another storm as soon as they take to the sea again (12.403–419). Van der Mije 2020: 16–17. The fact that Poseidon is unaware (he was absent when Zeus spoke these words, and there is no indication that he suspects Zeus’ hand in the situation) is a major factor in allowing Zeus to nudge him towards sparing the Phaeacians. Had Poseidon ‘caught him out’, he would have been in a stronger position to press his demand for revenge on the Phaeacians.

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as it does to an event that is not narrated but is suggested, as the first march of the Greek army on Troy is suggested by the report of Iris/Polites, the Teichoscopy and the Epipolesis in Books 2, 3 and 4 of the Iliad, respectively. In my opinion, the consultation of Zeus by Poseidon is a case in point. We saw earlier that the conversation between Poseidon and Zeus in 13.128– 158 is connected to the conversation between Helios and Zeus at 12.376–388, whether you call it a doublet or an indirect analepsis (or prolepsis).21 The scene in Book 13 bears an even closer resemblance to a scene in the Iliad, also between Poseidon and Zeus (Il. 7.436–463). For Fenik, this threefold repetition makes it a ‘type scene’.22 One may question if three occasions are enough to call it a type scene, and if it is not too specific to be labelled a type scene. Calling it a doublet is also problematic, because doublets do not cross the boundaries of one work. But however one classifies this series, it is a connected sequence, and three established occurrences of this series make it easier to construe an ‘implied’ fourth occurrence, which would be directly after Polyphemus’ prayer. In chronological order: – Il. 7.436–463: Poseidon, enraged at the Greeks who built a wall without sacrificing to the gods, sees his τιμή imperilled and accosts Zeus; Zeus deflects his anger by reassuring him that his τιμή is unassailable and suggests a course of action in which nobody comes to harm; Poseidon tacitly accepts. – (implied) after Od. 9.536: Poseidon, enraged at Odysseus and seeing his τιμή imperilled, accosts Zeus, expressing his intention to punish him (specifying the punishment); Zeus agrees with the milder punishment. – Od. 12.376–388: Helios, enraged at Odysseus’ companions (people connected with Odysseus), demands that they be punished, Zeus gives in and exacts the punishment himself. – Od. 13.128–158: Poseidon, enraged at the Phaeacians (in connection with Odysseus) and seeing his τιμή imperilled, accosts Zeus, expressing his intention to punish them (specifying the punishment); Zeus deflects his anger by reassuring him that his τιμή is unassailable and suggests a course of action in which nobody comes to harm; Poseidon tacitly accepts. What has been said so far about poetic technique argues that we may expect the narratee to infer from the ‘Phaeacian debate’ in Book 13 an analogous ‘Odysseus

21 22

Fenik 1974: 208–209, Friedrich 1987: 397–400. Fenik 1974: 209, n. 122. After this paper was written and accepted, I noticed that Marks 2008: 159–166 describes the divine gatherings of the Odysseys as a ‘type scene’ and that he even identifies ‘crypto-councils’ in both Iliad and Odyssey (e.g. we must assume one in which Zeus sent Hermes to help Odysseus against Circe in Book 10). His list on p. 166 does not include our case.

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debate’ after Polyphemus’ prayer, which could not be narrated directly because it is part of the Apologoi. But apart from these general considerations, there are two specific indicators in the text of the ‘Phaeacian debate’ itself which, added up, suggest that the narratee not only could but actually should picture that earlier scene. First, Poseidon says that he has a punishment for the Phaeacians in mind, ‘but I always respect and heed your temper’ (13.148).23 If Poseidon had not consulted Zeus on the Odysseus issue, clearly an important one to Zeus, how would such a claim strike Zeus? It could only irritate him. That Poseidon makes this claim, suggests that he did consult Zeus about Odysseus. The second one is even more specific. In 13.131–133, Poseidon says: ‘I was expecting Odysseus to arrive home after much suffering—I did not completely take away his return—because you had originally promised it and confirmed it with a nod’ (καὶ γὰρ νῦν Ὀδυσῆ’ ἐφάμην κακὰ πολλὰ παθόντα | οἴκαδ’ ἐλεύσεσθαι— νόστον δέ οἱ οὔ ποτ’ ἀπηύρων | πάγχυ—ἐπεὶ σὺ πρῶτον ὑπέσχεο καὶ κατένευσας). This ‘promise’ can hardly have been given to Odysseus, still less the nod of the head, which reminds us of the nod he gives to Thetis in Il. 1.528. We must picture an Olympic scene here, with Poseidon and most probably other gods present.24 In other words, we have here, I suggest, something comparable to the scene with Paris and Helen in Iliad 3, where an event in the wider, untold context (Iliad: their first encounter; Odyssey: the conversation on Olympus about Odysseus) is evoked by means of an indirect external analepsis in the (main) story, backed up by a direct external analepsis (by Paris 3.442–446, by Poseidon 13.131– 133, 148).25

23 24

25

σὸν αἰεὶ θυμὸν ὀπίζομαι ἠδ’ ἀλεείνω—on the interpretation of these words, see Van der Mije 2020: 25, n. 28. If the promise and nod were for Poseidon and included the hardship, the punctuation I have used suggests itself. The usual punctuation, which assumes that the nod was addressed to Odysseus and is just about his not being killed, keeps together νόστον δέ οἱ οὔ ποτ’ ἀπηύρων | πάγχυ, ἐπεὶ σὺ πρῶτον ὑπέσχεο καὶ κατένευσας (‘I did not completely take away his return, because you had originally promised that and confirmed it with a nod’). This is in line with Friedrich’s findings (1975: 95–101) that in the Iliad references to events outside the main story tend to contribute to the epic’s diversity whereas those in the Odyssey are fewer and underpin the main story: the decision about Odysseus’ fate is central to the Odyssey’s story.

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Conclusions I have argued both from general features of Homeric narrative technique and from specific indications in the words of Poseidon to Zeus in Od. 13.128–152 that we should imagine a comparable Olympic scene between Poseidon and Zeus to have occurred after Polyphemus’ prayer to Poseidon, at which occasion Poseidon repeated to Zeus his son’s demands. At that occasion, Zeus consented to Odysseus’ punishment (the milder alternative), presumably contre coeur, as he later sees to it that Odysseus is compensated. Shortly before, Poseidon had killed the lesser Ajax, who had committed sacrilege and had incurred Athena’s enmity (4.502) without prior consultation. But Odysseus was a different case: he was loved by Athena for his wit and approved by Zeus for his decency, so Poseidon was well advised not to let out his anger against him without securing Zeus’ approval—especially so as even the milder alternative was not just hard on Odysseus, but involved the annihilation of his companions (because Odysseus should arrive home ‘having lost [or destroyed] all his companions’, 9.534 ≈ 11.114) as well as the near collapse of law and order in Ithaca as a consequence of Odysseus’ very late return, which was also a term of the curse—a total impact not much smaller than the collective punishment he wanted to exact on the Phaeacians. The situation in Odyssey 13 so closely matches the one in Iliad 7 (where Poseidon consults Zeus about the Achaean wall) that I see no reason for assuming that the Odyssey is different from the Iliad with regard to divine anger and its management by Zeus: the supreme god tends to prevent the loss of human life, especially if the people who have given offence have not committed sacrilege and are generally decent. Sometimes, however, the feelings of a powerful god run so high that he has to give them their way to keep the peace on Olympus. In the case of Odysseus, Zeus feels uneasy about this and devises means to compensate him for his sufferings at the hands of the angry god. In my earlier paper (2020) arguing that Poseidon followed Zeus’ advice not to punish the Phaeacians, one question remained open: if the punishment by mountain came to nothing, why did the poet tell us this whole episode (13.125– 187), including the announcement of the punishment (8.565–569), at all?26 I think we can answer this now: to suggest how Poseidon’s relentless persecution of Odysseus started, and to reveal something important about Zeus’ way with gods and men.

26

Van der Mije 2020: 48–49.

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Abbreviations BK

LfgrE

Homers Ilias, Gesamtkommentar (Basler Kommentar), edited by A. Bierl, J. Latacz (Berlin / New York): Prolegomena (F. Graf, I. de Jong, J. Latacz, R. Nünlist, M. Stoevesandt, R. Wachter, M.L. West, 20093); commentaries on Book 3 (M. Krieter-Spiro, 2009), 4 (M. Coray, M. Krieter-Spiro, E. Visser, 2017), 6 (M. Stoevesandt, 2008), 7 (K. Wesselmann, 2020), 24 (C. Brügger, 2009); the commentaries on Books 1, 2, 14, 16, 18, and 19 are not cited in this paper. Snell, B. et al. (eds.), Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos, vols i–xxv (Göttingen 1955–2010).

Bibliography Fenik, B., Studies in the Odyssey (Wiesbaden 1974). Finkelberg, M. (ed.), The Homer Encyclopedia (Chichester 2011). Friedrich, R., Stilwandel im homerischen Epos. Studien zur Poetik und Theorie der epischen Gattung (Heidelberg 1975). Friedrich, R., ‘Thrinakia and Zeus’ Way to Men in the Odyssey’, GRBS 28 (1987) 375–400. Irmscher, J., Götterzorn bei Homer (Leipzig 1950). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London [1987] 2nd edn. 2004). Jong, I.J.F. de, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001). Jörgensen, O.J., ‘Das Auftreten der Götter in den Büchern ι–μ der Odyssee’, Hermes 39 (1904) 357–382. Kullmann, W., Die Quellen der Ilias (Wiesbaden 1960). Kullmann, W., ‘Vergangenheit und Zukunft in der Ilias’, Poetica 2 (1968) 15–37. Marks, J., Zeus in the Odyssey (Washington 2008). Mije, S.R. van der, ‘Taking Leave of the Phaeacians; on Odyssey xiii,125–187’, Eirene 56 (2020) 13–52. Murgatroyd, P., ‘The Wrath of Poseidon’, CQ 65 (2015) 444–448. Reichel, M., Fernbeziehungen in der Ilias (Tübingen 1994). Schein, S., ‘The Iliad: Structure and Interpretation’ in I. Morris, B. Powell (eds.), A New Companion to Homer (Leiden 1997) 345–359.

chapter 7

Emotions and Politeness in Homer’s Odyssey Robert Kirstein

The Interplay of Emotions and Politeness At the beginning of the sixth Book of the Odyssey we find the famous encounter between Odysseus and Nausicaa. After the stranded hero has outlined his situation and has taken a bath, Nausicaa tells her serving women to offer him food and drink: … and the girl admired him. It was to her attendants with well-ordered hair that she now spoke: ‘Hear me, my white-armed serving women; let me say something. It is not against the will of all the gods on Olympos that this man is here to be made known to the godlike Phaiakians. A while ago he seemed an unpromising man to me. Now he even resembles one of the gods, who hold high heaven. If only the man to be called my husband could be like this one, a man living here, if only this one were pleased to stay here. But come, my attendants, give some food and drink to the stranger.’ 6.237–2461 What is perhaps most surprising is not so much the fact that the young king’s daughter Nausicaa apparently falls in love with—or becomes at least highly attracted to—the godlike stranger to whom Athena has given additional stature, beauty, and grace (6.229–235), it is rather that she seems to forget the actual task for her maids because of the emotions associated with this moment. It is only in the last verse that she places her command by the words ‘But come, my attendants …’. In terms of the narrative structure of the episode, the motif of love is already hinted at by the narrator (θηεῖτο δὲ κούρη, ‘and the girl admired him’, 6.237) but is then really acted out by the character in the following speech (6.239–246). It is implied in her admiration of the man’s beauty and her wishful

1 All translations of the Odyssey are taken from Lattimore 1967. For the fairy tale motif of the Nausicaa episode see Hölscher 2000: 116; for the ‘stranger meets with local inhabitant story pattern’ De Jong 2004: 151.

© Robert Kirstein, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_009

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thought to find a future husband of similar statue, if not to keep Odysseus himself.2 The latter is a motif that replicates Odysseus’ prior flattering declaration that the man who would marry her would be ‘blessed’.3 This paper attempts to connect the topic of emotions with another topic that has been discussed in recent years, particularly in linguistics and communication studies, namely politeness. In particular, the following questions arise: What is the function of politeness phenomena in relation to the representation of emotions in a narrative, and how do they affect characters and events? If we look at the Nausicaa passage, we notice that there might be a close connection between emotions and politeness: normally, servant commands in the Iliad and Odyssey are given more or less directly. An introductory, non-directive part that preserves the face of the person addressed (polite postponement or polite retardation), as may seem appropriate in the case of socially equal persons, is not necessary.4 So why does Nausicaa not give her obvious and easy-to-follow order directly to her maids? This is not her first command to them, and in the previous situation she expresses her commands straight away (6.199–210).5 Odysseus himself acts correspondingly when he asks Nausicaa’s maids, without any introductory words, to leave him alone to undress and bathe (6.218).6 An answer to this question may be found if we understand the element of retardation in Nausicaa’s speech less as a gesture of politeness towards the servants—which is possible, but not necessary—than as a narrat-

2 For the meaning of line 245 see Garvie 1994: 143: ‘The οἱ … is no longer ‘such a man’ (τοιόσδε), but Odysseus himself.’ 3 Od. 6.158–159, cf. also 180–185. For the theme of marriage and Athena’s role in introducing it see De Jong 2001: 151. The theme occurs again in Nausicaa’s long speech when she imagines how the urban population might react to her joint appearance with the stranger (6.255–315); see also Race 1993: 93; Felson and Slatkin 2004: 104–105. 4 Here, the term retardation is used as a property of a character text such as given in speeches and not in the more common sense of a narrative device of storytelling to create rhythm. An analysis of politeness, retardation (Retardierung), and servant commands (Dienerbefehle) in Homer is provided by Bedke 2016: 125–226. Command, order and request are used here without terminological differentiation, see Leech 2014: 135. 5 For the repetition of the order see De Jong 2001: 162; for the use of the imperative in women to women situations Minchin 2007: 213. 6 Odysseus is obviously ashamed of his nakedness and does not want to frighten Nausicaa’s maids nor to weaken his position as supplicant. In a later situation (8.454), he has no problems with being bathed by the maids, De Jong 2001: 163. Another view is presented by Heubeck et al. 1988: 307, who see in Odysseus’ refusal to be bathed a possible sign of a textual problem. De Jong 2001: 150 observes that Odysseus tries to avoid any eroticism in the situation. A reading of the episode as ‘sexual encounter’ with an ‘air of violence’ is given by Olson 1995: 181, see also 178.

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ive strategy to portray Nausicaa’s inner emotional world with greater detail.7 This seems all the more important because her initial feelings for the stranger were more of a compassionate nature (6.193, 206, and here 242), combined with a proud sense of self-esteem as being a member of the ruling house (6.196–197, 200–205; De Jong 2001: 161–162; Garvie 1994: 142).8 It is only after Athena’s intervention in the beautification scene (6.229–235) that Nausicaa’s change of mind, as expressed in her speech to the maids, is motivated.9 Since the interplay of politeness and emotions in speeches and dialogues not only serves implicit characterization but also influences the events of a narrative, another aspect deserves to be mentioned here. Even though Nausicaa addresses her speech directly to her maids in the first line and gives her command in the last, the first part of the speech (vv. 240–245) almost corresponds to an (inner) monologue, in which a character typically becomes clearer about her feelings.10 In the context of Bewusstsein und Ereignis, Schmid (2017: 26) recently pointed out that inner monologues are not only connected to emotional crises but may also carry an essential event-related function: Innere Monologe markieren in der mentalen Entwicklung der sie denkenden Helden in der Regel einen besonderen Punkt des Innehaltens, der inneren Rechenschaft, der Krise, eines neuen Klarsehens, einer Umentscheidung in wichtigen Lebens- und Existenzfragen. schmid 2017: 26

In this sense, the element of retardation in Nausicaa’s speech provides a space not only to describe her emotions, but also indicates her change of mind: ‘she has new feelings’ and ‘a marriage to the stranger becomes a serious option’ (De Jong 2001: 151, 164). A link then emerges to Odysseus’ earlier inner monologue (6.141–147). In that indirect deliberation scene, the just-arrived hero considers how he should behave towards Nausicaa: ‘As a rule, the choice is between an emotional and a rational alternative … As usual, the second alternative is 7 8 9 10

Nausicaa maintains a downright friendly contact with her maids, washes laundry, plays, and dines together with them (cf. 6.93–101). See Austin 1975: 102–194; Schein 1995. For the relation between feelings and emotions see e.g. Goldie 2000: 50–72, 2002: 235–236; Konstan 2015 n. 15. Athena’s role in this part of the epic is discussed by De Jong 2001: 152. Heubeck et al. 1988: 308 on lines 244–245: ‘Nausicaa is, in fact, thinking aloud’; see also Garvie 1994: 143. The imperative in itself does not provide an indication of the level of politeness of the speaker in Homeric poems, see Bedke 2016: 86–92, 338; for the use of imperatives in the Odyssey see Minchin 2007: 211–217. The scholia express doubts about the appropriateness of Nausicaa’s ideas, see Heubeck et al. 1988: 308.

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chosen’ (De Jong 2001: 159). In what follows, Odysseus sticks to this decision against emotion and favouring rationality, which can be interpreted as part of a general tendency of Odysseus in this part of the story to regain ‘his heroic status and confidence’ (De Jong 2001: 150). After the bath, he dons new clothes and is beautified by Athena. We now see the hero, ‘radiating in grace and good looks’, sitting a little aside on the beach (6.236–237). The different emotional disposition of both figures is narrated in different ways: while Odysseus’ rather distanced, rational attitude is expressed non-verbally by the choice of his seat, Nausicaa’s less distanced emotions are expressed in the direct speech quoted above.11 As in an earlier example (6.199–210), she shows a tendency to speak not to but about the stranger.12 The fact that Nausicaa speaks to her maids and, in a certain way, to herself, while Odysseus sits aside on the shore ‘in solitary splendour’ (Garvie 1994: 141), means that the description of the emotions in this episode also receives a significant spatial dimension.13

Politeness Manners, decency, etiquette, politeness: the variety of terms alone—and the variety of meanings ascribed to them—point to the complexity and omnipresence of the topic. Especially Norbert Elias’ examination on The Civilizing Process (1939) has significantly influenced modern consideration of politeness (Kimmich and Matzat 2008: 9). Grice’s cooperative principle (1975) has provided the starting point for socio- and pragmatic-linguistic research on politeness.14 Of his four cooperative maxims (quantity, quality, relevance, and manner), the last one states that communicators should avoid obscurity, ambiguity, verbosity, and disorder because these act as obstacles to the process of

11 12 13

14

The view that direct speech in general tends to more easily allow for emotional expressivity is discussed by Beck 2009: 143. Cf. De Jong 2001: 161 on Nausicaa’s two subsequent speeches first to Odysseus and then to her maids: ‘instead of talking to the stranger, she starts talking about him.’ Space here has a symbolic function by reflecting the different emotional dispositions of Odysseus and Nausicaa. In addition, there is also a thematic one, since Odysseus’ seat at the shore keeps us in mind of his sea adventures. For non-verbal communication see Minchin 2007: 17–22, and compare the Calypso scene discussed below. See also the Introduction to this volume for the thematic function of space in relation to emotions and further references. Compare in this volume also the observations of Adema on space in Dido’s Carthage, and of Müllner on the body-based experience of space in the Hebrew Bible. An overview of models and theories is provided by Leech 2014: 32–43; Knape 2012: 3–7.

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communication. Following Grice, whose primary interest was not politeness in itself, Leech has developed his own model of general politeness maxims: generosity, tact, approbation, modesty, obligation, agreement, opinion reticence, sympathy, and feeling reticence (Leech 2014: 90–91; cf. Leech 1983). Based on Grice (1975) and Goffmann (1967), Brown and Levinson’s influential study ([1978] 1987) used the aspect of ‘saving face’ as a reference point for reflections on strategies that can be used to avoid threatening acts such as direct criticism or direct commands.15 Among others, Leech has emphasized that politeness is a multifaceted phenomenon ‘between language use and social behavior’ (Leech 2014: ix). Of particular interest are current, post-pragmatic approaches that perceive politeness as a dynamic phenomenon that emerges in social networks and makes an essential contribution to the cohesion of society. In cultural and literary studies, this gives rise to questions—similar to those addressing the transhistorical dimension of emotions—about the intercultural comparability and historical diachronicity of politeness phenomena across times and cultures. Examples of such research include examinations of Western conceptions of Japan, of gender issues from a cultural and socio-linguistic perspective, and, more generally, of late-modernity’s attempt to reverse the enlightenment’s rationalization of politeness.16 Connections between politeness and emotion research are exemplified by Brown and Levinson, who discuss emotions in the context of face-threatening acts or when using Leech’s approach. Leech, however, does not refer to emotions directly but postulates—in parallel to opinion reticence—also a feeling reticence (Langlotz and Locher 2017: 293–294). Other linguistic studies explore the relation between emotion and impoliteness (Kienpointner 2008; Langlotz and Locher 2017). Classics has also developed an interest in politeness phenomena, with work, for instance, on Homer, Cicero and the late Republic (Hall 2009; Scholz 2009; Ganter 2015). For Homer in particular, Bedke’s study Der gute Ton bei Homer (2016) deals with the topic of politeness. It provides an analysis of a selection of more than 700 speeches in the Iliad and the Odyssey by taking an approach from current speech-act and pragmatic linguistic theories as presented by Austin, Searle, Grice, Leech, Brown and Levinson, and others.17 The study

15 16 17

For the distinction between positive and negative politeness, see Brown and Levinson 1987: 71–72; Leech 2014: 11–13; Minchin 2007: 190–191. Konstan 2006: 3–40, 2015: 2; Kimmich and Matzat 2008; Bargiela-Chiappini and Kádár 2011; Grainger and Mills 2016. For the selection and compilation of the corpus see Bedke 2016: 47–85. Politeness in Homer is also discussed by Lloyd 2004; Brown 2006; Minchin 2007; Lentini 2018. Speeches in Homer: Griffin 2004; De Jong 2004: 114–115; Beck 2009 and 2012 (with Huitink 2013);

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does not focus on emotions, but mentions them in two contexts in particular. First, in situations where the speaking character is in an emotional state of crisis triggered by internal experiences such as love or fear. This category also includes the introductory example of Nausicaa’s speech to her serving women above. Second, in situations in which not the speaker but the addressee displays an emotional crisis, which yields the so-called θάρσει- or don’t worry / never fearspeeches (Bedke 2016: 158–161, 258). In the system proposed by Brown and Levinson, the technique of postponement or retardation discussed above in relation to Nausicaa’s speech is part of positive politeness as Strategy 5: seek agreement: Another characteristic way of claiming common ground with H[earer] is to seek ways in which it is possible to agree with him. … And in many cultures, the FTA [i.e. the face-threatening act] of making a request is normally preceded by an interim of small talk on safe topics … as a way of reassuring H that you didn’t come simply to exploit him by making a request, but have an interest in general in maintaining a relationship with him. brown and levinson 1987: 112

Examples of this type of speech include Calypso’s words to Odysseus in Book 5 (160–170) or Athena’s calming speech to Odysseus in Book 13 (362–365) of the Odyssey. The former uses the introductory formula κάμμορε, μή μοι ἔτ’ ἐνθάδ’ ὀδύρεο (‘Poor man, no longer mourn here beside me’), while the latter uses the formula θάρσει, μή τοι … (‘Never fear, let none …’).18 Within the group of speeches that are relevant to phenomena of politeness, the θάρσει-speeches belong to a wider subgroup. This group includes speeches that do not produce a face-threatening act per se and therefore initially make measures like polite retardation unnecessary. This is the case, for example, with greeting, thanking, offering, and exchanging gifts or when speaker and addressee share the same opinion on the call to action.19 The picture is, however, different in the case of the θάρσει-speeches: Even though here frequently also no face-threatening is involved, the speech can still include in its first part a retardation that is known

18 19

Grethlein 2017: 53. A discussion of Searle’s speech act theory is provided by Bedke 2016: 56–83; on questions about the diachronic transferability see ibid. 60 n. 87; see also Minchin 2007: 23–51; Beck 2009 and 2012: 10–18. A comprehensive list of θάρσει-speeches in Homer is provided by Bedke 2016: 258. This corresponds to what Leech 1983: 104–105 characterizes as the convivial type.

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from politeness structures, which reassures the addressee and thus increases the chances of the illocutionary act itself in its second part (Bedke 2016: 255). In the second half of my paper I will take a closer look at the θάρσει-speeches with regard to the narrative function of the interplay of politeness phenomena and emotions.

Emotions and Politeness in Homeric θάρσει-speeches In Book 13 of the Odyssey, in the middle of the epic, the storylines of the Odyssey and Telemachy come together. By the will of Zeus and with the help of the Phaeacians—a people of ‘intermediary nature’ between gods and humans and thus placed between the hero’s adventures before and after reaching Ithaca— Odysseus has finally succeeded in returning home.20 The hero has good reason to have many fears, not only for his own fate, but also for that of his family, his followers and his entire household and kingdom. Emotions therefore naturally play a major role in the now unfolding play of disguise and recognition, loyalty and infidelity, fear and hope. This applies not least to the encounter between Odysseus and Athena. After a long false tale, at the moment the goddess makes herself known to him and makes him realize that he has in fact reached no other territory than his homeland Ithaca (13.299–300, 344–351), Odysseus’ overwhelming emotions are described in a dense sequence of joy and anxiety, joy at the successful return and fear of the events to come on a ground that had not been under his control for long. The emotional layout of the episode is further enriched by the fact that both speakers express their feelings not only about the situation in general but also about the lies and disguises of the other (which also violates Grice’s cooperative principle of quality): Athena reacts rather amused to Odysseus’ Crete story, while the exhausted and still disoriented Odysseus is far less enthusiastic about the deceptions by Athena (13.287–295, 312–313).21 While the emotion of joy, insofar as it is attributed to Odysseus, in this episode is part of the author’s narrative voice (13.353–354 γήθησεν … χαίρων ᾗ γαίῃ, ‘Long-suffering great Odysseus was gladdened then, rejoicing in the sight of his country’), anxiety shimmers implicitly through in

20 21

Quotation from De Jong 2001: 149. For the macrostructural context see also e.g. Erbse 1972: 143–148; Bowie 2013: 2–6. For the different reactions of Athena and Odysseus see De Jong 2001: 329–330. Grice’s principle of quality being violated by lying: Stokke 2019; one might also argue that lying violates the fourth principle of manners. For the relation of lying and politeness, esp. in the case of ‘white lies’ see Terkourafi 2019.

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the direct speech that Odysseus addresses to the local Naiads.22 He ends this short prayer—a ‘combination of prayer type-scene and a welcome speech’ (De Jong 2001: 333)—with the worried question, wrapped in an if-clause, about his fate and that of his son Telemachus (13.359–360). In her reply, the goddess Athena directly addresses Odysseus’ fears and calms him down with the following speech: Then in turn the goddess gray-eyed Athene said to him: ‘Never fear, let none of these matters trouble your mind. Rather let us hide these possessions without delay, deep in the inward part of the wonderful cave, so they will be kept safe for you. Then we shall make our plans how all may come out best for us.’ 13.361–365

Both the opening with the θάρσει-phrase and the twofold structure of the speech with a non-directive and a directive part—calming down (v. 362) and placing an order (vv. 363–365)—are conventional. Comparable θάρσειspeeches are, as we have seen, found equally in the Iliad and in the Odyssey. If we analyse Athena’s speech with the tools known from politeness research, we will find that the first part fulfils the function of retardation, which prepares the second part with the actual call to action. As in Nausicaa’s speech above, we are dealing here with a speech situation between two socially unequal partners, so that polite retardation does not seem to be absolutely necessary. Θάρσει-speeches, however, can generally include in its first part a retardation to reassure the addressee and thus increase the chances of success of the illocutionary act in its second part. Athena’s use of the imperatives θάρσει and μελόντων does not contradict the element of politeness, and in the second part she subtly and in an encouraging way glides over to the collective subjunctive in the first-person φραζώμεθα (‘Then we shall make our plans’). By doing so she employs what Brown and Levinson describe as the strategy to ‘include both S[peaker] and H[earer] in the activity’ (Brown and Levinson 1987: 127–128). Athena’s speech turns out successful by leading directly and eventfully into joint action: first, non-verbally, to the hiding of the treasures and gifts Odysseus received from the Phaeacians (13.366–371); and second, in the form of a dialogue, to the brain-storming about the suitors and the regaining of Odysseus’ ancestral power (13.372–439).23 While the first action—the securing of the treasures—has an open end and will not be resumed in the Odyssey, the 22 23

By taking up Athena’s earlier mention of the Naiads in vv. 347–350. Cf. Athena’s similar assistance in 19.33–34. Erbse 1972: 162 stresses that the main initiative

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second action—the extended consulting scene—forms the prelude to the rest of the story.24 Both actions show Odysseus as a figure gradually finding back his former non-passive heroic status.25 If we look at Athena’s words in the context of the emotions described in this episode, it can be argued that her speech as a whole causes a delay in the course of events with a suspense-increasing dynamic potential.26 Often a θάρσει-speech is, as in this case, accompanied by success, and the sequence of actions is turned towards a positive direction in contradiction to the initially negative emotions of a character. Thus, politeness phenomena—by interacting with a given character’s negative emotions—can form an important element in the emotional layout or ‘rhythm’ of narratives.27 In Book 2 of the Odyssey, we find a similar three-part sequence of fear, θάρσειspeech and action in the scene between Telemachus and Euryclea (2.337– 381).28 Telemachus, carrying out Athena’s instructions, reassures his nurse Euryclea, who has reacted with fear and lamentation to his plan to set sail towards Sparta (2.361–362). He speaks to her the following calming words: Then the thoughtful Telemachos said to her in answer: ‘Do not fear, nurse. This plan was not made without a god’s will.’ 2.371–372

Telemachus’ speech is successful and leads to direct action without any further emotionally motivated delays: Euryclea follows his instructions by swearing not to reveal anything to Penelope and by taking care of his travel provisions (2.377–380).29 Similar to the scene between Athena and Odysseus above,

24 25

26

27 28 29

when hiding the treasures is on Athena’s side, while Odysseus plays the role of a henchman. For a discussion of the brainstorming scene as ‘too short’ see Erbse 1972: 161. For the open end of Odysseus’ possessions see De Jong 2001: 333. Similar techniques are the gaps and loose ends in Homer, see Scodel 1999: 60. A process that already begins with the landing on the island of Scheria; see De Jong 2001: 150; Segal 1962: 23; Murnaghan 1987: 108–110; Garvie 1994: 131. For Odysseus as a dynamic character in the Odyssey see Rutherford 1986; De Jong 2017: 41–42. See e.g. Rengakos 2011: 132–136; De Jong 2014: 94. For suspense as an immersive device in narration, see Allan in this volume. For another salient example of suspense-increasing speeches, see Currie’s analysis of the Odysseus-Laertes reunion scene (Od. 24) in the next chapter. This use of the term ‘rhythm’ here differs from the common use of the word in narratology to define the relationship between fabula and story; see De Jong 2014: 92. For tripartite structures in the Odyssey see also Myres 1952; Tracy 1997: 364–365. Beck 2009: 144 n. 24. On the structure of the dialogue between Telemachus and Euryclea see De Jong 2001: 65; see also Heubeck et al. 1988: 153: ‘The poet was evidently concerned

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the immediate reaction to the θάρσει-speech is of both verbal and non-verbal nature. Here, however, the emphasis is on the non-verbal part, whereas Euryclea’s vow of secrecy is only indirectly reported as summary. There are, however, also θάρσει-speeches that have no immediate success even if they employ means of polite retardation. As a result, the negative emotions from before the speech continue after it, affecting the overall emotional layout of the corresponding episode. An example can be found in the scene between Calypso and Odysseus in Book 5 of the Odyssey (149–227).30 The scene comprises a total of three speeches by Calypso, in which she attempts, in a wellconsidered way, to persuade Odysseus to stay with her on the island of Ogygia (159–170, 180–191, 202–213). It is only in the end that the nymph, having ‘a deep emotional investment in Odysseus’, will let him go, which leads to the action of building the raft, which is described in full detail (5.233–262, cf. 162–164; Louden 1999: 111). She finds the hero on the beach staring at the sea. What follows is ‘the most complete description of Odysseus’ distress’ (De Jong 2001: 133). Odysseus reflects on his current situation, the nights he spends in the cave with the nymph, and the days he spends on the shore. Grief is the determining emotion; the physical reaction of tears is described in remarkable detail (5.149–158). The moment is narrated in a dense and complex way, employing embedded focalization (τὸν δ’ ἄρ’ … ηὗρε καθήμενον, ‘and she found him sitting’, 5.151) and by the addition of knowledge that Calypso cannot have, such as the inner thoughts of Odysseus.31 There are also emotions on Calypso’s side, for instance in her body language when she approaches the hero closely (ἀγχοῦ δ’ ἱσταμένη, ‘stood near’, 5.159).32 Nevertheless, her first calming speech—introduced not with θάρσει but with the similar phrase κάμμορε, μή μοι ἔτ’ ἐνθάδ’ ὀδύρεο—turns out to be a failure: She, bright among divinities, stood near and spoke to him: ‘Poor man, no longer mourn here beside me nor let your lifetime fade away, since now I will send you on, with a good will. So come, cut long

30 31 32

not to delay Telemachus’ departure with a prolonged and emotional leave-taking, which incidentally could hardly fail to attract the notice of the suitors.’ Note the differences of attitude of the three departing scenes as pointed out by De Jong 2001: 132. On the technique of paralepsis here see De Jong 2001: 133. De Jong 2001: 134: ‘The speech-introduction with ‘standing nearby’ suggests affection.’ This is continued before Calypso’s second speech, when she smiles and touches him with her hand (5.180–181); cf. also 6.56, Minchin 2007: 18–19. For emotions and actions out of emotion see Goldie 2000: 12; 37–47. Compare also the Nausicaa scene above, where Odysseus keeps a distance.

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timbers with a bronze axe and join them to make a wide raft, and fashion decks that will be on the upper side, to carry you over the misty face of the water. Then I will stow aboard her bread and water and ruddy wine, strength-giving goods that will keep the hunger from you, and put clothing on you, and send a following stern wind after, so that all without harm you can come back to your own country, if only the gods consent. It is they who hold wide heaven. And they are more powerful than I to devise and accomplish.’ 5.159–170

Again, there is a twofold structure of the speech: calming down (lines 159–160) and giving an order (lines 160–170, compare Athena to Odysseus above). As noted, Calypso omits the crucial order by Zeus and leaves it at as a vague reference to the gods in general (violating Grice’s cooperative principle of quality).33 In fact, Odysseus’ reaction is one of ‘shuddering’ (ῥίγησεν, 5.171).34 As elsewhere, he is presented as an essentially distrustful figure, and he distrusts the nymph passionately.35 In his reply, he paints out the dangers of the sea and demands that she not plan any further misfortune for him. It is noteworthy and a significant feature of the whole scene that Odysseus, as ‘a polished and effective orator’ (Griffin 2004: 161), also makes use of the instrument of polite retardation.36 The actual call to action—to perform an oath—occurs in his speech also only in the second part: So she spoke to him, but long-suffering great Odysseus shuddered to hear, and spoke again in turn and addressed her: ‘Here is some other thing you devise, O goddess; it is not conveyance when you tell me to cross the sea’s great open space on a raft. That is dangerous and hard. Not even balanced ships rejoicing in a wind from Zeus

33

34 35

36

Calypso concealing information: Louden 1999: 114; De Jong 2001: 132–133. As noted by Duckworth 1933: 73–74, Calypso herself is given insufficient information by Hermes. For vagueness and lying see Egré and Icard 2019. For the meaning of ῥίγησεν see Heubeck et al. 1988: 270; Cairns 2013: 91–92 with n. 32. Race 1993: 92 with n. 38; Louden 1999: 113: ‘In a further inversion of events on Ogygia, Odysseus is not in any way suspicious of the help Kirke offers him on his departure.’ Heubeck et al. 1988: 270 present a different view on how Odysseus’ character is described in the Odyssey: ‘Odysseus therefore displays, to excess, watchfulness and caution, but we should not, with the goddesses to guide us, stigmatize his attitude as mistrust or suspicion.’ See also the overview offered by Bedke 2016: 374 on speeches in the Odysseus-Calypsoscene that include polite retardation. On Odysseus’ diplomatic speech in 5.215–224, in which he finally rejects Calypso’s offers, see De Jong 2001: 136.

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cross over. I will not go aboard any raft without your good will, nor unless, goddess, you can bring yourself to swear me a great oath that this is not some painful trial you are planning against me.’ 5.171–179

It is only after a further reassuring speech by Calypso (5.180–191) that Odysseus relents and allows her one last attempt to keep him with her (they dine and spend the night together). His final rejection of Calypso is then also expressed in polite words whereby the whole episode contributes to the characterization of Odysseus as a man of the world (‘Note the gentle, diplomatic nature of Odysseus’s words’, Minchin 2007: 71). Odysseus’ initial distrust of Calypso’s words has, not least, a suspense-generating effect so that two speeches instead of one are necessary to change his emotional disposition of grief, which leads to the positive and joint action of constructing the raft (5.233–262). The moment when he sets sail and leaves Ogygia, joy over the favourable wind becomes the determining emotion: ‘for the first time in the story we see an Odysseus who is happy’ (De Jong 2001: 138, cf. γηθόσυνος δ’ οὔρῳ, ‘happy with the wind’, 5.269). As a result, we notice in the scene between Calypso and Odysseus a four-part sequence of grief, first θάρσει-speech, second θάρσει-speech and action, as part of a larger dialogue scene between the nymph and the hero. The interplay of politeness phenomena and emotions here appears to be an extended version of the pattern in the scene between Odysseus and Athena or between Telemachus and Euryclea as discussed above. It is important to keep in mind that the discussed passages are only episodes and are themselves parts of more comprehensive macrostructures. In the case of Calypso, for example, it is noteworthy that she reacts to Zeus’ instruction, conveyed by Hermes, to let Odysseus go with the same kind of shuddering that Odysseus experiences when hearing her words immediately afterwards (5.116). In the same book we witness the metamorphosis of Odysseus’ emotions from grief to happiness once he has succeeded in leaving Ogygia, but this is—for the narratee—only a brief break between Odysseus’ unhappiness as Calypso’s guest and his panic during the following storm (5.279–493).37 In the midst of this storm brought about by the angry Poseidon (5.284–285), we see Odysseus again in great fear, full of negative emotions and expecting immediate death as a hero who had survived the battles around Troy.

37

The seventeen days of (peaceful) sailing are narrated, in fact, as a summary in a single line in 5.278; see De Jong 2001: 138.

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Conclusion If we wish to determine the narrative function of the interplay between emotions and politeness, two aspects might be identified. First, politeness phenomena such as retardation (postponement) can be used to give insight into a character’s emotions (or other states of mind), which, in turn, may signal an important change of mind. This is the case in Nausicaa’s speech to her maids; we find, for example, a similar situation in Penelope’s speech to her maids in the fourth Book (4.722–741). Second, as has been argued in the analysis of the θάρσειspeeches, the negative emotions of a character being addressed can be either contrasted with positive emotions on the part of the speaker (for instance hope against fear) or a more ‘neutral’ assessment. There are instances that can be described as a three-part sequence pattern of fear, θάρσει-speech and action (Athena to Odysseus, Telemachus to Euryclea). Depending on the success or non-success of the initial speech, there are also instances that involve more than one speech in a four-part sequence of inherently greater complexity (Calypso to Odysseus). The effect of this interplay is a rhythmization of the narrative in which negative and positive (or neutral dispositions) alternate with each other, supporting the overall emotional colouring of the text and creating suspense about the outcome of a given episode. Polite retardation creates suspense within a speech, where it is normally positioned in the first half; augmenting this effect, furthermore, speeches that contain elements of politeness can have an overall retarding and thus suspense-increasing function.

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Brown, P., Levinson, S.C., Politeness. Some Universals in Language Usage (Cambridge 1987) (first in E. Goody (ed.), Questions and Politeness. Strategies in Social Interaction [Cambridge 1978] 56–289, 295–310). Cairns, D., ‘A Short History of Shudders’, in A. Chaniotis, P. Ducrey (eds.), Unveiling Emotions ii. Emotions in Greece and Rome. Texts, Images, Material Culture (Stuttgart 2013) 85–107. Duckworth, G.E., Foreshadowing and Suspense in the Epics of Homer, Apollonius, and Vergil (Princeton 1933). Egré, P., Icard, B., ‘Lying and Vagueness’, in J. Meibauer (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Lying (Oxford 2019) 354–369. Elias, N., Über den Prozess der Zivilisation. Soziogenetische und psychogenetische Untersuchungen, 2 Vol. (Frankfurt am Main [1939] 2017). Erbse, H., Studien zum Verständnis der Odyssee (Berlin 1972). Felson, N., Slatkin, L., ‘Gender and Homeric Epic’, in R. Fowler (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Homer (Cambridge 2004) 91–114. Ganter, A., Was die römische Welt zusammenhält. Patron-Klient-Verhältnisse zwischen Cicero und Cyprian (Berlin 2015). Garvie, A.F., Homer. Odyssey, Books vi–viii (Cambridge 1994). Goffman, E., Interaction, Ritual. Essays in Face-to-Face Behavior (Chicago 1967). Goldie, P., The Emotions. A Philosophical Exploration (Oxford 2000). Goldie, P., ‘Emotions, Feelings and Intentionality’, Phenomenology and the Cognitive Sciences 1 (2002) 235–254. Grainger, K., Mills, S., Directness and Indirectness Across Cultures (Basingstoke 2016). Grethlein, J., Die Odyssee. Homer und die Kunst des Erzählens (Munich 2017). Grice, H.P., ‘Logic and Conversation’, in P. Cole, J. Morgan (eds.), Syntax and Semantics, Vol. 3: Speech Acts (New York 1975) 41–58 (also in H.P. Grice, Studies in the Way of Words [Cambridge 1989] 22–40). Griffin, J., ‘The Speeches’, in R. Fowler (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Homer (Cambridge 2004) 156–167. Hall, J., Politeness and Politics in Cicero’s Letters (Oxford 2009). Heubeck, A., West, S., Hainsworth, J.B., A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, Vol. 1: Introduction and Books i–viii (Oxford 1988). Hölscher, U., Die Odyssee. Epos zwischen Märchen und Roman (Munich 2nd edn. 2000). Huitink, L., ‘Rev. Deborah Beck, Speech Presentation in Homeric Epic. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2012’, BMCR 2013.10.57. Jong, I.J.F. de, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London [1987] 2nd edn. 2004). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narratology and Classics. A Practical Guide (Oxford 2014). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2017) 27–45.

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Kienpointner, M., ‘Impoliteness and Emotional Arguments’, Journal of Politeness Research 4 (2008) 243–265. Kimmich, D., Matzat, W. (eds.), Der gepflegte Umgang. Interkulturelle Aspekte der Höflichkeit in Literatur und Sprache (Bielefeld 2008). Knape, J., ‘Der rhetoriktheoretische Ort der Höflichkeit’, in M. Beetz (ed.), Rhetorik und Höflichkeit (Berlin 2012) 1–10. Konstan, D., The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks. Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto 2006). Konstan, D., ‘Affect and Emotion in Greek Literature’, in G. Williams (ed.), Oxford Handbooks Online: Classical Studies (Oxford 2015), oxfordhandbooks.com/view/10.1093/​ oxfordhb/9780199935390.001.0001/oxfordhb‑9780199935390‑e‑41 (accessed 5 January 2021) Langlotz, A., Locher, M.A., ‘(Im)politeness and Emotion’, in J. Culpeper, M. Haugh, D.Z. Kádár (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Linguistic (Im)politeness (London 2017) 287–322. Lattimore, R., The Odyssey of Homer. Translated with an Introduction (New York 1967). Leech, G., Principles of Pragmatics (London 1983). Leech, G., The Pragmatics of Politeness (Oxford 2014). Lentini, G., ‘(Im)politeness in the Iliad. The Pragmatics of the Homeric Expression ἀγαθός περ ἐών’, Trends in Classics 10 (2018) 255–274. Lloyd, M., ‘The Politeness of Achilles. Off-record Conversation Strategies in Homer and the Meaning of Kertomia’, JHS 124 (2004) 75–89. Louden, B., The Odyssey. Structure, Narration, and Meaning (Baltimore 1999). Meibauer, J. (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Lying (Oxford 2019). Minchin, E., Homeric Voices. Discourse, Memory, Gender (Oxford 2007). Murnaghan, S., Disguise and Recognition in the Odyssey (Princeton 1987). Myres, J.N.L., ‘The Pattern of the Odyssey’, JHS 72 (1952) 1–19. Olson, S.D., Blood and Iron. Stories and Storytelling in Homer’s Odyssey (Leiden 1995). Race, W.H., ‘First Appearances in the Odyssey’, TAPhA 123 (1993) 79–107. Rengakos, A., ‘Odyssee’, in A. Rengakos, B. Zimmermann (eds.), Homer-Handbuch. Leben, Werk, Wirkung (Stuttgart 2011) 120–149. Rutherford, R.B., ‘The Philosophy of the Odyssey’, JHS 106 (1986) 145–162. Schein, S.L., ‘Female Representations and Interpreting the Odyssey’, in B. Cohen (ed.), The Distaff Side. Representing the Female in Homer’s Odyssey (Oxford 1995) 17–27. Schmid, W., Mentale Ereignisse. Bewusstseinsveränderungen in europäischen Erzählwerken vom Mittelalter bis zur Moderne (Berlin 2017). Scholz, P., ‘Die Kunst der Höflichkeit im spätrepublikanischen Rom’, Zeitsprünge. Forschungen zur Frühen Neuzeit 13 (2009) 249–273. Scodel, R., Credible Impossibilities. Conventions and Strategies of Verisimilitude in Homer and Greek Tragedy (Stuttgart 1999).

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Searle, J.R., ‘A Classification of Illocutionary acts’, Language and Society 5 (1976) 1–23. Segal, Ch., ‘The Phaeacians and the Symbolism of Odysseus’ Return’, Arion 1.4 (1962) 17–64. Stokke, A., ‘Lying, Sincerity, and Quality’, in J. Meibauer (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Lying (Oxford 2019) 134–148. Terkourafi, M., ‘Lying and Politeness’, in J. Meibauer (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Lying (Oxford 2019) 382–396. Tracy, S.V., ‘The Structures of the Odyssey’, in I. Morris, B.B. Powell (eds.), A New Companion to Homer (Leiden 1997) 360–379. West, M.L., Homerus. Odyssea (Berlin 2017).

chapter 8

Emotionally Reunited: Laertes and Odysseus in Odyssey 24 Bruno Currie

Overview: Emotions in the Odyssey (and the Iliad)* The events of the narrative of the Odyssey constantly elicit emotional reactions from its characters. Penelope’s tears of lamentation in the upper room are a leitmotif of the poem,1 a counterpoint to the laughter of the Suitors in the hall.2 Odysseus’ wanderings are punctuated by his and his companions’ tears of despair.3 Return and reunion are accompanied by outpourings of joy.4 Odysseus’ reunions with members of the family and household are marked by tears of (in various measure) joy, love, relief, nostalgia (literally), grief, and, perhaps, guilt.5 The Odyssean narrative frequently delineates emotions with reference to emotion concepts: grief (ἄχος),6 anger (χόλος),7 fear (δέος, ταρβοσύνη),8 pity (οἶκτος),9 desire (ἔρως),10 joy (γηθοσύνη, εὐφροσύνη).11 In general, Homeric narrative is deeply interested in the phenomenology of emotion and attentive to its somatic symptoms.12 In the Iliad, Agamemnon describes his heart pounding

*

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Dedicated to Irene de Jong, in admiring recognition of her scholarship and warm acknowledgment of her friendship. I owe various improvements to the editors, Michael Clarke, Bob Fowler, and Katrin Stelter. 1.362–364; 4.703–721; 21.357–358; 19.603–604. Föllinger 2009: 24. 18.35, 100, 350; 20.345–349, 358, 374, 390; 21.376. Halliwell 2008: 86–97. 9.64–66, 467; 10.201, 209, 241, 246–248, 398–399, 409, 454, 497–499, 576–578; 11.5; 12.234, 309–311. Arnould 1990: 23. 5.394–398, 463 (arrival on Scheria); 13.250–251, 353–354 (arrival on Ithaca); 23.233–241 (reunion with Penelope): a nexus of interconnected scenes. Monsacré 2018: iii.2. e.g. 4.716. 21.377; 8.304. 22.42, etc.; for ταρβοσύνη see e.g. 18.342. 1.81. 18.212. 11.540 (text after M.L. West 2017: 248); cf. Il. 13.29; 21.390; for εὐφροσύνη see 20.8. Parallels in Ugaritic mythological poetry and the Hebrew Bible: Hillers 1965, and see also Müllner’s contribution to this volume.

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in anxiety (Il.10.93–95), Dolon’s teeth chatter in fear (Il. 10.374–377), the hairs of Priam’s body stand on end in fright (Il. 24.358–360). Emotions are linked to body temperature: tears (of joy, frustration, grief) are formulaically hot (δάκρυα θερμὰ χέων), lamentation and fear are cold (κρυεροῖο γόοιο / φόβοιο). We find a reference to the taste of emotions: Achilles describes anger as ‘sweeter than honey’ (Il. 18.109–110). Otherwise, anger is ‘sharp / stabbing’ (δριμύς, Il. 18.322), like grief (ὀξύ, Il. 19.125, etc.). The formulaic style does not lead to purely stereotypical presentations of the phenomenology of emotions. Alongside δάκρυα θερμὰ χέων, there is δάκρυ’ ἀναπρήσας (not a breach of formular economy: an experientially different form of weeping is conveyed, ‘bursting into’, rather than simply ‘shedding’, tears).13 Nor are all these expressions likely to be formulaic. An important way of conveying emotions is metaphor and simile. In one formula, a person’s ‘limbs / knees / joints were loosened’ (λύθεν γυῖα, etc.), in fear (Od. 18.341, 342 ταρβοσύνηι), desire (Od. 18.212), or grief (Il. 18.31).14 An expanded form is λύτο γούνατα καὶ φίλον ἦτορ, ‘x’s knees and heart gave.’15 It is a natural image for the joints (literally, ‘fastenings’) to be ‘loosened’ (λύθεν … ἅψεα), but the expanded version is apt to be felt as a transference or zeugma: it is in somewhat different senses that one’s knees and one’s heart ‘give.’16 Similarly zeugmatic is τήκω of Penelope’s heart (ἦτορ, θυμός) ‘melting’ in grief (Od. 19.136, 263–264) and her ‘face (χρώς, παρήïα) overflowing’ with tears (Od. 19.204, 208).17 The metaphor gets elaborated in a simile drawn from the natural physical world, of snow melting on mountains (Od. 19.205–207). Another Odyssean simile draws on the domestic animal kingdom: at the shenanigans of his maidservants with the Suitors, Odysseus’ heart ‘barks’ (Od. 20.13), like a bitch ready to defend her puppies from an unfamiliar man (Od. 20.14–16). The metaphor of the ‘barking’ heart is hardly standard usage,18 but a case of vehicle language trespassing into the tenor;19 the simile’s conceptualization of Odysseus’ heart as an animal is itself a bold imaginative feat, anticipating Philip Pullman’s dae-

13 14 15 16

17 18 19

Il. 9.433; cf. Od. 2.81. Parallel expressions in Assyrian, Ugaritic, Aramaic, and Hebrew (e.g. Dan. 5:6, Nah. 2:10): Paul 2001: 60–61 with nn. 38–40. Od. 4.703; 24.345; Il. 21.114, etc. But cf. OED s.v. ‘give’ 40b (a joint, the nerves). In LfgrE, λύεσθαι with ἦτορ as subject (always conjoined with γούνατα) is unhappily classed under ‘i 3a’ (‘cause to become limp’, otherwise with γούνατα / γυῖα / ἅψεα as subject), while λύεσθαι with μένος / βίη / ψύχη as subject is classed under ‘i 3b’ (‘cause to fade away’): O’Sullivan 1991: 1728.67–1729.27. Russo 1992: 87; Langholf 2008: 450.64–451.1. See Silk 1974: 79, on the difficulty of establishing ‘standard usage’ for the Homeric poems. Lyne 1989: 40–42; cf. Silk 1974: 24, 138–172.

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mons.20 An Iliadic emotions-simile draws on the agricultural vegetal world: the heart of Menelaus is ‘warmed’ (or ‘softened’) like dew evaporating on a cornfield (Il. 23.597–600).21 Dew evaporating (in appeasement) provides a contrasting image to snow melting (in grief); the association of crops with happiness perhaps came more readily to the ancient mind than to ours.22 Homeric narrative is thus interested in the interoceptive sensation of emotions (implying the first-person perspective of the character affected) and the visible symptoms of emotions, body language (implying a third-person perspective on the character affected), and their interrelation. Similes permit the phenomenology of emotions to be explored in rich and arresting ways.

Case Study: Odysseus and Laertes (24.213–360) So far we have considered localized descriptions of emotion in the narrative; whole sections of narrative may also be dedicated to the exploration of emotions. The so-called ‘recognition scenes’ may be the most complex of these. The ‘recognitions’ of Odysseus by Penelope and by Laertes are not just about their coming to know that their interlocutor is their husband or son, but about their coming again to feel reciprocally in the way necessary to the relationship; ‘reunion’ is more appropriate than ‘recognition.’23 We shall examine Odysseus’ reunion with Laertes (24.213–360).

Odysseus’ Speech to Telemachus, Eumaeus, and Philoetius (213–219) The sequence begins with Odysseus’ expression of his wish to put to the test whether his father will recognize him on sight (πατρὸς πειρήσομαι … | αἰ κτλ., 216–218). This is not a declaration of an intention to ‘test his father,’24 which could only be gratuitous and cruel;25 rather, πατρός is used in prolepsis, ‘dislocated’ from the following subordinate clause.26 Instant recognition between 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Pullman 2001. On the Odyssean simile, see Zanker 2019: 197–200. θυμὸν / ἦτορ ἰάνθη is formulaic (Od. 4.840, etc.). Cf. laetae segetes: Cic. de Orat. 3.155, Verg. G. 1.1; cf. G. 2.363–364, contrast 1.75 (tristis). Currie, forthcoming. Pace e.g. De Jong 1994: 36–37; cf. 2001: 576; Scodel 1998: 11. e.g. Rutherford 1986: 161; Scodel 1998: 9; Danek 1998: 488. For such prolepses (‘anticipations’, ‘dislocations’, or ‘raisings’, sc. of the subject of the subordinate clause to the object—either accusative or genitive—of the matrix clause), see

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a father and son (Aeson and Jason) is found at Pindar, Pythian 4.120–123: ‘his father’s eyes recognized him once he entered, and tears well up from his aged lids, since he rejoiced with all his heart to see his exceptional offspring, handsomest of men.’ Odysseus wonders whether his reunion with Laertes will be like that. The narratee knows better: instant recognition would preclude the indispensable recognition type-scene.27

Odysseus’ Approach and Sighting of Laertes (220–234) Odysseus finds Laertes working in his garden (226–231). Of Homeric arrivalscenes, De Jong has commented: Arriving at his destination, the Homeric visitor finds—and focalizes …— the person(s) he is looking for while they are engaged in some activity … The activities engaged in by the persons found often characterize them or are contextually significant.28 Laertes’ grief-stricken and withdrawn behaviour has been called ‘clearly excessive’ and ‘bewildering.’29 We should expect metonymic characterization in his setting (the orchard), his actions (gardening), and his dress (rags, etc.).30 Odysseus now sees Laertes as others had previously described him (11.187– 196; 15.353–357; 16.140–145). This description, focalized by Odysseus,31 differs from Anticlea’s and Eumaeus’ with its emotive adjectives (ῥυπόωντα, 228; ἀεικέλιον, 229) and emphatic enjambments (227–228, 228–229, 230–231, 232–233): these are the salient details as they register with Odysseus, who stands aside and weeps (234). The adjective ῥαπτός occurs twice in consecutive lines (228, 229). It could mean ‘stitched’ or ‘patched,’ i.e. mended.32 The presence of ῥυπόωντα and ἀεικέ-

27 28 29 30 31 32

KG ii.577–580; Chantraine 1963: 234; Stelter 2004: 508, 558–559; CGCG 720. A Homeric example involving πειράομαι is Il. 18.600–601 (with the ‘dislocated’ object in the accusative, with an inanimate object, rather a genitive of the person, as Od. 24.216 πατρὸς πειρήσομαι: cf. KG i.370 n. 18). De Jong 2001: 386–387, 576. De Jong 2001: 19. Scodel 1998: 11, 13. See, in general, De Jong 2018: 34–35. De Jong 2001: 577; pace Scodel 1998: 11. Cf. also Scodel 2014: 58–59, 65–66. Heubeck 1992: 386–387.

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λιον suggests the latter. Material, too, is emphasized: leather (228) and goatskin (231). These articles of clothing have implications for the wearer’s social status and for Laertes’ sense of (projection of) his self-worth.33 The animal-skin items are hard-wearing, but also hard-worn. To rend one’s clothes (and/or flesh) is a gesture of grief,34 and to ‘rend one’s heart’ is a Greek as well as an English metaphor of grief.35 Laertes’ ‘shamefully patched’ clothing suggests a resilient heart ravaged by grief, carelessly mended.36 Such ravages of the heart took Anticlea to the grave (11.197–203, 15.356–360). Laertes, we may assume, survived, though careless of his own recovery. The protective equipment—leather leggings and gloves—suggests that he is once bitten, twice shy (‘shunning scratches’, ‘on account of the thorns’: 229, 230). Gardening can be a pleasurable pastime of old age.37 It is not that here, however, where it signifies rather withdrawal (from society, into oneself) and abrogation of status.38 Yet Laertes’ meticulous care for the garden (206–207, 245–247) also indicates a continuing capacity to love. In the absence of Anticlea (dead) and Odysseus (presumed dead), Laertes’ familial devotion appears displaced onto the garden.39 In a common Homeric image, a parent nurtures a child like a plant in a garden.40 The Iliadic narrative of Menelaus killing Euphorbus (17.53–60) is elaborated with a simile in which the ‘olive sapling’ represents Euphorbus, and the man who ‘nurtured’ it (53) the father, Panthos (59). Further, Thetis says of Achilles: ‘he shot up like a sapling; I nurtured him, like a sapling in a garden’ (φυτὸν ὣς γουνῶι ἀλωῆς, 18.56–57). The tenor and vehicle of these similes are reversed in our passage, where the narrative depicts Laertes ‘digging a plant in his garden’ (ἐν ἀλωῆι | λιστρεύοντα φυτόν, 226–227). The care bestowed on the plant metonymically suggests the care once lavished on the ‘scion’-son.

33 34 35 36 37 38

39 40

Cf. Van Wees 2005a: 49; 2005b: 3–4. e.g. Il. 19.284–285. Cairns 2016: 35 n. 53. δεδαïγμένον ἦτορ, 13.320; δαίετο ἦτορ, 1.48; Il. 1.243–244 θυμὸν ἀμύξεις. Cf. (ἄχος) θυμοφθόρον, 4.716; κατεκλάσθη φίλον ἦτορ, 9.256, etc. Cairns 2016: 35 n. 53. Garment metaphors: Cairns 2016: § 28. For ἀεικέλιον (229) as adverbial, cf. Eustathios, Stallbaum ii.230.39, 44–45. Cic. Sen. 51–58. Pace Kelly 2020: 279 n. 25: ‘Laertes in Odyssey 24 is an excellent representation of a nobleman who has opted for the quiet life, and his “careful husbandry” of the orchard gives us one of the most pleasant images of that poem.’ Cf. Cic. Sen. 54. Cf. Od. 14.175; 6.160–169, plus B. 5.86–88. West 1966: 264 ‘young people are often thought of as plants’.

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Odysseus opens his speech (244–279) by stressing the asymmetry of the care that Laertes invests in the plants of the garden and receives in return. Odysseus’ numerous references to κομιδή / κομέω / κομίζειν,41 encompassing a gardener’s care for his plants, a parent’s for their child, or a child’s for their parent, thematize Laertes’ lack of a carer in his old age: the worst fear of the elderly (χήτει γηροκόμοιο, Hes. Th. 605).42 Odysseus, face to face with Laertes, must smart with the same self-reproach that Achilles made with regard to the absent Peleus: ‘nor do I take care of him in his old age’ (οὐδέ νυ τόν γε | γηράσκοντα κομίζω, Il. 24.540– 541). The emotions behind Odysseus’ weeping (234) must therefore be complex: at a minimum, grief, pity, guilt, love. Here we will want to say that a Homeric character experiences a simultaneous conflict of feelings.43 The emotions are communicated particularly by metaphors: of clothing, of gardening. Laertes’ body language implies his emotional state. The narratee is encouraged both to adopt the viewpoint of the focalizing character (Odysseus) and to ‘read between the lines.’44

Odysseus’ Dilemma (235–240) Odysseus’ observation of Laertes produces a dilemma (236–238). This firstperson practical dilemma supersedes the earlier third-person theoretical one (216–218): not ‘will he recognize me straight away?’, but ‘should I reveal myself straightaway?’ The visible transformative effect on Laertes of Odysseus’ absence calls into question the possibility (or desirability) of Laertes’ recognizing him on sight. Rather than outward physical change impeding Laertes’ recognition of Odysseus (as implied by 218), emotional or psychological change is now seen to render it problematic. Odysseus weighs immediate physical intimacy and telling Laertes the whole story (236–237) against an oblique approach, first testing the waters in conversation (238). The first option is evidently his natural inclination; the end of the scene reveals his impatience to embrace Laertes (320). On reflection, however, he opts for the second. We are not told why, just that it ‘seemed better’ (239).45

41 42 43 44 45

245, 247, 249, 251. Falkner 1995: 12–13. De Jong 2018: 27. De Jong 2018: 36–39 (see below). Scodel 1998: 11 (with n. 29): ‘seemed more cunning’; but the formula (×3 Il., ×7 Od.) in general carries no such implication.

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Critics have rounded on Odysseus for his choice.46 More likely Odysseus is sensitive to emotional demands of the situation that escape his critics. Odysseus’ dilemma recalls others in scenes of recognition-cum-reunion. First, Menelaus’ dilemma in his recognition of Telemachus (4.117–119). Menelaus apparently quickly recognized Telemachus, who is the very image of his father.47 His dilemma is whether to ‘let [Telemachus] himself make mention of his father [πατρός, 4.118, is Menelaus’ focalization, revealing that he knows who Telemachus is] or first ask questions and draw him out in each particular’ (4.119 = 24.238). Menelaus’ expansive reference to Odysseus and Telemachus (4.107, 112), far from being artless, now emerges as an attempt to draw Telemachus out: a technique that Odysseus also adopts with Laertes (24.270). Menelaus, sensitive to Telemachus’ youthful embarrassment, takes a softly-softly approach (though Helen will not so pussyfoot about, 4.138–146).48 Odysseus is similarly sensitive to Laertes’ emotional state, and gingerly treads around it. Second, Penelope’s dilemma in the reunion with Odysseus (23.85–87). Euryclea’s disclosures (23.5–79) have apparently quickly convinced her that the ‘stranger’ is Odysseus (‘husband’, 23.86, 181, is again her focalization).49 Her dilemma concerns how she should take back her husband after twenty years: whether with distanced conversation (23.86) or with immediate physical intimacy (23.87). She is acutely conscious of a twenty-year-sized emotional gap between Odysseus and herself, needing to be closed before reunion is possible; Odysseus senses such a gap between Laertes and himself. The parallels and inversions between Odysseus’ reunion with Penelope in Book 23 and that with Laertes in Book 24 are striking. Consider their proxemics: Penelope descends to the megaron (23.85), experiences a dilemma (23.85– 87), observes Odysseus detachedly (23.93–95); Odysseus walks to the vineyard (220–221), observes Laertes detachedly (226–234), experiences a dilemma (235–238). The parallels with the reunion with Penelope are, in theory, discernible by Odysseus as well as the narratee. In the reunion with Penelope, Odysseus became exasperated by her reserve and distance (23.164–172),50 and Penelope felt obliged to justify them (23.209–214). Finding himself in a similar situation vis-à-vis Laertes, Odysseus behaves like Penelope; he appears to acknowledge, retrospectively, the correctness of her approach. We might say

46 47 48 49 50

e.g. Fenik 1974: 49; S.R. West 1989: 125–126; Scodel 1998: 9–10. 1.208–209; 4.141–144, 149–150. Currie, forthcoming. Currie, forthcoming. De Jong 2001: 556.

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that he has profited, learned, from the emotional experience of the earlier scene; so his experiences in the Cyclops’ cave taught him how to bide his time with the Suitors (20.17–24).51 (Not all emotional lessons of the past bear fruit, however: the appearance-enhancing ablution that Odysseus used with such success on Nausicaa, 6.224–245, makes little impression on Penelope, 23.153– 172, to his obvious frustration.) The verbs ἐξερέομαι and πειράομαι, prominent in these recognition-cumreunion sequences,52 rather than indicating a ‘test’, of identity or loyalty,53 are better taken to denote a ‘probing’ through conversation, to elicit a particular emotional response from Telemachus, Odysseus, and Laertes successively.54

Odysseus’ First Speech to Laertes (242–279) Laertes, when accosted by Odysseus, is described as ‘keeping his head down’ (κατέχων κεφαλήν, 242). Gaze avoidance has a range of significations.55 We may infer that Laertes is concentrating on his gardening task (242), that he is grieving (231, 233), that his body language befits someone of lowly status (δμώς, 257).56 Most crucially, however, his emotional state prevents the ocular interaction requisite for father-son reunions.57 Odysseus, meanwhile, is acutely conscious of being Laertes’ son. His speech is prefaced by the introductory formula προσεφώνεε φαίδιμος υἱός (243), otherwise used of Telemachus as Odysseus’ son (16.308, etc.).58 Scholars have detected rudeness in Odysseus’ words.59 The narrator’s attributive discourse indicates that he speaks with ‘heart-cutting (?) words’ (κερτομίοισ’ ἔπεσιν, 240). This denotes ‘sarcasm’ in the mouths of, especially, the Suitors (2.323; 16.87; 18.350; 20.263).60 But the lines alleged as offensive (249– 255) are so carefully prepared in 244–248 that they seem unlikely to cause offence, nor is there the slightest sign of Laertes taking any. Here, we should

51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

Rutherford 1986: 147; De Jong 2018: 40–42. ἐξερέομαι: 4.119; 23.86 (ἐξερεείνοι); 24.238. πειράομαι: 4.119; 23.181; 24.238, 240. e.g. Scodel 1998: 11–12. Macleod 1982: 122 (on Il. 24.433); Heubeck 1992: 397; Currie, forthcoming. Cairns 2005, cf. 2003: 46. Currie, forthcoming, on 23.94–95. Cairns 2005: 137–138. 24.217; 11.450–453; Pi. P. 4.120. Cairns 2005: 133. Cf. De Jong 2001: 576 (‘periphrastic denomination’); Nünlist 2015: 16–17. S.R. West 1989: 139 n. 66; Scodel 1998: 11 n. 29, 12. Lloyd 2004: 84–85, 86. The most recent treatment of Homeric κερτομία is Kucharski 2020.

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think of ‘irony’ rather than sarcasm: Odysseus knows more than he lets on (he has opted not to ‘tell all’, 236–237), but no ‘cutting’ effect is intended.61 Odysseus incognito evinces quasi-filial concern for Laertes, desiderating— and looking ahead to—his reintegration into normal life: bathing (254, compare 365–366), eating (254, compare 215, 364, 384–386, 395–396, 412), changing clothes (250, compare 367), looking and playing the part of a king (252–253, compare 368, 378), improved appearance (253, compare 369, 371, 374). The narratee will detect irony—Odysseus knowing more than he lets on—in his statement that Laertes does not look like a slave, but a kingly man (252–253); in his exhortation of Laertes ‘to sleep softly’ (255, postponed and enjambed: Odysseus knows about Laertes’ rough sleeping, 11.188–194, but Odysseus incognito does not); and in his exhortation of Laertes to eat (254: Odysseus knows of Laertes’ fasting, 16.142–145, Odysseus incognito does not). Odysseus incognito goes on to ingratiate himself with Laertes by claiming a fictitious guest-friendship with Odysseus (258–279). Guest-friendships are inherited by sons from their fathers (1.187 ξεῖνοι … πατρώιοι);62 the guestfriendships forged by sons can hardly fail to implicate fathers (morally, emotionally). Odysseus here apparently creates a fictitious emotional bond to serve as a temporary placeholder for the real one. Ring-composition between the last and first books confirms Odysseus’ agenda.63 The conversation between Odysseus-as-Eperitus and Laertes recalls that of Athena-as-Mentes and Telemachus (24.297–303 ~ 1.169–172, 179). Athena gained Telemachus’ confidence by pretending to be an ancestral guest-friend of Odysseus; Odysseus incognito gains Laertes’ trust by pretending to be a newlymade guest-friend of Odysseus. Athena’s objective was to extricate Telemachus from an emotional morass and to spur him to the assumption of his rightful prerogatives; Odysseus’ interaction with Laertes appears to have similar ends in view. (This parallel will operate on the narratorial level only: Odysseus has not witnessed the Book 1 scene.)

Laertes’ Reply to Odysseus’ First Speech (280–301) Laertes responds by shedding tears (κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβων, 280), as Odysseus did previously after observing him (κατὰ δάκρυον εἶβε, 234). Odysseus had grieved 61 62 63

In κερτομία, the speaker distorts the truth or pretends to less knowledge than they have: Il. 1.539–543 (cf. 555–558); 5.418–425; 16.744–750; Od. 13.326; 18.349–355. Cf. 3.352–355; 15.196–197; Il. 6.215–231. Currie 2020. Cf. De Jong 2001: 565.

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at the sight of his father’s living-death existence;64 Laertes now grieves at Odysseus’ being as good as dead (290–296). Odysseus incognito dwelled on the treatment that would be fitting for Laertes (ἔοικεν, 254; ἡ γὰρ δίκη ἐστὶ γερόντων, 255); Laertes dwells on the treatment that would have been fitting for Odysseus, presumed dead (ἐπεώικει, 295; τὸ γὰρ γέρας ἐστὶ θανόντων, 255). Odysseus enquired disingenuously into Laertes’ identity (256–257); Laertes enquires genuinely into that of Odysseus incognito (297–298). This convergence in behaviour is suggestive of an emotional rapprochement (conscious or not) between the two: we see something similar in the speeches of Odysseus and Penelope (23.166–172, 174–180).65

Odysseus’ Second Speech (302–314) In his second speech, Odysseus identifies himself as Eperitus son of Apheidas, son of Polypemon, from Alybas in Sicania (304–307).66 What exactly these speaking names bespeak is unclear (apart from generosity and wealth, in the case of Apheidas and Polypemon), but they are hardly a riddle, challenging Laertes to guess Odysseus’ identity.67 We may wonder in particular about the Sicanian alias, and why it is preferred to the habitual cover-story of Odysseus incognito as a Cretan guest-friend of Odysseus (14.199–206, 19.172–184).68 Odysseus’ desire to conciliate Laertes seems again to be paramount. Retiring to the country, Laertes entrusted himself to the care of an old Sicel woman. We hear of her in the first Book (1.191–192), but of her ethnicity only in the last (24.211–212, 366–367, 389–390). Laertes’ predilection for the agros and for this single old Sicel female slave epitomizes his antipathy for megaron and asty, overrun by the numerous aristocratic young men of Ithaca and neighbouring Doulichion, Samê, Zacynthus, and Cephallenia (1.245–247, 24.354–355). The trust between Laertes and his Sicel carer contrasts with the violent relations that the Suitors themselves take for granted with Sicels (as slave-traffickers, 20.382–383; compare the brutal king Echetus, 18.84–87). If there were expectations that the inhabitants of the periphery of the world were uncivilized

64 65 66 67 68

Cf. 15.353–354. Rutherford 1986: 160 n. 77. Sicania as place of origin: Currie 2020: 20–21. Alden 2017: 300–302. S.R. West 1989: 126.

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and threatening, those at its centre civilized and friendly,69 those expectations are confuted both by the barbaric home-grown Suitors and (oppositely) by Odysseus-as-Eperitus with his fictitious Sicanian-Ithacan xenia-relationship and Laertes with his trusted and devoted Sicel carer.70 Like the guest-friendship with Odysseus that Odysseus incognito has already invented (265–279), the Sicanian alias seems calculated to make Odysseus-as-Eperitus maximally sympathetic to Laertes, prior to the revelation of his true identity: the two ‘strangers’ bond through fictionalized indirect ties (and, paradoxically, via geographically remote Sicania-Sicily) before they bond as father and son.71

Laertes’ Emotional Response (315–317) Laertes receives ‘Eperitus’’ revelation that Odysseus departed from Sicania five years ago in good hopes of making it home as equivalent to a notice of his death.72 His grief-stricken reaction (315–317) reprises Achilles’ to the news of Patroclus’ death (Il. 18.22–24), but the emotive adjective ‘grizzled’ (πολιῆς, sc. κεφαλῆς, 317; perhaps Odysseus’ focalization) substitutes for the reference to Achilles’ ‘beautiful face’ (Il. 18.24). The emotional rawness of Laertes’ response gives the lie to his earlier professed belief in Odysseus’ death (290–296, already undermined by the reiterated που: 290, 291). If Laertes had previously neither dared to hope that his son was still alive nor could he bring himself to accept the likelihood of his death,73 it transpires now that he is capable of being devastated by a fresh blow to the hopes that he is revealed secretly still to harbour. A life without Odysseus is, the Iliadic intertext implies, as unlivable for Laertes as it was for Achilles without Patroclus.

Odysseus’ Emotional Response (318–319) Laertes’ intense emotional response provokes one from Odysseus: ‘his heart was stirred and immediately a pungent force surged up his nostrils as he looked on his father’ (318–319). The expression ὠρίνετο θυμός is formulaic, covering

69 70 71 72 73

Dougherty 2001: 136. Currie 2020: 28–39. Currie 2020: 31-32. Compare De Jong 2001: 580. Cf. 1.161–168 (Telemachus).

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a range of emotional responses: anger,74 desire,75 grief, or longing.76 Here we understand something in the range of grief, sorrow, sympathy. By contrast with the non-specificity of that formula, the description of the somatic effect is both vivid and non-formulaic (compare above). Odysseus feels a sudden stingingstabbing sensation at the back of the nostrils—like that administered by a rapier or, perhaps, a hefty dose of horseradish (compare above, on the phenomenology of emotions).77 Laertes’ grief at the prospect of Odysseus’ death (315–317) is juxtaposed with Odysseus’ grief (318–319) at the sight of what his loss would mean to Laertes. Thus the reunion, which immediately follows, is prefaced by a simulation of what it would mean, to both parties, for the relationship to be voided; we find the same in the reunion between Penelope and Odysseus (23.166–204).78

Laertes and Odysseus Reunite (320–360) Odysseus kisses and embraces Laertes and tells him that he has come home (320–322), only now doing what he initially considered doing straightaway (236–237). This does not imply that a putative test has ‘failed’ or ‘backfired.’79 The more likely implication is that Odysseus is satisfied that the reunion has now been adequately prepared. Odysseus assures Laertes of his identity with the sêmata of the scar (331– 335) and the trees of the orchard (336–344). This, again, parallels the reunion with Penelope, where the scar (reported by Euryclea, 23.73–77, not seen by Penelope) is reinforced by the sêma of the bed (23.188–202). The scar, revealed first, is sufficient to identify Odysseus to Penelope or Laertes (as to Euryclea, Eumaeus, and Philoetius); the second sêma does not furnish further, superfluous, proof of Odysseus’ identity, but goes to restore an emotional bond that is unique to each relationship.80 In each case, the sêma involves trees,81 a fitting symbol of the organic vitality of each relationship. On receiving the sêmata, Laertes’ ‘knees and heart gave’ (345). The formula (see above) is apparently used non-formulaically: only here for joy-relief, and 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

20.10. Il. 3.395. 17.150. Cf. Van Bennekom 1984: 349.28–30; differently, O’Sullivan 2008: 676.48–49. Beßlich 1966: 92. Scodel 1998: 14; Rutherford 1986: 161–162. 23.108–110, 225–227; Currie, forthcoming; cf. Nünlist 2015: 9–10. Louden 2011: 90.

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only here leading to loss of consciousness, fainting (348–349). The following line reprises a line used in the reunion with Penelope (346 ~ 23.206) and in their reunion manqué in Book 19 (250): ‘as s/he recognized the signs, which Odysseus declared to her/him, steadfast ones’—not merely a mechanical repetition, but underlining the thematic link between the three passages.

Laertes Bathed, Clothed, and Victorious in Battle (361–385) The narrative subsequent to the reunion emphasizes Laertes’ emotional restoration; the narrative honours him by putting him on a par with Odysseus. His bathing and the dressing (365–374) have a transformative-restorative effect, reversing the transformative effect that Odysseus’ absence had. The motif is otherwise attached to Odysseus with Nausicaa (6.224–245; 8.449–468) and Penelope (23.153–172); there are striking verbal echoes between the scenes (note, for instance, 23.153–155 ~ 24.365–367; 23.163 ~ 24.370). Odysseus’ wonderment at the transformed Laertes (370–372) further recalls Telemachus’ at the transformed Odysseus (16.178–180), making this a case of ‘the biter bit’ (as in the reunion of Odysseus and Penelope).82 Laertes’ clothing in a fine cloak (367), in lieu of his rags (227, 250), reprises another theme of the reunion of Odysseus with Penelope (22.486–489; 23.95, 115, 155). For both Odysseus and Laertes, doffing the rags and donning fine clothing symbolizes restoration to status, their reinstatement as the person each needs to be.83 In the battle against the kinsmen, a lesser doublet of the mnêstêrophonia of Book 22, Laertes kills Eupeithes (523), the father of Antinous, Odysseus’ first victim in the mnêstêrophonia (424, 22.8–21): a fitting expression of parity-cumaffinity between Laertes and Odysseus. According to Scodel, Odysseus’ first speech to Laertes (244–279) intends to goad him into playing a heroic role in the coming battle with the kinsmen.84 However, the ‘heart-cutting (?) words’ of 254–255 are hardly designed to incite Laertes to fight, but to recall him to the living conditions appropriate to his age and station, a ‘sleek old age’ (λιπαρὸν γῆρας, 19.368),85 not the ‘baneful old age’ that currently besets him (γῆρας | λυγρόν, 249–250). The sixty-plus Laertes

82 83 84 85

Rutherford 1986: 160; De Jong 2001: 576. Murnaghan 1987: 26–29. Scodel 1998: 10, 15. Cf. Sels 2013: 193. Falkner 1995: 10.

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is too old for (ordinary) combat.86 His shroud is being woven (2.99–100), and he is described as clinging on to life (15.353–357).87 The arming of Laertes and Dolius is narrated as incidental to the arming of the younger men (498 ἐν δ’ ἄρα κτλ.): something the latter tolerate, perhaps, more than actively desiderate. Odysseus never mentions any intention to recruit Laertes (or Dolius) where we might have expected him to do so, if he had such (357, 214–218; 23.138–140). But above all, it would be disgraceful for Odysseus to goad a parent into battle.88 For his part, Laertes is no Cincinnatus, an old-timer who must be brought back out of retirement on the farm to save the day militarily; it is a signal narrative surprise that he does so.89 Odysseus’ motives in the reunion with Laertes are not ‘practical and straightforward,’90 but emotional and indirect.

Conclusions The narrative in 213–360 features explicit and thick descriptions of emotions. It also features significant underspecification,91 leaving the narratee to infer the characters’ emotions.92 Differing interpretations of the Odysseus-Laertes reunion and divergent views of Odysseus’ motives and character are thus inevitable. Against the kind of interpretation offered here, S.R. West has objected: ‘it is hard to see how an archaic audience could be expected to appreciate Odysseus’ motives without some guidance.’93 Such guidance can be seen, above all, in parallels with earlier scenes and in the subtle depictions of the characters’ emotions. Homeric characters must be allowed to have significant unspoken thoughts and feelings.94 The narratee, like the characters themselves, needs to make mentalistic attributions.95 The Odyssey thus acquires a psychological realism that invites tempered comparison with the modern novel.96 Mind-reading is 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96

Cf. Il. 3.150; 4.311–325 (Falkner 1995: 14); 8.518; 18.514–515; Verg. Aen. 2.507–525. Falkner 1995: 37. Cf. Il. 22.66–76; Tyrt. fr. 10.19–27 West. Laertes’ request for rejuvenation (376–382) must appear formulaic: cf. 14.468; Il. 4.318–319, 9.445–447, 11.670–671. Scodel 1998: 1. Cave 2016: 25, 27, 199. Differently, on the narrative’s underspecifications, Scodel 1998: 7, 14, 16. See also Scodel 2014: 65–74. S.R. West 1989: 126, arguing against e.g. Thornton 1970: 118; Heubeck 1992: 390, 396. De Jong 1994. Pace Auerbach 1953: 6. De Jong 2018: 36–39, 45; Currie, forthcoming. De Jong 1994: 80; cf. Griffin 1987: 58–59; pace Scodel 1998: 1–2; S.R. West 2012: 532.

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strongly associated with the modern novel.97 Yet, in the same way as narratology,98 it is inalienable from the Homeric poems. The phenomenology and conceptualization of emotion in the ancient world do not map exactly onto ours, yet there are crucial areas of convergence.99 Something similar appears also to be true, in necessarily complex ways, of ancient Greek oral(-derived) poetry and modern literature. Vivid descriptions of emotion, focalization, and mind-reading ensure, on some level, the listener’s (reader’s) own emotional response to this narrative; the Odyssey seems explicitly aware of this process (1.337–344; 8.83–92, 521– 531).100 Lastly, the reunion of Laertes and Odysseus appears exceptionally well integrated into the rest poem; it offers scant ground for doubting the authenticity of Book 24.101

Abbreviations CGCG KG LfgrE OED Stallbaum

Emde Boas, E. van, Rijksbaron, A., Huitink, L., Bakker, M. de, The Cambridge Grammar of Classical Greek (Cambridge 2019). Kühner, R., Gerth, B., Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache. Zweiter Teil: Satzlehre, vols i–ii (3rd edn., Hannover / Leipzig 1898–1904). Snell, B. et al. (eds.), Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos, vols i–xxv (Göttingen 1955–2010). The Oxford English Dictionary (2nd edn., Oxford 1989; Additions, Oxford 1993, 1997); oed.com. Stallbaum, J.G. (ed.), Eustathii Archiepiscopi Thessalonicensis Commentarii ad Homeri Odysseam, vols i–ii (Leipzig 1825–1826).

Bibliography Alden, M., Para-Narratives in the Odyssey. Stories in the Frame (Oxford 2017). Arnould, D., Le rire et les larmes dans la littérature grecque d’Homère à Platon (Paris 1990).

97 98 99 100 101

Zunshine 2006. De Jong 1991: 405–406, 413, 420–421. Cairns 2003: 11–14, 49. Murray 1996: 123 (Penelope and Odysseus, however, are not typical listeners). For a succinct defence, see De Jong 2001: 565–566, pace e.g. S.R. West 1989.

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Auerbach, E., Mimesis. The Representation of Reality in Western Literature, tr. by W.R. Trask ([1946] Princeton and Oxford 1953). Bennekom, R. van, art. ‘δριμύς’, LfgrE xi (1984) 349. Beßlich, S., Schweigen—Verschweigen—Übergehen. Die Darstellung des Unausgesprochenen in der Odyssee (Heidelberg 1966). Cairns, D.L., ‘Ethics, Ethology, Terminology: Iliadic Anger and the Cross-Cultural Study of Emotion’, in S.M. Braund, G.W. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003) 11–49. Cairns, D.L., ‘Bullish Looks and Sidelong Glances: Social Interaction and the Eyes in Ancient Greek Culture’, in D.L. Cairns (ed.), Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds (Swansea 2005) 123–153. Cairns, D.L. (ed.), Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds (Swansea 2005). Cairns, D.L., ‘Clothed in Shamelessness, Shrouded in Grief. The Role of “Garment” Metaphors in Ancient Greek Concepts of Emotion’, in G. Fanfani, M. Harlow, M.-L. Nosch (eds.), Spinning Fates and the Song of the Loom. The Use of Textiles, Clothing and Cloth Production as Metaphor, Symbol and Narrative Device in Greek and Latin Literature (Oxford / Philadelphia 2016) 25–41. Cave, T., Thinking with Literature. Towards a Cognitive Criticism (Oxford 2016). Chantraine, P., Grammaire homérique. Tome 2: Syntaxe (Paris 1963). Currie, B.G.F., ‘Sicily and Italy in the Odyssey’, Hesperìa: Studi sulla grecità di Occidente 36 (2020) 9–39. Currie, B.G.F., ‘Recognizing Odysseus, Reading Penelope: The anagnorisis in the Twenty-third Book of the Odyssey’ (forthcoming in JHS). Danek, G., Epos und Zitat. Studien zu den Quellen der Odyssee (Vienna 1998). Dougherty, C., The Raft of Odysseus. The Ethnographic Imagination of Homer’s Odyssey (New York / Oxford 2001). Falkner, T.M., The Poetics of Old Age in Greek Epic, Lyric, and Tragedy (Norman / London 1995). Fenik, B., Studies in the Odyssey (Wiesbaden 1974). Föllinger, S., ‘Tears and Crying in Archaic Greek Poetry (especially Homer)’, in T. Fögen (ed.), Tears in the Graeco-Roman World (Berlin 2009) 17–36. Griffin, J., Homer. The Odyssey (Cambridge 1987). Halliwell, S., Greek Laughter: A Study of Cultural Psychology from Homer to Early Christianity (Cambridge 2008). Heubeck, A., ‘Books xxiii–xxiv’, in J. Russo, M. Fernández-Galiano, A. Heubeck (eds.), Homer’s Odyssey Volume iii: Books xvii–xxiv (Oxford 1992) 311–418. Hillers, D.R., ‘A Convention in Hebrew Literature: The Reaction to Bad News’, Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 77 (1965) 86–90. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Narratology and Oral Poetry: The Case for Homer’, Poetics Today 12 (1991) 405–423.

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Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Between Word and Deed: Hidden Thoughts in the Odyssey’, in I.J.F. de Jong, J.P. Sullivan (eds.), Modern Critical Theory and Classical Literature (Leiden 1994) 27–50. Jong, I.J.F. de, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018) 27–45. Kelly, A., ‘With, or Without, Homer: Hearing the Background in Sappho’, in P.J. Finglass, A. Rengakos, B. Zimmerman (eds.), More than Homer Knew. Studies on Homer and His Ancient Commentators (Berlin / Boston 2020) 269–292. Kucharski, J., ‘Mocking the Wasps or the Meaning of Homeric κερτομία Again’, Mnemosyne 73 (2020) 891–914. Langholf, V., art. ‘τήκω’, LfgrE xxii (2008) 450–451. Lloyd, M., ‘The Politeness of Achilles: Off-Record Conversation Strategies in Homer and the Meaning of “Kertomia”’, JHS 124 (2004) 74–89. Louden, B., Homer’s Odyssey and the Near East (Cambridge 2011). Lyne, R.O.A.M., Words and the Poet. Characteristic Techniques of Style in Vergil’s Aeneid (Oxford 1989). Macleod, C.W., Homer. Iliad, Book xxiv (Cambridge 1982). Monsacré, H., The Tears of Achilles, tr. by N.J. Snead, introduction by R.P. Martin ([1984] Washington DC 2018) nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_MonsacreH.The_Tears _of_Achilles.2018 (accessed 9-7-2020). Murnaghan, S., Disguise and Recognition in the Odyssey (Princeton 1987). Murray, P., Plato on Poetry: Ion, Republic 376e–398b, Republic 595–608b (Cambridge 1996). Nünlist, R., ‘“If in truth you are Odysseus:” Distrust and Persuasion in the Odyssey’, SO 89 (2015) 2–24. O’Sullivan, J.N., art. ‘λύω’, LfgrE xiv (1991) 1726–1730. O’Sullivan, J.N., art. ‘τύπτω’, LfgrE xxiii (2008) 674–675. Paul, S.M., ‘The Mesopotamian Background of Daniel 1–6’, in J.J. Collins, P.W. Flint (eds.), The Book of Daniel. Composition and Reception. Volume 1 (Leiden 2001) 55– 68. Pullman, P., His Dark Materials (London 2001). Russo, J., ‘Books xvii–xx’, in J. Russo, M. Fernández-Galiano, A. Heubeck (eds.), Homer’s Odyssey Volume iii: Books xvii–xxiv (Oxford 1992) 1–127. Russo, J., Fernández-Galiano, M., Heubeck, A. (eds.), Homer’s Odyssey Volume iii: Books xvii–xxiv (Oxford 1992). Rutherford, R.B., ‘The Philosophy of the Odyssey’, 106 (1986) 145–162. Scodel, R., ‘The Removal of the Arms, the Recognition with Laertes, and Narrative Tension in the Odyssey’, CPh 93 (1998) 1–17. Scodel, R., ‘Narrative Focus and Elusive Thought in Homer’, in D.L. Cairns, R. Scodel (eds.), Defining Greek Narrative (Edinburgh 2014) 55–74.

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Sels, N., ‘The Untold Death of Laertes. Revaluating [sic] Odysseus’ Meeting with His Father’, Mnemosyne 66 (2013) 181–205. Silk, M.S., Interaction in Poetic Imagery with Special Reference to Greek Poetry (Cambridge 1974). Stelter, K., Nebensätze bei Aristophanes. Syntax, Semantik, Pragmatik (Wiesbaden 2004). Thornton, A., People and Themes in Homer’s Odyssey (London 1970). Wees, H. van, ‘Trailing Tunics and Sheepskin Coats: Dress and Status in Early Greece’, in L. Cleland, M. Harlow, L. Llewelyn-Jones (eds.), The Clothed Body in the Ancient World (Oxford 2005a) 44–52. Wees, H. van, ‘Clothes, Class and Gender in Homer’, in D.L. Cairns (ed.), Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds (Swansea 2005b) 1–36. West, M.L., Hesiod. Theogony (Oxford 1966). West, M.L. (ed.), Homerus Odyssea (Berlin / Boston 2017). West, S.R., ‘Laertes Revisited’, PCPhS 35 (1989) 113–143. West, S.R., ‘Some Reflections on Alpamysh’, in F. Montanari, A. Rengakos, C. Tsagalis (eds.), Homeric Contexts. Neoanalysis and the Interpretation of Oral Poetry (Berlin / Boston 2012) 531–541. Zanker, A.T., Metaphor in Homer. Time, Speech, and Thought (Cambridge 2019). Zunshine, L., Why We Read Fiction. Theory of Mind and the Novel (Columbus, OH 2006).

chapter 9

Love and Anger: Emotions in Hesiod Hugo Koning

Introduction: Emotions Everywhere Why search for emotions in a genealogical poem and a farmer’s almanac? Well, because the Theogony and Works and Days are far more complex than such outdated characterizations imply, and, contrary to what one may at first suspect, there are many emotions in both poems.1 One obvious reason for this is that there are several narrative passages in the poems, especially in the Theogony, with characters interacting and experiencing emotions; one can think of the clash between Uranus and Cronus (in the Theogony), for instance, or that between Zeus and Prometheus (in both the Theogony and Works and Days).2 Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, passages need not be narrative in order to contain emotions. According to Hogan, there are six ‘structural components’ of emotions: eliciting conditions, action readiness, conscious preoccupation, expression, bodily disturbance, and phenomenological tone.3 Arguably, it is narrative that could most easily and naturally accommodate these components; one could perhaps even say that an author focusing on such components is ipso facto engaged in narrative. On the other hand, it is obviously unnecessary for a literary passage to convey a character’s emotions by neatly ticking all the boxes above. Furthermore, as Oatley points out, there are more emotions than those that come up suddenly, create a physical reaction, and produce an act. He also distinguishes emotional states that are of a longer duration, such as ‘moods’ (that can ‘be of uncertain provenance’ so that one cannot

1 I leave the Catalogue of Women (despite its Hesiodic nature) out of the discussion because it is too fragmentary. Nor will I discuss the Shield, in light of its disputed authorship. 2 There are six narrative passages in the Theogony. Three belong to the main storyline of Zeus’ ascension to power: Cronus vs. Uranus (154–210), the first part of Zeus vs. Cronus (453–506), and the second part (617–735); three others are labeled ‘narrative digressions’ by Hamilton 1989: the offspring of Keto (270–336), the Prometheus story (507–616), and the Typhoeus episode (820–880). The Works and Days offers three narratives, all in the first half of the poem: the Prometheus story (47–105), the myth of the Five Ages (106–201), and the fable of the hawk and the nightingale (202–212). 3 Hogan 2003: 145–146. Phenomenological tone is the experiential feeling associated with the emotion.

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identify eliciting conditions), ‘sentiments’, which last even longer, or ‘preference’, a ‘silent emotion waiting for an opportunity to express itself in a choice we make.’4 This inclusive notion of emotions allows for non-narrative passages to be full of emotions as well. In the so-called hymn to Hecate, for instance, we see the goddess and those honouring her display ‘typical’ emotional states, Hecate being ‘zealous’ to grant victory to kings and athletes (Th. 433), while the person achieving victory is ‘joyful’ (Th. 438) to carry off the prize. Similarly, such emotional vignettes can be effectively caught in epithets: Hades and Cerberus, for instance, are ‘pitiless’ (Th. 456; 770), whereas Dionysus is ‘much-cheering’ (Th. 941) and Athena ‘delights in war’ (Th. 926).5 I understand that such ultra-brief touches are a far cry from Proust, but they are nonetheless a way for Hesiod to infuse emotion into his poem and indicate that he understands that emotions are an integral part of the cosmos, the birth and make-up of which he is setting forth in his Theogony. This last point can perhaps be illustrated most clearly in Hesiod’s muchdiscussed choice to put Eros in an extraordinarily prominent position in his Theogony, as the fourth divine entity that comes into being. This prominence is necessary because of Eros’ essential power of creation: without Eros, there will be little gony in the Theogony. Eros can be understood simultaneously as the force of nature necessary for cosmic creation and the emotion manifest in the human (and divine) experience.6 Although Eros is undoubtedly the most significant case, there are more personifications of emotions in the Theogony,7 a proof of the importance of emotions in the universe Hesiod is describing. It is a commonplace in Hesiodic scholarship, although still worth mentioning here, that the singular and divine emotions born in the Theogony are sometimes more complicated when seen from the mortal standpoint in the Works

4 Oatley 2004: 4. 5 All translations are taken from Most 2018, occasionally modified. 6 See Th. 120–122, where Eros is introduced as a cosmic force and is described as ‘the limbmelter—he overpowers the mind and thoughtful counsel of all the gods and of all human beings in their breasts.’ See Most 2013 on the coherent role of Eros in Hesiod’s poems. 7 Such as Desire (Himeros, 63), Distress (Oizus, 214), and Indignation (or ‘Retribution’) (Nemesis, 223). It is of interest that these personifications do not seem to be especially marked as emotions. For instance: Night gives birth to such beings as Death, Sleep, Blame, the Hesperides, the Fates, the Destinies, and Old Age, as well as to Distress, Indignation, and Love. Similarly, Strife brings forth the emotion Recklessness, amid some personifications as Hunger, Pains, Murders, Lies, Lawlessness, and Oath. There are a few emotions personified in the Works and Days as well, such as Envy (Zêlos, 195), Shame (Aidôs, 200), and Indignation again (200). See for the personifications of emotions in Hesiod also Koning 2018a: 57–58.

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and Days. The locus classicus for this point is Strife (Eris), the singular divine entity in the Theogony (225) that is described as having a dual aspect in the beginning of the Works and Days (11–26): an evil one, which leads to war, and a positive side (that could be described as healthy competition), which leads to work and wealth. Another example is Shame (Aidôs), which is normally a good thing, regulating social relations, but becomes bad when one is in dire straits, because it prohibits poor people from asking for help (Op. 317–319). This duality of emotional states, though far from the taxonomies of Ekman and others,8 points to active reflection on emotions and perhaps some kind of classification on the part of Hesiod. Incidentally, it is this duality in the Works and Days that helps us understand one of its most-discussed emotions: Hope or Anticipation (Elpis). As is well known, Hope is the only thing left in the jar of evils that is opened by Pandora when she is sent down from the Olympus and received by Epimetheus (Op. 90–99). Elpis poses a logical conundrum that has bothered scholars for ages, for at least two reasons. Firstly (and foremost): how can hope, with its positive connotation, be kept in a jar with evils like death and disease? And, secondly, how can hope be left in the jar while we humans still possess it, just like the evils that escaped the jar? I believe that Elpis, whether we interpret it as hope or, more neutrally, as anticipation or expectation, fits in the jar nicely with the other phenomena that were wholly unknown to humankind in the Golden Age of ease and plenty, and thus, as a phenomenon essentially undesired and unnecessary, not positive.9 Humans (only consisting of men at that time) had no need of women, jars, and hope: during the golden reign of Cronus, they received nature’s bounty without having to lift a finger. But after Pandora’s arrival on earth, which caused the human condition to shift radically into a life that did require women and jars to survive, hope/anticipation became fundamentally positive: in fact, Hesiod’s poem depends on mankind’s ability to anticipate the order and regularity of the natural world. Unlike death and disease, which are beyond our control and ‘out there’ in the world, Elpis, like the foods and seeds we keep in jars for later, is within our span of control—if we are smart. Just as in the case of Shame, the evaluation of Hope depends on one’s point of view. In this chapter, I will focus on two subjects. First, I will briefly discuss emotions in the Theogony, and I will pay special attention to the most prominent of

8 Paul Ekman made a case for the existence of six basic and universal emotions (e.g. 1992); others mapped the emotions in far more inclusive taxonomies (see e.g. Robert Plutchik’s ‘wheel of emotions’ (based on eight primary emotions), first published in 1980). See Vergados (2022) on these dual concepts in Hesiod. 9 Cf. Op. 500, where hope is in fact qualified as ‘not good’ when it inspires procrastination.

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Zeus’ emotions, anger. This surfaces most clearly in the Prometheus episode, which allows me to compare the Theogony’s version with that in Works and Days. Next, I will briefly discuss some of the ways in which Hesiod underscores his didactic message in the Works and Days by appealing to emotions. We will see that a didactic poem also has plenty of room for emotions, and that they can be put to good use. Throughout the chapter, my focus will be on emotions that are explicitly mentioned and can be translated with a fair amount of certainty.10

Angry Zeus: Emotions in the Theogony One remarkable quality of the narrative passages in the Theogony (and, to a lesser degree, in the Works and Days) is that there is less attention given to emotions than one would perhaps expect. Throughout the poem, characters constantly ‘mingle in love’ or clash on a cosmic scale, but the audience only rarely gets to know what motivates the gods and how they themselves feel. For instance, we do not hear why Cronus decides to eat his children, what motivates Prometheus to help mankind or how he feels after his punishment by Zeus, or how the Titans and Olympians actually experience the Titanomachy.11 Obviously, the narrator’s focus is on the birth and the structure of the cosmos, and it is not his goal to elaborate on such passages and transform them into the full-blown narrative texts that we know from Homer. Nevertheless, there are exceptions, most notably in the first stage of the divine succession story, about Cronus and Uranus. The action sequence here is exceptionally well motivated when compared to the part of the Theogony that follows: Uranus ‘hates’ (155) his children and thus leaves them unborn, which causes ‘grief’ to Gaea (163). She wants her children to help her, but they are all seized by ‘dread’ (167), except Cronus, who takes ‘courage’ (168). Cronus ‘hates’ (138) his father and ‘does not care’ (171) about him. His help makes Gaea ‘rejoice’ (173). Thus, when Uranus approaches Gaea out of ‘desire for love’ (177), Cronus ‘eagerly’ (181) attacks and castrates him. Uranus then vows revenge (210), and so the passage ends. To us this may still seem rather brief and basic, but there are no other passages in the Theogony that pay so much explicit attention to the

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This translation, however, by no means wishes to gloss over the significant temporal, geographical, and cultural boundaries between ancient Greek terminology and modern understanding; this uncertainty also applies to the fact that in Hesiod’s time the distinction between cognition and emotion was much less clear than today. Similarly, we are not told why the hawk is so cruel to the nightingale (Op. 202–212).

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emotions of its characters.12 Perhaps Hesiod elaborates his first central narrative so as to be able to be more concise elsewhere, providing a ‘blueprint’, as it were, of the emotions involved in dynastic struggle. Of the series of emotions mentioned, grief seems to be the most central to the Theogony’s tale of Zeus’ rise to power. It is Gaea’s grief (caused by her mate Uranus) that makes her seek out an avenger, and it is later the ‘unremitting grief’ (467) of Rhea (caused by the cannibalistic urges of her mate Cronus) that makes her hide her sixth child, which allows this second avenger to grow up ‘unconquered and untroubled’ (489) and later overthrow his father’s reign. In both cases, wrongs are made right by the next in line. Zeus, however, is never said to cause grief (even though he himself eats his first partner Metis) and thus ends the string of successions: his reign is eternal. When Zeus’ challenger arrives in the form of the monster Typhoeus, the pattern is broken. There is no divine grief that causes this latest confrontation, and Typhoeus is not an avenger. Zeus defeats Typhoeus and instead causes him to grieve (868).13 This grief, that does not spark the conflict but instead marks the end of it, lives on, interestingly, in the numerous evil storms on earth, which are ‘a great woe’ (874) to mortals, beings that only rarely appear in the Theogony. Naturally, the misery of humans is no cause for a new rebellion—it is in fact an unmistakable quality of Zeus’ reign that, as Hesiod further explains in the Works and Days, we mortals just have to deal with. Divine grief thus transforms into human suffering, with a reference to the Hesiodic poem that is complementary to the Theogony. The other exception to the general scarcity of explicit emotions in the narrative passages in Hesiodic poetry is the portrayal of Zeus in his conflict with Prometheus, in both the Theogony and Works and Days. In these passages, there is a remarkable emphasis on Zeus’ anger towards Prometheus: the emotion— the noun cholos (‘anger’) or the cognate verbs choloô and chôomai (‘to be angry’, ‘to rage’)—is mentioned seven times in the Theogony, and twice more in the Works and Days.14 First, foreshadowing the Prometheus episode while talking 12

13 14

We may still wonder as to the motivations behind the ‘hatred’ of Uranus and Cronus for each other. The ancient audience, however, would have understood Uranus wanted to stay in power. Cronus may be motivated by his mother’s grief and/or his own desire for power (we can perhaps understand Th. 138, ‘he hated his vigorous father’, as a case of embedded focalization). For feelings of desire and grief in relation to revenge and dynastic struggle, see also the contributions on Herodotus in this volume by Rutherford and De Bakker. The breaking of the pattern is also clear from the fact that neither Uranus nor Cronus are said to experience ‘grief’ after their defeat. The narrator uses another verb for Zeus’ anger once, in Th. 558 (ὀχθήσας, hapax in Hesiod). For anger in archaic epic poetry, see also the contributions of Bowie, Van Emde Boas, Kahane, Van der Mije, and Pelling to this volume. For Aeschylus’ version of the Prometheus story, see Bierl in this volume.

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of Heracles’ exploits, the narrator says that Zeus ‘while angry stopped his anger’ for Prometheus (Th. 533), because he allowed Heracles to finally free the Titan from his bonds. This provides the starting point for the narrative passage of the settlement at Mecone (Th. 535–616). In this passage, Zeus is deceived by Prometheus’ division of the ox and is then said to become ‘enraged’ in his breast, while ‘anger’ comes upon his spirit (Th. 554); Zeus then speaks to Prometheus in ‘anger’ (the verb is used to introduce and cap his speech, 558 and 561); his heart is ‘in anger’ when Prometheus subsequently steals fire (568); and in conclusion, the narrator states that Prometheus did not escape Zeus’ ‘heavy anger’ (615, thus coming full circle again to the matter of Prometheus’ punishment). In the Works and Days, which focuses less on the divine conflict and more on its consequences for mankind,15 Zeus is said to have concealed fire because he was ‘angry’ in his heart (Op. 47); soon afterwards, he speaks ‘in anger’ (Op. 53) to Prometheus in this passage as well.16 The narrator apparently goes to great lengths to make clear that Zeus was really angry with Prometheus. Why this emphasis? In fact, Zeus is the only character in Hesiod’s poems who has cholos,17 which is perhaps all the more remarkable as it is one of the primary emotions.18 Furthermore, Zeus’ anger is well motivated, in contrast to other emotions in the poems; it is clearly linked to Prometheus’ deceit and the general hybris of taking on Zeus in a battle of wits.19 It may be that Zeus believes his position is threatened even more because it is Prometheus who is ‘dividing’ up the ox (Th. 537), whereas it is often stressed in the Theogony that Zeus’ hegemony in fact rests on his wise distribution of all the honours (timai) among the pantheon.20 But Prometheus does not only appear to undermine this position, he also aims (and in fact succeeds) to lessen the honours due to Zeus and the other gods in sacrificial ritual, allowing mankind to have the meat and the innards of the victim and giving its useless bones to the gods. The connection between timai and cholos is made explicit in the

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See Chapter 5 of Strauss Clay 2003 and Fraser 2011 on the complementarity of the Prometheus episodes of the Theogony and Works and Days. Theogony: καί περ χωόμενος παύθη χόλου (533); χώσατο δὲ φρένας ἀμφί, χόλος δὲ μιν ἵκετο θυμόν (554); ὀχθήσας (558); χωόμενος (561); ἐχόλωσε δέ μιν φίλον ἦτορ (568); χόλον (615). Works and Days: χολωσάμενος (47; 53). The only exception is a group of gods called the Fates (Kêres), who ‘never cease from their terrible anger (cholos) until they give evil punishment to whoever commits a crime’ (Th. 221–222). See Introduction, 4; 14. Prometheus’ deception is repeatedly stated, and explicitly linked to Zeus’ anger in Th. 553– 555 and Op. 47–48. See Th. 534 for the conflict as a battle of wits. Cf. Strauss Clay 2003: 107–108.

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only other case of Zeus’ cholos, where his anger is aimed at the members of the Silver Age, ‘because they did not give honours (timai) to the blessed gods’ (Op. 138–139). Much like an epic hero, Zeus becomes angry when his status is threatened. Hesiod’s focus on this well-known heroic mechanism would presumably have contributed to understanding why Zeus committed himself to a series of acts that doomed mankind. Nevertheless, the anger of Zeus, so prominent in the two Prometheus episodes, is not beyond control. There is much to suggest that this emotion is in fact regulated somehow by reason. As we have already seen, Zeus is able to cease from his anger while being angry; and throughout the poem, Hesiod takes great care to stress Zeus’ extraordinary mental capabilities. In this passage as well, Zeus is pictured as the god ‘who knows eternal counsels’,21 and in fact perceives Prometheus’ deception, thus allowing himself to be deceived, in order to punish Prometheus and mankind for Prometheus’ deeds. Much has been said about this remarkable and seemingly illogical dynamic, presumably caused by Hesiod’s attempt to graft his vision of a sublime and infallible Zeus onto an original tale that portrayed the supreme god as genuinely deceived by the crooked-counseled Prometheus.22 What is of interest to us, however, is that Zeus is apparently able to make cholos instrumental and subordinate it to his plans. He allows himself to become angry in order to fulfil his evil plans for Prometheus and mankind. This kind of instrumentalization or weaponization of emotion, or subordination to a cognitive act, such as the execution of a plan, is, as far as I know, unique in archaic epic.23 It appears that Zeus’ remarkable strategy is, at least partly, motivated by Hesiod’s desire to accommodate this ancient tale and at the same time keep his Zeus from making mistakes. But still, the use of anger as a tool to fulfil mankind’s destiny does fit very well with Hesiod’s take on the human condition, and perhaps his theodicy as well. According to Hesiod, the world is governed by Zeus’ inescapable justice, and the universe is regulated and orderly enough to formulate rules and guidelines for living successfully in it (witness the Works and Days); nevertheless, it is also part of Zeus’ order that there is plenty of grief for humans. Although we can debate the justice

21 22 23

Th. 545; 550; 561. So e.g. West 1966 ad 551. But see Clay 2003: 100, who resists the view of Hesiod’s Prometheus tale as a ‘rather unsatisfactory synthesis of heterogeneous elements.’ In Homer’s epics, it is the anger of other gods that Zeus takes into account in devising his plans for mankind. A good example is Poseidon’s anger at Odysseus for killing Polyphemus. Although important, it is not the only factor in Zeus’ decisions on Odysseus’ fate. See Van der Mije in this volume.

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of punishing humans for the crime that Prometheus committed, divine cholos must have unpleasant consequences. And although Prometheus was eventually released from his awful bonds, mankind will suffer forever. It has been recognized that Prometheus and his careless brother Epimetheus (who features in the Works and Days as the one accepting Pandora, even though Prometheus warns him not to take anything from Zeus) can be interpreted as mythical projections of human cognitive capabilities; there is a Prometheus and an Epimetheus in all of us.24 But we must also take into account that the Prometheus episode in both the Theogony and the Works and Days ends with the same explicit conclusion: ‘it is not possible in any way to evade the mind of Zeus.’25 So even when there are humans as intelligent and mindful as Prometheus, they will still not be able to outwit Zeus, the ultimate distributor and organizer of the human universe.26 You can be as thoughtful as possible, plan ahead as well as you can, listen carefully to Hesiod’s advice on life in general and farming in particular, but still reality may unfold itself in a different way than you anticipated. Because Zeus is ultimately inscrutable, Hesiod says it is best to have only one son, but then continues to say ‘and yet Zeus could easily bestow immense wealth upon more people’ because they can haul in a bigger surplus (Op. 376–380). Similarly, he advises us to plough at the winter solstice, but immediately tells us it can actually be good to plough at a later time as well: ‘The mind (noos) of aegis-holding Zeus is different at different times, and it is difficult for mortal men to know it’ (483–484). In this respect, Prometheus or Forethought is very similar to Elpis (or Anticipation) left in Pandora’s jar: it is immensely helpful to mankind because one must look forward in order to succeed, but it was of no use for humans before Zeus started his reign and wanted to end the age of plenty for humans.

Love of Work and Other Emotions in the Works and Days The tale of the two Titan brothers is of course also meant as a mythical exemplum for the relationship between Hesiod himself and his brother Perses, the primary narratee of the Works and Days: Hesiod is like Prometheus, ‘the man

24 25 26

See already the scholia vetera, e.g. 510b and 565, Di Gregorio 2015. Op. 105 (οὕτως οὔ τί πῃ ἔστι Διὸς νόον ἐξαλέασθαι); cf. Th. 613: ‘Thus it is not possible to deceive or elude the mind of Zeus’ (ὣς οὐκ ἔστι Διὸς κλέψαι νόον οὐδὲ παρελθεῖν). Cf. Th. 614–616, which continues the conclusion quoted in the note above as follows: ‘For not even Iapetus’ son, guileful Prometheus, escaped his heavy wrath, but by necessity a great bond holds him down, shrewd though he be.’

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who thinks of everything by himself, considering what will be better, later and in the end’,27 whereas Perses, like Epimetheus, does not think ahead and is in fact in much trouble because of this. From a narratological point of view, the inclusion of Perses in his poem is one of several strategies the narrator employs to create a persona for himself that is knowable and likeable for his broader audience.28 As has often been stated, Hesiod differs enormously from Homer because he inserts several pieces of personal information in his poems, especially in the Works and Days, thus seemingly becoming an actual ‘Mensch von Fleisch und Blut’.29 Whether or not the autobiographical information is true,30 it is undoubtedly put to use rhetorically. Hesiod tells us about his closeness to the Muses and his victory in a poetic competition to increase his trustworthiness, and enhances his likeability with numerous pious remarks and his obvious advocacy of justice. Most importantly, perhaps, he goes to considerable lengths to have us sympathize with him: his father was an immigrant fleeing poverty, he obviously knows hardship and lives in a place that is ‘not ever fine’, no matter what season it is. He occasionally despairs because of all the injustice in the world, and, first and foremost, his very own brother has cheated him of part of the inheritance and is apparently out for even more. It is clear that the narrator invites what we may call emotional contagion: offering the narratees parts of his life story and personal hardships to facilitate their sympathy.31 Hesiod’s autobiographical remarks may not be consistent, especially where the brotherly conflict is concerned, and this has bothered scholars,32 but that does not detract from the poem’s rhetorical impact. The audience feels and is supposed to feel that Perses is a lazy scoundrel, and this characterization justifies Hesiod’s hortatory stance and increases a willingness to take his advice: we do not want to end up as a Perses, however bad that may be. 27

28 29 30 31

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Op. 293–294; Hesiod’s description of the ‘best man’ (panaristos) in this passage is obviously meant for himself. The analogy with the Titans only goes so far, of course, since Zeus punishes Prometheus severely for his cleverness (though he eventually allows Heracles to set him free again, see Th. 521–534). See also Koning 2018a: 53–54 and 58–59. Wilamowitz 1928: 161. See e.g. Koning 2018b: 19–21 for a brief discussion of this matter. The fact that the narrator employs a first-person perspective may increase the effect of emotional contagion, cf. Keen 2007: 96: ‘a commonplace of narrative theory suggests that an internal perspective best promotes character identification and readers’ empathy.’ Keen warns us, however, that results of research on this matter are not unequivocal. See e.g. the discussion in West 1978: 33–40. Canevaro 2015: 26–29, while acknowledging that the relationship between Hesiod and Perses is difficult to reconstruct, does recognize a ‘linear character development’ in Perses.

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The narrator knows full well, as any good teacher, that instruction is more than the mere cognitive act of transferring knowledge. The narrator’s pupil must be willing to learn, just as he must be willing to work.33 That is why Hesiod starts his poem with the beneficial aspects of ‘strife’ (Op. 11–26): zeal inspires the kind of competition that will lead to wealth and success. Similarly, at the very beginning of the actual ‘works’-part of the Works and Days, Hesiod tells us that you must be eager to benefit fully from his instructions and the actual work: ‘If the heart (thumos) in your breast longs for work, then act in this way, and work at work upon work (381–382)’. It is worth mentioning here that a certain blurring between cognition and emotion comes naturally to an age that cares less than we do about distinguishing between cognitive acts that are important to Hesiod’s teaching (recognizing signs, remembering, planning) and the emotions present in his poetry. We can see this, for instance, in the admonitions that are addressed to Perses directly. At the beginning of the poem, the narrator urges his brother to ‘store up’ the instructions in his thumos or ‘heart’, ‘lest gloating Strife keep your heart (thumos) away from work’ (Op. 27–28). The thumos is an internal locus that could be generally regarded as the seat of emotions, but such a distinction between a cognitive or emotional function in ancient poetry is not clear-cut.34 And so, some 100 lines later, Perses is asked to ‘store up’ the Myth of the Five Ages in his phrenes (Op. 106), the ‘midriff’ or ‘inner self’ that houses both the mind and emotions.35 Perses is later urged to ‘utterly forget’ violence (Op. 275) and ‘remember’ Hesiod’s instructions (298). And later again, Hesiod admonishes his brother to keep his ‘mind-damaged heart’ (aesiphrôn thumos, 335) from shameful acts, an expression that is perhaps self-contradictory to us but not to the narrator and his audience. Terminology is not consistent in ancient poetry, and cognition and emotion are not so clearly delineated. Perhaps the notion of ‘cogmotions’36 would be perfectly understandable to Hesiod.

33

34 35

36

In a similar vein, Canevaro argued recently that it is Hesiod’s goal to teach self-sufficiency by making the audience ‘work for their lesson’. According to this reading, the Works and Days is composed as an occasionally enigmatic and difficult poem, so that the audience not only learns to farm but also to think for themselves. According to Canevaro, this is part of Hesiod’s general aim to teach by example. Identical expressions abound in Homer as well; see on the fluidity of epic terminology e.g. Cairns 2014: 3.2, ‘θυμός in Homer’. Similarly, the lesson on justice should be stored up in the phrenes (Op. 274), and Perses should ‘forget’ violence (275). Cf. Sullivan 1989 on the wide range of the meaning of phrenes in Hesiod. See e.g. Keen 2007: 27 on the modern ‘cogmotions’. On the entanglement of cognition and emotion see in this volume also the Introduction and Kahane’s contribution.

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A similar blend between cognition and emotion is visible in the Works and Days’ part on regulating social interaction (286–380). The very fact that you can apparently actively organize your relations to other human beings and thus plan to work towards pleasant emotional states points to a view of emotions as something other than feelings that simply occur to you upon an event. We are asked, for instance, to ‘be friendly to a friend’ (353), give willingly because you will ‘rejoice’ in a gift and so ‘take pleasure in your spirit’ (358), take care not to let friendship get in the way when doing business (370–371), and not be distracted by feelings of lust (373–374).37 If you are smart (enough to listen to Hesiod), you will organize your own success, which will bring happiness. Emotions seem to be understood in terms of appraisal theory, which holds that ‘emotions are elicited not by events as such but by evaluations of events relevant to goals’.38 And these goals are set, planned, and organized by the mind. We see more of this blend of cognition and emotion in the ‘technical’ parts of the Works and Days that are concerned with farming (381–616). Generally speaking, when talking of the results of the farmer’s work, the narrator focuses more on desired emotional states than on product and income. We have already heard that ‘it is woe for the spirit to have need of what you do not have’ (366–367), and we learn further on that you will feel ‘sorrow’ when you need to go begging (399), you will be ‘bitten’ by the plowing-season when you are unprepared (451), you will not be ‘disappointed’ by land left fallow (462), you will ‘rejoice’ as you reap (476), whereas you will ‘not be pleased’ (481) with a small harvest, which ‘few will admire’ (482). In projecting these emotional states, Hesiod adds to his persuasiveness. Even more than full granaries, he is promising joy and fulfilment. A man who works and plans, can expect to receive a reward for working and listening to Hesiod’s advice; if you do neither of these things, anticipation is ‘empty’ (498).

Conclusion Hesiod’s universe is filled with emotions. We can gather their importance from the fact that personified emotions are structural components in the cosmos as it emerges from Chaos in the Theogony. The poem that begins with Desire and ends with several goddesses ‘mingling in love’ with mortals has a notably angry protagonist in the middle. As so often in mythology, divine displeasure

37 38

Cf. Op. 441–447, where feelings are similarly said to be a distraction from work. Hogan 2003: 144.

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leads to human suffering. The orchestrated cholos of Zeus, caused by a challenge to his status as ultimate distributor, leads to a permanent share in misery for humankind. In the Works and Days, our narrator shows us a way out of this. There is a path to wealth and happiness for those who are willing to put in the hard work and listen to Hesiod. As part of his instructive program, emotions are blended with cognition and part of the instruction. There are emotional rewards for people who plan ahead, work tirelessly, and enjoy their wealth. The real key to success, however, is to enjoy the work itself as well. There can be no doubt that this has been one of the driving factors behind all the work of professor De Jong, and I hope and expect this love to continue well after she retires. We are all pupils of this pioneer of narratology in Classics and have benefited greatly from her teaching. It is with reason that Hesiod calls Irene κουροτρόφος, the ‘nurse of the young’ (Op. 228).

Bibliography Cairns, D., ‘Ψυχή, θυμός, and Metaphor in Homer and Plato’, EPlaton 11 (2014) 1–41. Canevaro, L.G., Hesiod’s Works and Days. How to Teach Self-Sufficiency (Oxford 2015). Di Gregorio, L., Scholia vetera in Hesiodi Theogoniam (Milan 1975). Ekman, P., ‘An Argument for Basic Emotions’, Cognition and Emotion 6 (1992) 169–200. Fraser, L.G., ‘A Woman of Consequence: Pandora in Hesiod’s Works and Days’, Cambridge Classical Journal 57 (2011) 9–28. Hamilton, R., The Architecture of Hesiodic Poetry (Baltimore 1989). Hogan, P.C., Cognitive Science, Literature, and the Arts. A Guide for Humanists (London 2003). Keen, S., Empathy and the Novel (Oxford 2007). Koning, H.H., ‘Hesiod’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018a) 46–63. Koning, H.H., ‘The Hesiodic Question’, in A. Loney, S. Scully (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Hesiod (Oxford 2018b) 17–29. Most. G.W., ‘Eros in Hesiod’, in E. Sanders, C. Thumiger, C. Carey, N. Lowe (eds.), Erôs in Ancient Greece (Oxford 2013) 163–174. Most, G.W., Hesiod. Volume i: Theogony, Works and Days, Testimonia (Cambridge, MA 2018). Oatley, K., Emotions. A Brief History (Malden, MA 2004). Plutchik, R., ‘A General Psychoevolutionary Theory of Emotion’, in R. Plutchik, H. Kellerman (eds.), Emotion. Theory, Research and Experience, Theories of Emotion. Vol. 1 (New York 1980) 3–33. Strauss Clay, J., Hesiod’s Cosmos (Cambridge 2003).

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Sullivan, S.D., ‘Phrenes in Hesiod’, in RBPh 67 (1989) 5–17. Vergados, A., ‘Hesiod and Some Linguistic Approaches of the 5th Century bce’, in L. Iribarren, H. Koning (eds.), Hesiod and the Beginnings of Greek Philosophy (Leiden 2022 forthc.) West, M.L., Hesiod. Theogony (Oxford 1966). West, M.L., Hesiod. Works and Days (Oxford 1978). Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U. von, Hesiodus. Erga (Berlin 1928).

part 2 Archaic Epic and Beyond

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chapter 10

The Text as Labyrinth Françoise Létoublon

Yet [Ts’ui Pen] abandoned all to make a book and a labyrinth. He gave up all the pleasures of oppression, justice, of a well-stocked bed, of banquets, and even of erudition, and shut himself up in the Pavilion of the Limpid Sun for thirteen years. At his death, his heirs found only a mess of manuscripts. … As for that other enterprise of Ts’ui Pen … his Labyrinth … “Here is the Labyrinth,” Albert said, pointing to a tall, laquered writing cabinet.—“An ivory labyrinth?” I exclaimed. “A tiny labyrinth indeed …!”—“A symbolic labyrinth,” he corrected me. “An invisible labyrinth of time. … At one time, Ts’ui Pen must have said; ‘I am going into seclusion to write a book,’ and at another, ‘I am retiring to construct a maze.’ Everyone assumed these were separate activities. No one realized that the book and the labyrinth were one and the same.” jorge luis borges, The Garden of the Forking Paths

∵ The narratological theory flow inaugurated in France by Gérard Genette found with Irene de Jong a brilliant successor, as is well known since her first works and as her Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (2001) has confirmed. Leaning on her articles on metalepsis, we will return to the study of some ancient and modern features through which self-reflexivity appears in the texts and artworks. In this essay, I intend to show that, beside the mirror and its reflections, the labyrinth is an adequate symbol of self-reflexivity, and convenient, too, for the expression of vertigo so well conveyed by Jorge Luis Borges, in his critical essays as well as in his literary work.1 The mirror and the labyrinth are sometimes combined in modern visual arts or literature, but we also find examples in antiquity, in the Greek novel and perhaps even in Achilles’ shield, as I shall argue. 1 See particularly The Garden of Forking Paths with the passage quoted here as epigraph, and in the essays the famous and often cited passage of Partial Magic in Quixote. © Françoise Létoublon, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_012

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Metalepsis, Mise en Abyme and Mirror De Jong was for her part first drawn to the narratological concept of metalepsis in the history of storytelling (2009, 2014), and analysed the description of Achilles’ shield as metalepsis, bringing it closer to the notion of mise en abyme (2011):2 Looking at this passage in terms of metalepsis and mise en abyme helps us to see the typically Homeric ways of implicit self-advertisement and poetological reflection: via cooperation with a god (metalepsis) and via the presentation of a work of art within his own poem (mise en abyme). The quality of his narrative art that he wishes to bring to the fore is its enargeia/energeia: its ability to bring people and events from the past alive and put them ‘before the eyes’ of the narratees. After Homer poets will become openly self-conscious and explicitly start to reflect on their own poetic art.3 For mise en abyme, let us return to its inventor Gide, in his Journal in 1893: In a work of art, I rather like to find thus transposed, at the level of the characters, the subject of the work itself … [by comparison] with the device from heraldry that involves putting a second representation of the original shield [blason] ‘en abyme’ within it.4 The phrase ‘mise en abyme’, is linked to heraldry, as the French word blason (‘coat of arms’) proves. In my opinion, the language of heraldry appears to be a trap: when a smaller version of the original shield is reproduced within the heraldic coat of arms, the reproduction is very flat. Gide himself, however, gives—with reservations, to be honest—examples from Flemish painters and the Meninas by Velasquez. In those cases, the presence of a (witch) mirror gives a reduced image of the space shown in the painting. But it is in no case the same image in a smaller form, as is the case in the heraldic ‘mise en abyme’.5 The mirror itself, on the contrary, turns out to be a less ambiguous symbol. We come across it in ancient myths, for instance that of Perseus, who uses 2 This term is borrowed from André Gide’s Journal and analysed by Dällenbach [1977] 1989 with reservations on terminology that I share. 3 De Jong 2011: 11 (my emphasis). Compare in particular Heerink in this volume, and see furthermore the contributions of Bierl (on mise en abyme) and of Allan and Verhelst (on metalepsis). 4 André Gide, Journal, 1893, tr. in D.H. Walker 1996: 101. 5 Stoichita 1999: 251 ill. 30 about a painting by L. de Jongh, which he calls a ‘specular labyrinth’.

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his shield as a mirror to avoid the Gorgon’s gaze when killing her, and that of Narcissus, who falls in love when he observes his own image in the reflecting water.6 Therefore, the mirror may be more useful as literary symbol than ‘mise en abyme’: words like specular, specularity, reflection, reflexive, reflexiveness should be enough for our needs.

Aesthetic Emotion in Homer Reflexivity in texts can be an indication of ‘aesthetic emotion’. The difficulty of defining aesthetic emotion is generally recognized, even in modern periods,7 and all the more so in antiquity, where no word is known to describe it.8 However, we may quote the eloquent silence of the Phaeacians after Odysseus’ narration, which seems to express a strong aesthetic shock (Od.13.1–2): His tale was over now. The Phaeacians all fell silent, hushed, His story holding them spellbound down the shadowed halls.9 transl. robert fagles

In the epics, we encounter objects and individuals that are qualified as ‘beautiful’, but the notion is not applied to more abstract concepts, such as stories. Objects called beautiful are pieces of furniture or means of transport. Apart from Nestor’s cup, perhaps, (δέπας περικαλλές Il. 11.632), the adjective καλός is not used for what we nowadays consider artworks. Besides, no word existed for the category ‘art’ itself, although τέχνη is often translated as such.10 In the Odyssey, Alcinous seems moved by aesthetic pleasure when he gives a sensitive appreciation of Odysseus tales: In your case, there is a shape to your words, and you show sound sense: you have spoken a tale knowingly like a poet.11 Od. 11.367–369

6 7 8 9 10 11

Borel 2002: 95–105 about the mirror in the myth of Perseus, 37–43 about Narcissus. Perlovsky 2014: 1. Halliwell 2012: 16. See De Jong’s commentary ad loc.: ‘The same reaction as after Odysseus stopped narrating the first time: 11.333–334. For the ‘enchanting effect’ (κηληθμῷ) of storytelling, cf. 8.83–92n.’ Though often translated as ‘art’, τέχνη rather means ‘craft’, ‘skill’ or ‘technical knowledge’, see Roochnik 1998. Passage quoted by Goldhill 1991: 47; cf. De Jong’s commentary, 2001: 286.

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It seems to me that the aesthetic emotions12 generally linked to reflexivity play an important although hidden role in ancient literature. One of the most striking examples might consist in the sudden apparition of the old king Priam in Achilles’ tent in Book 24 of the Iliad: As when dense disaster closes on one who has murdered a man of his own land, and he comes to the country of others, to a man of substance, and wonder (θάμβος) seizes on those who behold him, so Achilleus wondered (θάμβησεν) as he looked on Priam, a godlike man, and the rest of them wondered (θάμβησαν) also, and looked on each other. Il. 24.480–484

This unexpected apparition of Priam is compared to that of a ‘despised migrant’, a suppliant with blood on his hands arriving in a foreign country in order to be purified.13 In reality, Achilles is the murderer, and particularly the killer of many of Priam’s sons. Since the simile reverses the roles, it provokes a kind of reciprocity as if a mirror is used. The expressive word θάμβος refers to a ‘mix of admiration and stupor’. In the article that she devotes to this concept Manon Brouillet concludes that it is linked to a ‘divine presence’, and in this case to the fact that Hermes guided Priam to Achilles’ tent.14 Moreover, this emotional reaction does not generally concern art, but rather nature or natural phenomena, such as the sublime landscapes shown in Caspar David Friedrich’s pictorial œuvres.15 The meeting of Priam and Achilles is a spectacle, at the heart of which is this image of reciprocal stupor.16

12 13 14 15

16

Cairns 2017: 64 gives a large analysis of negative emotions in ancient Greek aesthetics (mainly horror), and his remarks include many general insights. See on this simile Alden 2012, Heiden 1998, Létoublon 2018. It is worth remarking that ekphrasis in antiquity is not at all restricted to art, it often concerns persons: see Webb 2009. The passage of the Alps is generally considered the main occasion of feeling it by British travelers in the nineteenth century: John Dennis first in 1693 described his impression as delight ‘mingled with horrors, and sometimes almost with despair’. For Caspar David Friedrich’s painting, see for instance Wanderer above the Sea of Fog of 1817 (Kunsthalle Hamburg), Cross in the Mountains of 1808 (Galerie Neue Meister, Dresden), or Rocky Landscape in the Elbe Sandstone Mountains (1822–1823, Vienna Belvedere). Létoublon 2018.

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Entering the Labyrinth If the mirror with its various shapes and materials seems an adequate symbol for reflexivity, as it has been in history since Plato,17 the labyrinth might be that for the sublime. The labyrinth takes its origin from the myths surrounding Minos, the Minotaur and Theseus: a complex building constructed by Daedalus for king Minos of Crete and commonly identified with the Minoan palace of Cnossus. … The labyrinth’s confusing system of passages, from which no one could escape (Plut. Thes.15), concealed the Minotaur which fed on human victims until destroyed by Theseus (Paus. 1.27.10; Apollod. Bibl. 3.1.4, Epit. 1.7–11). The hero imitated its twists and turns in a ritual dance on Delos (Plut. Thes. 21). OCD, hornblower and spawforth eds., 19963 at the entry ‘Labyrinth’

The labyrinth of Cnossus is never specifically referred to as Daedalus’ construction needed for shutting away the Minotaur before Callimachus.18 Pherecydes of Syros—‘reputed to be the first writer of Greek prose’19—told the story in the fifth century bce, as appears from a scholion on the Odyssean Nekuia.20 However, Hephaestus’ representation of a place of dance on the Homeric shield of Achilles does seem to allude to it, at least if we trust the explicit reference there to Daedalus, Cnossus, and Ariadne:21 And the renowned smith of the strong arms made elaborate on it a dancing floor, like that which once in the wide space of Knossos Daidalos built for Ariadne of the lovely tresses.22 And there were young men on it and young girls, sought for their beauty with gifts of oxen, dancing, and holding hands at the wrist. These wore, the maidens long light robes, but the men wore tunics 17

18 19 20 21 22

Plato seems to have thought that the first mirror in nature is the eye of another person, hence a model for knowing his soul, see Alc. 132e–133a. See Frontisi-Ducroux and Vernant 1997: 121–122. Gantz 1993 refers to Call. Del. 311. The whole story is given in Diodorus of Sicily 4.77.1–4, but it seems to have been already known in Mycenaean times, see thereafter. OCD, entry ‘Pherecydes’. Pherecyd. FGrH 3F148 = schol. Od. 11.322 Dindorf. See Matricon-Thomas 2014. Edwards 1991: 229. The name Ariadne is not sure in the text: Zenodotus read Ἀριήδη, an unexplained form, cf. Edwards 1991: 229.

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of finespun work and shining softly, touched with olive oil. And the girls wore fair garlands on their heads, while the young men carried golden knives that hung from sword-belts of silver. At whiles on their understanding feet they would run very lightly, as when a potter couching makes trial of his wheel, holding it close in his hands, to see if it will run smooth. At another time they would form rows, and run, rows crossing each other. And around the lovely chorus of dancers stood a great multitude happily watching. Il. 18.590–604, transl. lattimore

At first sight, this dance does not seem to bring with it the Borgesian vertigo we are looking for, but the reference might contain more depth than it seems, to begin with the recurring mention of turning, particularly in the simile of the potter turning his wheel. If we follow Borgeaud, the labyrinth, the Minotaur’s jail, served for the initiation of Theseus and the young Athenians, and disappeared after their return, but a ritual dance remembered it.23 Indeed, perhaps the materiality of the labyrinth has no actual importance for us, besides the pure idea of the labyrinth as a prison without doors, which hides a secret in its centre and prevents anyone entering to exit again.24 Therefore, the idea of the labyrinth may appear more important than its material reality and existence. Which leads to the metaphoric value of the labyrinth and the thread, beginning with Socrates, according to Borgeaud: Socrates addresses his questioner: ‘We find ourselves as if fallen into a labyrinth. We think we are at the end, but, turning a corner, we find ourselves always at the beginning of our search, always lacking what we sought at the beginning.’25 In this description of aporia as an impression of falling (ἐμπεσόντες) into a labyrinth, don’t we encounter the Borgesian discomfort? In Borgeaud’s first passage referred to above, let us note the expression ‘What remained was the image of an image’, i.e., the dance as an image of the labyrinth, updated every time the ritual dance was performed by the young Athenians, while the actual labyrinth had disappeared. 23 24 25

Borgeaud 1974: 21. Borgeaud 1974: 23. See also the notion of regressive progression, p. 24. Borgeaud 1974: 26, quoting Pl. Euthd. 291b.

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But the text of the Iliadic shield is actually still more complicated, since Hephaestus has made on the shield an image of the dance floor similar to that (τῷ ἴκελον, οἷόν ποτ’ …) made once in Knossos by Daedalus. Thus, we reach the fourth degree of the image of an image, and we could feel as if trapped in a labyrinth. A scholiast found it strange that the god Hephaestus imitated the human Daedalus.26 We see here a (description in a poem of a) dance mimicking a travel into a labyrinth and back, an image of a ritual dance forged by a god on a shield and mimicking the image of the structure once made by the mortal craftsman, the passage into the labyrinth. It might be that the scholiast also felt a kind of vertigo at such an interlocking of images that one cannot distinguish what reality the image is really mimicking. All this comes strangely close to Borges’ wording. Needless to say, the monster shut in the heart of labyrinth justifies the vertiginous horror, but the tours and twists also contribute to a kind of fascination: a mixed emotion typical of the sublime.27 Moreover, if we remark that the turns of the dancers are compared to the wheel of the potter, we reach yet another level of included dizziness. Moreover, the shield including this scene and the description of the shield are other levels of vertigo.

The Labyrinths of Ekphrasis Having explored the mise en abyme-element in one of ancient literature’s most famous ekphraseis, let us now take a closer look at this specific art form typical of ancient literature, and study the labyrinthine effects of its enigma. In antiquity, it seems as if including at least one ekphrasis28 of a mythological painting into the novel as a typical feature for an effect of mirroring were a necessity for a novelist.29 A painting with the myth of Europa is staged at the beginning and triggers the narration in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon, or pretends to compete with it as in Longus’Daphnis and Chloe. In Leucippe and Clitophon, other paintings invite several points of view on the plot and dramatize the narration with mythological parallels: Andromeda and Prometheus in Book 3, and Philomela and Procne in Book 5. In Alexandria, Leucippe is struck

26 27 28 29

Schol. Il. 18.590, see Edwards 1991: 229. Elsner 2002: 5, contrary to the scholia, thinks it is a ‘wonderful double-take’. See De Jonge in this volume. On ekphrasis see mainly Elsner 2002, Webb 2009, Zeitlin 2013a. See also Van den Broek and Verhelst in this volume. The genre of the novel does not exist in antiquity, see Hägg 1983: 3; Winkler 1994; Holzberg 1996: 11; Ruiz-Montero 1996: 29.

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by the sight of a hawk pursuing a swallow and the characters do not know how to interpret the omen, but turning around, Clitophon sees a painting exhibited in a shop: It showed the rape of Philomela, Tereus attacking her, her tongue cut out. The plot of the drama was there in every detail—the robe, Tereus, the banquet. ach. tat. 5.3.4

The image on the robe is then described with more details, and Clitophon sees Philomela on the painting, showing herself on the woven picture. A painting inserted into the narrative contains an image on a robe,30 and both images referring to the myth touch upon the problems encountered in the novel.31 Leucippe in fact asks for an explanation on the painting (5.5) and Clitophon brilliantly turns the story of Philomela’s tongue cut by Tereus into an allusion to Simonides’ aphorism on painting as silent poetry and poetry as speaking painting:32 Philomela’s skill discovered voiceless speech (σιωπῶσαν εὕρηκε φωνήν). She wove, you see, a robe as messenger, and she threaded the drama into her embroidery, hand imitating tongue (τὴν γλῶτταν μιμεῖται ἡ χείρ); she conveyed the ear’s message to Prokne’s eyes, telling her what she suffered by means of her shuttle. ach. tat. 5.5.4–5, transl. winkler

The double inclusion of the image woven on the robe into the ekphrasis of the painting, and its ultimate decipherment appear as features of the labyrinthine reflexivity of the text. The impression of horror comes of course from the representation of the rape and Tereus’ violence,33 but it is mixed with admiration for Philomela’s skill, and, ultimately, invites the reader’s admiration for the author’s clever inclusion of his own version of the representation. The highest degree of success in this regard is attained, to my mind, by Heliodorus, who, among other brilliant ekphraseis,34 includes in the Aethiopica 30 31 32 33 34

5.3. Nimis 1998: 114. Their friend Menelas explains the events seen on the painting which may be interpreted as signs. This famous maxim is quoted by Plutarchus, De Glor. Ath. 346F. Nimis 1998: 113. See particularly the ring with sheep trying to get out of the frame, 5.14.4: Debray-Genette 1979; Whitmarsh 2002: 114.

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two allusions to a painting which shows Perseus delivering Andromeda who is tied to a rock, from a marine dragon without any description of this painting.35 The first allusion to the painting in Book 4 (7.8) lies in a letter written in the hieroglyphic characters of Ethiopia which the young heroine keeps with her among her identity tokens, although she cannot read it. It is deciphered by the Egyptian priest Calasiris who reveals that Chariclea is the daughter of Persinna, queen of Ethiopia, who saw the painting during the conception of her child and was ‘impregnated’ by this picture so that the girl took the resemblance to Andromeda.36 The image is not described at all, but one understands that the story of this birth discovered through a patient decipherment played a role in making Chariclea the very image of Andromeda with her white skin.37 Chariclea, then, is the image of an image, hidden in an encrypted message. The painting comes again to the forefront in Book 10 when king Hydaspes intends to sacrifice both Theagenes and Chariclea to the Sun, the supreme god of the Ethiopians. They are on the pyre, and Chariclea tries to draw the recognition from her father, without success until Sisimithres and Persinna ask the painting of Perseus and Andromeda to be brought up to the sacrificial place, and everyone can then ascertain the astonishing resemblance between living Chariclea and painted Andromeda.38 To give an absolute and indisputable proof of her origin, Chariclea even uncovers her arm and the king can see ‘the ebony bracelet soiling her ivory arm’ (ἔβενος περίδρομος ἐλέφαντα τὸν βραχίονα μιαίνων, Hld. 10.15.2), i.e. the black birth mark on her skin.39 The success of this non-existent ekphrasis may be connected to the fact that many representations of Andromeda delivered by Perseus were known in antiquity,40 so that a mere allusion would have been immediately acknowledged by any cultivated person, at least a ‘knowing eye(d)’ one, as Goldhill calls it.41 Ekphraseis in the novels appear as textual labyrinths in the sense that the decipherment of their more or less encrypted meaning refers to the main text and explains it, at least partially. In the case of Leucippe and Clitophon, the

35 36 37 38 39 40 41

On this painting as the model for Chariclea in an ‘allusive ekphrasis’, see Zeitlin 2013a and 2013b: 81. Olsen 2012. Persinna had to abandon her child, fearing the accusation of adultery since herself and her husband were black. See Whitmarsh 2002: 115–116. This birth mark can be compared with other sêmata in ancient literature, see Létoublon 1993: 134–136. An ekphrasis on Andromeda occurs in Leucippe and Clitophon 3, and Goldhill 1994: 213–214 quotes an epigrammatic ekphrasis by Antiphilus. Goldhill 1994: 223.

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image of the rape of Europa which evoked Clitophon’s narration at the start does not return at the end, and the presence in Sidon of a lonesome Clitophon makes us think that their story knew no happy end.42 In both cases, the attentive reader is required to think about the image and its relation to the whole. The fascination for textual labyrinths has not diminished in recent times; see for instance Dans le labyrinthe by Robbe-Grillet.43 But I would rather take a last example from the visual arts, with an undisputable chef d’ œuvre, The Lady from Shanghai by Orson Welles (1947). A sailor (Welles himself) is hired by a beautiful woman, Mrs Bannister (played by Rita Hayworth) and her rich husband (Everett Sloan) to steer their luxurious yacht. Although at the beginning she seems to be his victim, one eventually understands that she might be the one pulling the strings, manipulating everyone. In any case, the three characters meet up at the end of the movie in the ‘magic mirror maze’ fairground, the disabled husband and the murderous woman shooting at one another and breaking the mirrors with their diffracted images; in the last shots, they both lie dead and one sees the sailor going away, while in the mirrors of the gallery is seen the fragmented image of Mrs Bannister, symbolizing her ambiguous role.44 The mirrors and the labyrinthine vertigo meet there in an enigmatic symbolism, contributing to the reader’s bewilderment: an aesthetic emotion.

Abbreviations OCD

Hornblower, S., Spawforth, A., The Oxford Classical Dictionary (Oxford 19963).

Bibliography Alden, M., ‘The Despised Migrant (Il. 9.648 = 16.59)’, in F. Montanari, A. Rengakos, C. Tsagalis (eds.), Homeric Contexts. Neoanalysis and the Interpretation of Oral Poetry (Berlin 2012) 115–132. Borel, F., Le Peintre et son miroir. Regards indiscrets (Waterloo 2002). Borgeaud, P., ‘The Open Entrance to the Closed Palace of the King: The Greek Labyrinth in Context’, History of Religions 14 (1974) 1–27. Brouillet, M., ‘Thambos et kharis: constructions sensorielles et expériences du divin dans les épopées homériques’, Mythos n.s. 11 (2017) 83–93. 42 43 44

Fusillo 1997; Morales 2004: 144; Repath 2005. Hogan 2011: 207–209 about Robbe-Grillet’s Dans le labyrinthe. Ishaghpour 2001.

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Cairns, D., ‘Horror, Pity, and the Visual in Ancient Greek Aesthetics’, in D. Cairns, D. Nelis (eds.), Emotions in the Classical World. Methods, Approaches, and Directions (Stuttgart 2017) 53–78. Dällenbach, L., The Mirror in the Text (Chicago [1977] 1989). Debray-Genette, R., ‘La pierre descriptive’, Poétique 43 (1979) 293–304. Edwards, M.W., The Iliad. A Commentary, vol. v: books 17–20 (Cambridge 1991). Elsner, J., ‘The Genres of Ekphrasis’, Ramus 31 (2002) 1–18. Frontisi-Ducroux, F., Vernant, J.P., Dans l’œil du miroir (Paris 1997). Fusillo, M., ‘How Novels End: Some patterns of Closure in Ancient Narrative’, in D.H. Roberts, F.M. Dunn, D. Fowler (eds.), Classical Closure. Reading the End in Greek and Latin Literature (Princeton 1997) 209–227. Gantz, T., Early Greek Myth. A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources (Baltimore 1993). Goldhill, S., The Poet’s Voice. Essays on Poetics and Greek Literature (Cambridge 1991). Goldhill, S., ‘The Naive and Knowing Eye: Ecphrasis and the Culture of Viewing in the Hellenistic World’, in S. Goldhill, R. Osborne (eds.), Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture (Cambridge 1994). Hägg, T., The Novel in Antiquity (Oxford [1980] 1983). Halliwell, S., ‘Amousia: Living without the Muses’, in I. Sluiter, R.M. Rosen (eds.), Aesthetic Values in Classical Antiquity (Leiden 2012) 15–45. Heiden, B., ‘The Simile of the Fugitive Homicide’, AJA 119.1 (1998) 1–10. Hogan, P.C., Affective Narratology. The Emotional Structure of Stories (Lincoln / London 2011). Holzberg, N., ‘The Genre: Novels proper and the Fringe’, in G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World (Leiden 1996) 11–28. Ishaghpour, Y., Orson Welles, cinéaste, une caméra visible. Les films de la période américaine, tome ii (Paris 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Metalepsis in Ancient Greek Literature’, in J. Grethlein, A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation. The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature (Berlin 2009). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Shield of Achilles: From Metalepsis to “Mise en Abyme”’, Ramus 40 (2011) 1–14. Jong, I.J.F. de, Narratology and Classics. A Practical Guide (Oxford 2014). Létoublon, F., Les lieux communs du roman. Stéréotypes grecs d’aventure et d’amour (Leiden 1993). Létoublon, F., ‘War as spectacle in the Iliad’, in A. Kampakoglou, A. Novokhatko (eds.), Gaze, Vision and Visuality in ancient Greek Literature. Concepts, Contexts and Reception (Berlin / Boston 2018) 3–32. Matricon-Thomas, E., ‘Le Fil d’Ariane et la traversée du Labyrinthe’, Gaia 17 (2014) 181– 207.

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Morales, H., Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon (Cambridge 2004). Nimis, S., ‘Memory and Description in the Ancient Novel’, Arethusa 31 (1998) 99–122. Olsen, S., ‘Maculate Conception: Sexual Ideology and Creative Authority in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica’, AJPh 133.2 (2012) 301–322. Perlovsky, L., ‘Aesthetic Emotions, What Are Their Cognitive Functions?’, Frontiers in Psychology 5 (2014) 98. Repath, D., ‘Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon: What Happened Next?’, CQ 55.1 (2005) 250–265. Roochnik, D., Of Art and Wisdom. Plato’s Understanding of Techne (Philadelphia 1998). Ruiz-Montero, C., ‘The Rise of the Greek Novel’, in G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World (Leiden 1996) 29–85. Schmeling, G. (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World (Leiden 1996). Stoichita, V.I., L’instauration du tableau. Métapeinture à l’aube des temps modernes (Genève 19992). Walker, D.H., André Gide (London 1996). Webb, R., Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice. (Farnham 2009). Whitmarsh, T., ‘Written on the Body: Ekphrasis, Perception and Deception in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica’, Ramus 31 (2002) 175–187. Winkler, J.J., ‘The Invention of Romance’, in J. Tatum (ed.), The Search for the Ancient Novel (Baltimore 1994) 23–38. Zeitlin, F., ‘Figure: Ekphrasis’, G&R 60 (2013a) 17–31. Zeitlin, F., ‘Landscapes and Portraits: Signs of the Uncanny and Illusions of the Real’, in M. Paschalis, S. Panayotakis (eds.), The Construction of the Real and the Ideal in the Ancient Novel (Groningen 2013b) 61–87.

chapter 11

Narrating Pity in Greek Epic, Lyric, Tragedy, and Beyond P.J. Finglass

This chapter* looks at the narratological prominence of pity in several works spanning the Homeric poems, the epic cycle, archaic lyric, and tragedy. It examines how we find texts across this wide range of genres whose narratives open with a scene where pity is expressed, which has a decisive impact on the progress and shaping of that narrative through the rest of the work. The chapter reflects on what it is about pity that makes it a suitable starting point for these narratives, as well as how some of them go on to give pity a continuing thematic importance, and with what consequences. A modern instance of the same phenomenon provides a codicil.1

Homer The Iliad famously begins with a word denoting an emotion—rage—and it is not hard to see how that emotion drives the narrative of the whole poem.2 Achilles’ anger at his treatment by Agamemnon leads to his withdrawal from the fighting and the consequent deaths of myriad Greeks; his anger prevents him from accepting Agamemnon’s offer of restitution; this anger is rebuked by his friend Patroclus when the latter begs him, disastrously, to allow him to enter the fighting; his anger at Hector, killer of his friend Patroclus, leads him to deny his corpse burial—until he abandons his wrath and yields to the entreaties of Hector’s father, the aged king Priam, to release his body. This cycle itself begins with a god’s anger—that of Apollo, who is enraged by Agamemnon’s

* It is a privilege to offer this small piece to a scholar and friend whose work has been an inspiration to me since my very first article (Finglass 2005), and whose profound influence on our subject will be recognized for as long as ancient Greek is seriously studied. – I am grateful to Dr Adrian Kelly and to the editors for helpful comments. 1 In this volume, pity is also discussed by Rutherford (Herodotus) and Finkelberg (Plato). 2 On Achilles’ anger, see the chapters of Demoen, Kahane, and Pelling in this volume, with further references.

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harsh treatment of his priest and whose vengeance against the Greek army leads to the calling of the assembly where Achilles’ dispute with Agamemnon begins. Anger has a decisive initial impact on the narrative of other epics, too: for example, the plot of the Odyssey begins at an impasse because of Poseidon’s anger at the protagonist for blinding his son Polyphemus (and Athena in her first speech rebukes Zeus for his supposed anger against Odysseus), while the narrator of Virgil’s Aeneid asks his Muse to explain the cause of Juno’s anger against Aeneas.3 Anger provides a natural impetus to a story, typically generating problems that need resolution; it is therefore not surprising to find it used so prominently at the beginning of different narratives.4 Pity, on the other hand, is an emotion less obviously appropriate for such a purpose.5 While Apollo is afflicting the Greeks with plague, Hera sends Athena to Achilles, who at her instruction calls an assembly to address the problem. She does this because, the narrator tells us, ‘she cared for the Danaans, since she saw them dying’ (Hom. Il. 1.56). It is natural enough for the greatest supporter of the Greeks among the gods to be moved by their suffering and to take steps to put an end to it; natural, too, that she should choose as her human instrument the warrior who is particularly close to the gods through his divine mother and supreme excellence as a fighter. But while that act of pity does achieve its goal—the assembly of the Greeks, stormy though it may be, does settle on a course of action that leads Apollo to hold back his plague arrows— its manner of achieving it ends up generating a catastrophic overall outcome for the Greeks, who come close to total defeat as a result of Achilles’ withdrawal from the fighting. This is an outcome which Hera certainly did not want; yet there remains a clear causal line between her compassion for the plague-ridden Greeks and the destructive results of the assembly which she had summoned to deal with the initial problem. This emotion of pity can, the audience learns, have consequences entirely unanticipated by the individual who expresses that emotion, even if that individual is a god.6 Like the destructive consequences of anger, the surprisingly negative consequences of pity continue to drive the narrative long after the opening episodes. In a crucial scene in Book 11, Nestor remarks to Patroclus about Achilles’ 3 See Van der Mije in this volume for a discussion of Poseidon’s anger at Odysseus. 4 To cite just one example, compare how Tacitus begins the second triad of his Annals with the ‘gods’ anger against the Roman state’ (deum ira in rem Romanam, 4.1.2), which seems to explain the catastrophes which envelop the Principate in the books to come. 5 For overviews of pity in the ancient world see Konstan 2001, 2006: 201–218; Sternberg 2006; Cairns 2008: 51–53, 2015, 2016. For pity in the Iliad in particular see Kim 2000, Most 2003. 6 Cf. De Jong 2018 on how in Homeric epic good intentions and good advice often do not have the anticipated result.

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lack of pity for the Greeks as they experience severe reverses in their conflict with the Trojans (656–658); the sight of the wounded Eurypylus then stirs Patroclus himself to pity (τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ὤικτιρε … | καί ῥ’ ὀλοφυρόμενος, 814–815). In Book 16 the sight of Patroclus in tears stirs Achilles himself to pity his friend (τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ὤικτιρε, 5), and to ask (disingenuously, since he can scarcely not already know the answer) whether he feels pity for the Greeks (ἦε σύ γ’ Ἀργείων ὀλοφύρεαι, 17).7 Patroclus’ criticism of Achilles’ anger (21–45, referred to above), in which (using Nestor’s words) he asks him to re-enter the fighting himself, or to let him go in his place, is itself an implicit appeal to the sense of pity of the latter, whom he indeed calls ‘pitiless’ (νηλεές, 16.33). Patroclus’ pity then leads to his death at the hands of Hector, and to Achilles’ experiencing a grief that surpasses even the extent of his original rage against Agamemnon. This is highlighted by the narrator, who points to the structural significance of the moment when Patroclus originally intervenes, commenting ‘He came out, a man equal to Ares; and that, it turned out, was the beginning of his destruction’ (11.604), and thereby foreshadowing a death that will come fully five books later. So too the narrator remarks on the foolishness of Patroclus’ request to Achilles, which, he notes, will lead to his own destruction (16.46–47). Without that sense of compassion for others, which Patroclus feels so profoundly himself and which motivates him to make his request to Achilles, the tragedy of his death would have been avoided; indeed, the narrative itself would have lost its direction. Here is a further example of the unanticipated consequences of a compassionate response to suffering, as well as its essential role in narrative development. Achilles’ decision at the end of the poem to show pity for Priam (οἰκτίρων πολιόν τε κάρη πολιόν τε γένειον, 24.516; cf. 503–504), and thus to release the body of his son, counterbalances and reverses the anger that he displays at the start. Yet that choice is not a new departure; rather, it concludes a poem whose narrative has been profoundly shaped by acts of pity, acts which have frequently had a disastrous effect on the interests of those individuals who have allowed that emotion to determine their actions. The enormous canvas of the Iliad is articulated by compassion as well as by rage; and the consequences of compassion, while less obviously destructive than the results of anger, are at best decidedly ambiguous. From one perspective, then, Achilles’ profoundly moving pity for Priam provides the poem with a fitting conclusion that reverses the destructive behaviour to which he had previously given rein; from another, it involves an emotion whose tendency to lead to unintended outcomes has been a feature, indeed a driver, of the narrative that has led up to this point.

7 Most 2003: 67–69.

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Epic Cycle The Iliad is not unique among epics in the prominent use of pity as a narrative device which calls the value of that emotion into question. In the Cypria, at what is likely to be the start of the poem, Zeus’ causing of the Trojan War is explained by his pitying of Earth, who is oppressed by the weight of humanity; the war relieves her suffering by reducing the human population: There was a time when the countless races ⟨of men⟩ roaming ⟨constantly⟩ over the land were weighing down the ⟨deep⟩-breasted earth’s expanse. Zeus took pity when he saw it, and in his complex mind he resolved to relieve the all-nurturing earth of mankind’s weight by fanning the great conflict of the Trojan War, to void the burden by death. So the warriors at Troy kept being killed, and Zeus’ plan was being fulfilled. Cypr. fr. 1 GEF, tr. west8 Whether the pain felt by Earth really outweighs the grief thereby caused to humanity seems not to be an issue for Zeus; merely human matters do not enter into his considerations. Indeed, unlike in the Iliad, where Hera’s pity for the Greeks moves them from one catastrophe to another, without her intending such an outcome, Zeus’ pity in this poem leads him to cause the death of thousands as a deliberate part of his plan. Where the Iliad subtly calls into question the opposition between anger and pity, highlighting how both can lead to unexpectedly disastrous consequences, the Cypria takes a more direct approach, emphasizing how all the events of the poem to come (and it was a poem of many events and episodes, as we know from Proclus’ summary), and indeed the whole action of the Iliad, to which the Cypria is specifically designed as a prequel, arise from an act of pity by Zeus which could fairly be categorized as an act of savagery too. The introduction to the fragment (which is cited in the Homeric D scholia) refers not just to the burden of humanity on earth, but also to their lack of piety. That is not actually said to have been part of the Cypria, though, and the fragment actually quoted by the scholia describing Zeus’s action makes no reference to it; West indeed calls it ‘an alien motif from some myth of a more comprehensive destruction of mankind’.9 Rather, emphasis falls repeatedly on the sheer mass of humanity, not on any ethical failing on their part; and the 8 West 2013: 21; 56; 59; 60; 65–68. For this poem see further Currie 2015; for the plan of Zeus in the Iliad and Cypria see further Murnaghan 1997; Clay 1999; Christopoulos 2011. 9 West 2013: 66.

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reference to Zeus’s pity is succeeded by references to death and killing in what seems a deliberate juxtaposition. Stories of how gods destroyed a portion of humanity through anger at their wickedness are familiar to us through the biblical Flood narrative (Genesis 6:9–9:17) and Hesiod’s Ages of Man (Op. 109–201); this seems to be avoided in the current instance, however, in favour of a stark presentation of how humanity endures profound suffering merely so that one god can show pity for another.

Lyric The long narratives of the archaic lyric poet Stesichorus were heavily influenced by epic poetry, so it is no surprise to see that pity there too has a prominent narrative role.10 The opening of his Sack of Troy (fr. 100 F.), whose broken papyrus fragments have recently been restored thanks to the painstaking efforts of many scholars, provides a clear example of the impact that this emotion can have on a narrative:11 –⏑⏑–⏑⏑–⏑⏑–⏑⏑– ×–⏑⏑–⏑⏑– ×–⏕–⏑⏑–×–⏑–× –⏑⏑–⏑⏑–×–⏑⏑–⏑⏑– 5 ]δ̣ρ[ θεά, ̣ τὺ [⏑]δο[⏑⏑–×–⏑– παρθέν[ε] χρυϲ[⏑⏑–×–⏑⏑–⏑⏑] ἱ– μείρει [δ’] ἀ̣είδε[ιν. ̣ ⟨ ⟩ νῦν δ’ ἄγ̣ε̣ μ̣ο̣ι λ̣⟨έγ⟩ε πῶϲ παρ[ὰ καλλιρόου(ϲ) 10 δ̣ίνα̣[ϲ] Σιμόεν̣τοϲ ἀνὴρ θ]εᾶϲ ἰ[ό]τατι δαεὶϲ ϲεμν[ᾶϲ Ἀθάναϲ ̣ τε καὶ ϲοφίαν του[–⏑⏑–⏑⏑– μ̣έτ[ρα] ̣ ×–⏑]οϲ ἀντὶ μ̣ά̣χα[ϲ καὶ] φυ[λόπ]ιδοϲ κλέο̣ϲ ̣ ̣[×–⏑– 15 εὐρυ]χόρ[ο]υ Τροΐαϲ ἁλώϲι[μον ἆμαρ ⏑– ×–]ν ἔθηκεν ⊗

10 11

str. 1–ep. 5

ant.

For an introduction to Stesichorus see Finglass 2014a; for Stesichorus and epic see Kelly 2015; Carey 2015; West 2015. The text cited here is from Finglass 2014b: 134–135. For discussion see Finglass 2013; 2014c; 2015.

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⟩ (×)–⏑⏑] ̣εϲϲι πό̣ ̣( ̣)ο̣ ̣[×–⏑⏑–⏑⏑–× ὤικτιρε γὰ⸥ρ αὐτὸ⸤ν⸥ ὕ⸤δωρ ἀεὶ φορέοντα Διὸϲ κούρα βαϲιλ⸥ε⸤ῦϲι⸥ν ̣ ̣ α[⏑–× ] ̣ων[ ] ̣χθον[

ep.

Goddess, you … give … golden- … maiden … [and] desires to sing. Come now, tell me how by the eddies of the fair-flowing Simoeis a man learned measurements and wisdom by the will of the revered goddess Athena … instead of battle and conflict … glory … he brought to pass spacious Troy’s day of capture … For the daughter of Zeus pitied him as he continuously carried water for the lordly … Purely exempli gratia, a conjecturally restored version of the text above could read as follows: Goddess, give me a lovely prelude, golden-haired maiden, for my heart leaps and desires to sing. Come now, tell me how by the eddies of the fairflowing Simoeis a man learned measurements and wisdom by the will of the revered goddess Athena, and, trusting in these instead of battle that breaks men and conflict, won glory because he brought to pass spacious Troy’s day of capture without the use of armies. On him Pallas in her generosity bestowed a kindness that put an end to his labours. For the daughter of Zeus pitied him as he continuously carried water for the lordly sons of Atreus. The context of the fragment—an appeal to a Muse, beginning a mere six lines into a strophe—indicates that it comes from the very beginning of the poem. That work opened, we can now see, not with a famous hero, as do the Iliad and Odyssey, but with the lowly figure of Epeius, builder of the Wooden Horse. Emphasis lies on how he wins glory through his divinely-inspired craft, rather than through the conventional means of success in battle. And that paradox is emphasized through the news that Athena inspires him to build the horse because she pities him for continually carrying water for the Greek kings. Athena’s pity therefore causes the building of the Horse, and thus the sack of Troy. We know from another papyrus that Stesichorus’ poem indeed had an alternative title, Horse … (perhaps Wooden Horse; fr. 99 F.), which is consistent with the prominence that the device and its builder evidently had.

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Why should Athena pity Epeius? The answer lies in how water-carrying in the Greek world was, distinctively and persistently, a female act.12 Women, not men, brought water from wells and springs to their community. In an army camp, where women were scarce, it is natural enough for this duty to be undertaken by men. Nevertheless, by undertaking such a task, Epeius’ dignity as a soldier and a man was deeply compromised. And unlike service in war, his actions are devoid of kleos.13 It is deeply paradoxical that they should be commemorated in poetry at all—and in such a prominent position, at the very opening of a poem dedicated to that most famous of exploits, the sack of Troy. Their mention allows the narrator to demonstrate the dramatic turnaround in Epeius’ fortunes: from endlessly undertaking a menial task usually fit only for women, to solving the siege of a city which had for so long frustrated the force of arms. On the other hand, in a world full of suffering, the manual labour undertaken by a single individual, someone who is not even a slave, and the consequent impact on his status as a man, while unfortunate for that person, is hardly the most obvious target of divine pity. Moreover, Athena’s pity for Epeius leads to consequences that are objectively far worse than one person’s daily grind. Although without a complete text of the poem we cannot trace the narrative implications further, in general the sack of Troy was famous in archaic literature for the appalling acts of violence and sacrilege committed by the Greeks: the lesser Ajax’s rape of Cassandra, Priam’s slaughter at the hands of Neoptolemus, the throwing of the baby Astyanax over the battlements of Troy, the sacrifice (in the aftermath) of Polyxena at the tomb of Achilles. The illustration of Stesichorus’ poem in the Tabula Iliaca Capitolina (late first century bce) indicates that Stesichorus’ treatment did indeed include such episodes;14 as a result, we can reasonably posit that this was a poem where pity was overall in short supply.15 And if that is correct, the contrast between the compassion shown by Athena for Epeius in the proem, and the pitiless behaviour of the victorious Greeks during the sack which Athena’s compassion enabled, will have been 12 13

14 15

Finglass 2013: 12–13 surveys the ancient evidence, both visual and textual. In the Iliad Epeius is a strong but not especially skilled warrior, who proves incompetent with the discus (23.664–671; 836–840), but is certainly higher in social terms than in Stesichorus. For Epeius in other ancient sources see Finglass 2013: 8–10; Zachos 2013: 5–17. For his prominence in John Tzetzes’s Posthomerica see Lovato 2019. Finglass 2014d; Davies and Finglass 2014: 428–436 on fr. 105 F. Some black-figure vasepaintings of the listed scenes can be found in Jurriaans-Helle’s contribution to this volume. One episode where violence is in fact checked, the failure of the Greek army to go through with the stoning of Helen, is motivated not by pity but by lust: fr. 106 F., Finglass 2018d: 146–151.

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striking. Moreover, unlike with Hera’s pity for the Greeks at the start of the Iliad, Athena knows what is in store: her pity leads her to inspire Epeius to fashion the means to sack a city. The pitiless nature of her pity seems more aligned with that of Zeus at the start of the Cypria; in each case, a single act of divine pity leads the divinity to a course of action that will, and is intended to, produce a sustained, violent outcome. And in each case the entire narratives that follow are subordinated to what seems like a misplaced, even capricious, instance of compassion on the part of a god. We would like to know whether Epeius featured in the narrative beyond the building of the Horse. Aeneas’ journey to the west was part of the poem, as we know from the Tabula; could Epeius’ journey in that direction, prominent in Lycophron’s Alexandra, which will have been informed by earlier sources, have featured there too?16 We simply do not know; but possessing the opening of the narrative at least permits us to ask the question. Still, even if Epeius were not prominent after the proem, the emphasis on pity at the start of Stesichorus’ work ensures that its significance for the narrative that follows is clear.

Tragedy A fourth example of the narratological significance of pity can be found in Sophocles’ Oedipus the King. This play received high praise from Aristotle, who famously saw the genre of tragedy as producing pity as well as fear in its audience; pity within tragedies, however, has seen less interest historically, though some recent scholarship has moved in that direction.17 The play begins with a plague afflicting the city of Thebes; Oedipus is implored by his people to free them from this oppression just as before he rescued them from the Sphinx. Oedipus’ response to this supplication is full of compassion. His second speech opens with the words ‘Pitiable children’ (58), and explains how he has been personally affected by their sufferings, when he tells the suppliants ‘your grief comes to each one of you alone, and to no-one else, but my soul groans for the 16

17

For traditions regarding Epeius in southern Italy see Lyc. Alex. 930–950 with Hornblower 2015: 348–350; Fowler 2018: 49–50 n. 20 (more illuminating than Genovese 2018 from the same volume, which despite its title cites no ancient evidence concerning the traditions of Epeius’ travels), Zachos 2013: 17–23. For pity in Oedipus the King see Danze 2016; Finglass 2018a: 41–51 (and 82–83 on the play’s significance to Aristotle), 2018b. (Danze’s article appeared after the final typescript of my book was submitted in late 2016, which is why it is not cited there.) For pity in tragedy in general see Sternberg 2006; Falkner 2006; Johnson and Clapp 2006; Johnson 2016; Finglass 2017. For Aristotle and pity see Munteanu 2012.

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city, for you, and for me. So you do not rouse me slumbering in sleep; no, be sure that I have wept many tears and travelled many roads in the wanderings of thought’ (62–64). Unlike other figures supplicated at the start of a tragedy, such as Theseus in Euripides’ Suppliant Women or Pelasgus in Aeschylus’ drama of the same name, he shows no unwillingness to provide the assistance that the supplicants seek; on the contrary, his compassion has led him to send his brother-in-law, Creon, to Delphi, to ascertain the correct course of action from Apollo, even before the supplicants make their request. And his speeches make clear that he is driven to do this because of his deep compassion for his people. Here too, then, we see the emotion of pity driving the overall narrative: without Oedipus’ pity for his people, the news that Apollo requires the killer of the previous king Laius to be discovered and either executed or exiled would never have come to light; nor would Oedipus have pursued this investigation with such fervour, leading to the discovery that he himself is the man whom Apollo is seeking. Oedipus’ compassionate nature leads to his destruction: a tragic twist on the instances from archaic epic and lyric openings discussed above where divine pity is at issue, and where the personal well-being of the divinity who shows that compassion is never under threat. Moreover, in the course of Oedipus’ investigation, indeed at its climax, he discovers that he owes his existence to another person’s pity for him many years ago: a herdsman rescued him when he was an abandoned baby, taking pity on the infant, who as a result has fulfilled the prophecy that he would kill his father (1177–1181). The ending of the play then presents Oedipus as once again the object of pity, just as he was as a baby, and in contrast to his status at the start of the play as the one who pities, underlining both the change of position to which the narrative has brought him and the circular nature of his life’s journey as revealed by the play as a whole. The authenticity of the ending has long been doubted, but the clear narratological significance of pity here strongly supports its retention as genuinely Sophoclean.18 Pity thus motivates the start of the narrative both of the play and of Oedipus’ life: in both cases, what seems a highly meritorious action—rescuing a child, attempting to protect a city from plague—leads to catastrophic consequences, which are worked out over the course of the play. Given how tragedy drew not only on epic but also on Stesichorus, it is not surprising to see pity used as a prominent narratival spur;19 the fact that both Oedipus the King and the Iliad involve compassion for the victims of a plague suggest that direct influence 18 19

Finglass 2009, 2018a: 50–51; 541–542; 2019: 104–105, citing the enormous bibliography on the issue. For Stesichorus and tragedy see Swift 2015; Finglass 2018c.

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from that epic in particular may be at issue. The tragic aspect of pity latent in the passages discussed above is now fully brought out: for unlike Zeus in the Cypria or Athena in Stesichorus’ Sack of Troy, Oedipus has no idea of what the appalling results of his emotion will be; and unlike Hera in the Iliad, Oedipus will have to endure the consequences of his pity through the most intensely personal grief.

Conclusion The motivating force of pity as a narrative device within ancient literary texts can be observed in other genres, such as in comedy, where it clearly played an important part in Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros,20 or in historiography, where Croesus’ pity for Adrastus, and the pity of the ten Bacchiad conspirators for the baby Cypselus, have again disastrous consequences.21 Why should pity have been found so useful across different genres as a narrative device? While rage as a stimulus for action is easily grasped—fury can lead human beings to act in ways that cause difficulties, and attempts, whether successful or not, to resolve them generate an engaging narrative—the idea that the gentler emotion of pity might similarly lead to problems that need resolution is less obvious. The use of pity to this end offers variety for its own sake—no small matter given that audiences will expect a great literary genre to depict a range of human experience, of which the emotions are a major part, thereby requiring great authors to have recourse to a broader palette than anger alone. But the paradox also stimulates deeper consideration of the issues at stake in the value of these emotions for society. Condemnation of anger is as old as the Iliad; it is, as Achilles ruefully remarks, ‘much sweeter than dripping honey’, and yet brings disaster.22 Condemnation of pity is also found in the same poem; but when Agamemnon rebukes his brother Menelaus for listening to the pleas of Adrestus, and urges that all the Trojans, even the children in the womb, must be put to the sword,23 this entirely lacks the profundity of Achilles’ reflections, or the greater hero’s recognition of how his giving way to emotion has led to his own disaster. Agamemnon’s absence of pity is meant to excite the audience’s condemnation, not its agree-

20 21 22 23

Crat. test. i PCG (P.Oxy. 663) with Finglass 2016. Hdt. 1.35, with Pelling 2006a: 86 n. 30, 2006b: 160; Vandiver 2012: 161–163; Hdt. 5.92, with Moles 2007: 258–259; Finglass 2018a: 49. See also Rutherford and De Bakker in this volume. Hom. Il. 18.108–110; Thalmann 2015. Hom. Il. 6.52–60.

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ment; while anyone who criticizes Achilles’ decision to favour compassion over anger at the poem’s end could fairly be said to have rather missed the point. Yet as we have seen, pity at the opening of a narrative can lead to disaster just as much as anger can. And that narratival construction invites the question of whether these two emotions are really as opposed as we might think. Both, after all, are located in the same place: ‘though the thymos gives rise to anger, it can also be associated with anger’s abatement, and in fact thymos is regularly found in connection with forms of benevolence’.24 The Iliad is also full of examples where a character’s pity at the death of a companion leads him to exact a bloody vengeance on the perpetrator, showing an interdependence of anger and pity.25 The use of pity as a narrative device presses this similarity; as a result, questions such as whether the object of compassion merits the compassion that s/he receives, whether that compassion is proportionate to the suffering of the sufferer, whether compassion might better be directed in another direction, whether it could lead to negative consequences (whether foreseeable or not), and whether taking decisions under the influence of any emotion, even an apparently positive one, is a good idea, become highly salient. The frequently divine origin of this pity opens up further problems: it is, it seems, not just the anger of the gods that mortals must fear, but also their compassion, whether for humans or for each other. This narrative structure thus conveys a dark and pessimistic view of the universe—perhaps, also, a realistic one.

Codicil To emphasize the persistence and flexibility of pity and its surprising consequences as a means of driving a narrative, let us briefly turn to a passage from early in a famous twentieth-century novel:26 ‘But this is terrible!’ cried Frodo. ‘Far worse than the worst that I imagined from your hints and warnings. O Gandalf, best of friends, what am I to do? For now I am really afraid. What am I to do? What a pity that Bilbo did not

24 25

26

Cairns 2019, with examples. Most 2003, especially p. 62 (with discussion of relevant passages): ‘In Homer … [pity and anger] are two sides of the very same coin, two thoroughly interdependent ways of viewing precisely the same situation, two modes of subjective response to a highly specific kind of objective experience’. Tolkien 1954: i ch. 2.

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stab that vile creature, when he had a chance!’ ‘Pity? It was Pity that stayed his hand. Pity, and Mercy: not to strike without need. And he has been well rewarded, Frodo. Be sure that he took so little hurt from the evil, and escaped in the end, because he began his ownership of the Ring so. With Pity.’ ‘I am sorry,’ said Frodo. ‘But I am frightened; and I do not feel any pity for Gollum.’ ‘You have not seen him,’ Gandalf broke in. ‘No, and I don’t want to,’ said Frodo. ‘I can’t understand you. Do you mean to say that you, and the Elves, have let him live on after all those horrible deeds? Now at any rate he is as bad as an Orc, and just an enemy. He deserves death.’ ‘Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends. I have not much hope that Gollum can be cured before he dies, but there is a chance of it. And he is bound up with the fate of the Ring. My heart tells me that he has some part to play yet, for good or ill, before the end; and when that comes, the pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many—yours not the least.’ This exchange foreshadows how the Ring will be destroyed and Frodo’s quest fulfilled only through the unexpected intervention of Gollum at the climax of the work; an intervention possible only because Bilbo originally, and subsequently Frodo, showed pity to a creature who scarcely seemed to deserve it.27 In a letter written in the same year as his book was published, Tolkien declared that ‘it is the Pity of Bilbo and later Frodo that ultimately allows the Quest to be achieved’, describing pity as ‘a word to me of moral and imaginative worth’.28 The original act of pity predates the narrative of this particular book, but is highlighted and emphasized at the earliest possible stage within it; the recapitulation then takes place half-way through the work, as the protagonist begins the independent stage of his journey towards his goal; the consequences are made clear at the novel’s culmination. Even more clearly than in the Iliad and Oedipus the King, the structure points to the profound significance of this emotion for the narrative as a whole, though unlike in those works, it ultimately 27

28

For Frodo’s pitying of Gollum see Tolkien 1954: ii/2 ch. 1, which explicitly quotes part of the earlier passage cited above. His expression there ‘For now that I see him, I do pity him’ recalls the Homeric formula τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ὤικτιρε/ἐλέησε. Carpenter 1981: § 191.

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gives rise to no negative consequences. Rather, these acts of pity seem dangerous at the time that they are carried out, and for some time afterwards; only in the end can the positive results that flow from them be fully recognized. It is natural enough to connect the significance of pity in Tolkien with the author’s Catholic faith.29 The texts from archaic and classical Greek literature discussed above, however, take a bleaker view of pity, one that sees it not as a potentially redemptive force, but as an emotion whose consequences, whether predictable or not, can be just as negative as those of more obviously disruptive emotions such as anger. It is these consequences which ensured that poets repeatedly had recourse to it as a driver of their narratives.

Abbreviations F. GEF PCG

P.J. Finglass, ‘Text and critical apparatus’, in M. Davies, P.J. Finglass (eds.), Stesichorus. The Poems (Cambridge 2014) 93–205. M.L. West (ed.), Greek Epic Fragments from the Seventh to the Fifth Centuries bc. (Cambridge, MA / London 2003). R. Kassel, C. Austin (eds.), Poetae Comici Graeci, 8 vols. to date (Berlin / New York 1983–).

Bibliography Cairns, D., ‘Look Both Ways: Studying Emotion in Ancient Greek’, Critical Quarterly 50 (2008) 43–63. Cairns, D., ‘The Horror and the Pity: Phrikē as a Tragic Emotion’, Psychoanalytic Inquiry 35 (2015) 75–94. Cairns, D., ‘Horror, Pity, and the Visual in Ancient Greek Aesthetics’, in D. Cairns, D.P. Nelis (eds.), Emotions in the Classical World. Methods, Approaches, and Directions (Stuttgart 2016) 53–77. Cairns, D., ‘Thymos’, Oxford Classical Dictionary online (2019) doi.org/10.1093/acrefore/​ 9780199381135.013.8180 (accessed 06/12/2021). Carey, C., ‘Stesichorus and the Epic Cycle’, in P.J. Finglass, A. Kelly (eds.), Stesichorus in Context (Cambridge 2015) 45–62. Carpenter, H., The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien (London 1981). Christopoulos, M., ‘Casus belli: Causes of the Trojan War in the Epic Cycle’, Classics@ 6

29

For Christian pity contrasted with Homeric pity see Most 2003: 62.

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(ed. E.D. Karakantza; The Center for Hellenic Studies of Harvard University), edition of February 4, 2011. Clay, J.S., ‘The Whip and Will of Zeus’, Literary Imagination 1 (1999) 40–60. Currie, B., ‘Cypria’, in M. Fantuzzi, C. Tsagalis (eds.), The Greek Epic Cycle and its Ancient Reception. A Companion (Cambridge 2015) 281–305. Danze, T.M., ‘The Tragedy of Pity in Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus’, AJPh 137 (2016) 565– 599. Davies, M., Finglass, P.J. (eds.), Stesichorus. The Poems (Cambridge 2014). Falkner, T.M., ‘Engendering the Tragic Theatês: Pity, Power, and Spectacle in Sophocles’ Trachiniae’, in R.H. Sternberg (ed.), Pity and Power in Ancient Athens (Cambridge / New York 2006) 165–192. Finglass, P.J., ‘Euripides, Phoenissae 1427–8’, Mnemosyne 58 (2005) 561–564. Finglass, P.J., ‘The Ending of Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex’, Philologus 153 (2009) 42–62. Finglass, P.J., ‘How Stesichorus began his Sack of Troy’, ZPE 185 (2013) 1–17. Finglass, P.J., ‘Introduction’, in M. Davies, P.J. Finglass (eds.), Stesichorus. The Poems (Cambridge 2014) 1–91. [2014a] Finglass, P.J., ‘Text and Critical Apparatus’, in M. Davies, P.J. Finglass (eds.), Stesichorus. The Poems (Cambridge 2014) 93–225. [2014b] Finglass, P.J., ‘The Glorious Water-carrier: Stesichorus’ Sack of Troy’, Omnibus 67 (2014) 1–3. [2014c] Finglass, P.J., ‘Stesichorus and the West’, in L. Breglia, A. Moleti (eds.), Hespería. Tradizioni, rotte, paesaggi (Paestum 2014) 29–34. [2014d] Finglass, P.J., ‘Simias and Stesichorus’, Eikasmos 26 (2015) 197–202. Finglass, P.J., ‘The pity of Paris: Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros’, Eikasmos 27 (2016) 93–99. Finglass, P.J., Review of J.F. Johnson, Acts of Compassion in Greek Tragic Drama (Norman, OK 2016), BMCR 2017.02.44 (2017). Finglass, P.J., Sophocles. Oedipus the King (Cambridge 2018). [2018a] Finglass, P.J., ‘Sophocles’ Oedipus the King: a Tragedy of Compassion’, Omnibus 75 (2018) 1–3. [2018b] Finglass, P.J., ‘Stesichorus and Greek Tragedy’, in R. Andújar, T. Coward, T.A. Hadjimichael (eds.), Paths of Song. The Lyric Dimension of Greek Tragedy (Berlin / Boston 2018) 19–37. [2018c] Finglass, P.J., ‘Gazing at Helen with Stesichorus’, in A. Kampakoglou, A. Novokhatko (eds.), Gaze, Vision, and Visuality in Ancient Greek Literature (Berlin / Boston 2018) 140–159. [2018d] Finglass, P.J., Sophocles (Cambridge 2019). Fowler, R., ‘The Nostoi and Archaic Greek Ethnicity’, in S. Hornblower, G. Biffis (eds.), The Returning Hero. Nostoi and Traditions of Mediterranean Settlement (Oxford 2018) 43–63. Genovese, G., ‘Nostoi as Heroic Foundations in Southern Italy. The Traditions about

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Epeios and Philoktetes’, in S. Hornblower, G. Biffis (eds.), The Returning Hero. Nostoi and Traditions of Mediterranean Settlement (Oxford 2018) 105–122. Hornblower, S., Lykophron: Alexandra (Oxford 2015). Johnson, J.F., Acts of Compassion in Greek Tragic Drama (Norman, OK 2016). Johnson, J.F., Clapp, D.C., ‘Athenian Tragedy: An Education in Pity’, in R.H. Sternberg (ed.), Tragedy Offstage. Suffering and Sympathy in Ancient Athens (Austin 2006) 123– 164. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Birth of the Princes’ Mirror in the Homeric Epics’, in J. Klooster, B. van den Berg (eds.), Homer and the Good Ruler in Antiquity and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2018) 20–37. Kelly, A., ‘Stesichorus’ Homer’, in P.J. Finglass, A. Kelly (eds.), Stesichorus in Context (Cambridge 2015) 21–44. Kim, J., The Pity of Achilles. Oral Style and the Unity of the Iliad (Lanham, MD / Boulder, NY / Oxford 2000). Konstan, D., Pity Transformed (London 2001). Konstan, D. The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks. Studies in Aristotle and Greek Literature (Toronto / Buffalo / London 2006). Lovato, V.F., ‘Tzetzes, Eustathius, and the “City-sacker” Epeius: Trends and Turning Points in the 12th-century Reception of Homer’, in M. Kinloch, A. MacFarlane (eds.), Trends and Turning Points. Constructing the Late Antique and Byzantine World (Leiden / Boston 2019) 47–65. Moles, J., ‘“Saving” Greece from the “Ignominy” of Tyranny? The “Famous” and “Wonderful” Speech of Socles (5.92)’, in E. Irwin, E. Greenwood (eds.), Reading Herodotus. A Study of the Logoi in Book 5 of Herodotus’ Histories (Cambridge 2007) 245–268. Most, G.W., ‘Anger and Pity in Homer’s Iliad’, in S.M. Braund, G.W. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003) 50–75. Munteanu, D.L., Tragic Pathos. Pity and Fear in Greek Philosophy and Tragedy (Cambridge / New York 2012). Murnaghan, S., ‘Equal Honor and Future Glory: The Plan of Zeus in the Iliad’, in D.H. Roberts, F.M. Dunn, D. Fowler (eds.), Classical Closure. Reading the End in Greek and Latin Literature (Princeton 1997) 23–42. Pelling, C., ‘Homer and Herodotus’, in M.J. Clarke, B.G.F. Currie, R.O.A.M. Lyne (eds.), Epic Interactions. Perspectives on Homer, Virgil, and the Epic Tradition Presented to Jasper Griffin (Oxford 2006) 75–104. [2006a] Pelling, C. ‘Educating Croesus: Talking and Learning in Herodotus’ Lydian Logos’, CA 25 (2006) 141–177. [2006b] Sternberg, R.H. (ed.), Tragedy Offstage. Suffering and Sympathy in Ancient Athens (Austin 2006). Swift, L., ‘Stesichorus on Stage’, in P.J. Finglass, A. Kelly (eds.), Stesichorus in Context (Cambridge 2015) 125–144.

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Thalmann, W., ‘“Anger Sweeter Than Dripping Honey”: Violence as a Problem in the Iliad’, Ramus 44 (2015) 95–114. Tolkien, J.R.R., The Lord of the Rings, 3 vols. (London 1954). Vandiver, E. ‘“Strangers Are from Zeus”: Homeric Xenia at the Courts of Proteus and Croesus’, in E. Baragwanath, M. de Bakker (eds.), Myth, Truth, and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford 2012) 143–166. West, M.L., The Epic Cycle. A Commentary on the Lost Troy Epics (Oxford 2013). West, M.L., ‘Epic, Lyric, and Lyric Epic’, in P.J. Finglass, A. Kelly (eds.), Stesichorus in Context (Cambridge 2015) 63–80. Zachos, G., ‘Epeios in Greece and Italy. Two Different Traditions in One Person’, Athenaeum 101 (2013) 5–23.

chapter 12

Deixis in Teichoscopy as a Marker of Emotional Urgency Albert Rijksbaron

Introduction This chapter studies the use of demonstrative pronouns in the dialogues of two Teichoscopy scenes, one in Homeric epic and the other in Euripidean tragedy.* In both cases, viewers point to individuals on the battlefield, and in doing so use all three different pronouns ὅδε, οὗτος, and ἐκεῖνος. Following valid observations of Kühner-Gerth, I will argue that the choice of demonstrative pronouns in these scenes has less to do with the physical distance between the viewer and the entities pointed at than with the question of what entities are more, or less, in the forefront of the viewer’s mind. Among other things, such pronouns offer clues about the emotional urgency that viewers feel when confronted with the objects within their view.

Demonstrative Pronouns in Classical Greek In classical Greek, the demonstrative pronouns ὅδε, οὗτος and ἐκεῖνος can be used both as independent pronouns and as determiners.1 All three have both exophoric uses (spatially deictic, pointing to an entity in the speaker’s envir* It is a pleasure to be present in this collection of essays dedicated to my dear colleague, Irene de Jong, who is able to combine literary and linguistic approaches to the study of literature in an illuminating way. I look back on a most fruitful and pleasant collaboration in the many years that we were colleagues. I would like to express my gratitude to Mathieu de Bakker and Luuk Huitink for their assistance in the preparation of this chapter. 1 For general overviews of the use of demonstrative pronouns, see Kühner-Gerth 1898–1904: 1 641–661, CGCG 352–356. Additional refinements of the observations made in these grammars can be found in, e.g., Manolessou 2001 and Ruijgh 2006, who points to the similarity of many of the views expressed by Kühner-Gerth on ὅδε and οὗτος with those of Lyons 1977 on English this and that. The present paper also builds on De Jong’s 2012 analysis of ὅδε and οὗτος in Homeric epic. For the reflection of (emotional) attitudes in the choice of demonstrative pronouns, see Lakoff 1974 and, in a narrative situation, with authors and characters, Dancygier 2008. For a recent study of cognitive processes behind the use of ἐκεῖνος and αὐτός as anaphoric pronouns in Greek tragedy, see Bonifazi 2020. © Albert Rijksbaron, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_014

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onment) and endophoric uses (anaphorically or cataphorically pointing to preceding or following bits of discourse). The basic ways in which they are employed can conveniently be presented in tabular form (see below); I have also added the pronominal uses of the article ὁ, ἡ, τό and of the oblique forms of αὐτός. However, physical or textual proximity (or distance) cannot fully explain the use of ὅδε, οὗτος and ἐκεῖνος on all occurrences. Apart from their primary use as spatial deictics, the demonstrative pronouns have several secondary uses, which involve a reinterpretation of the spatial dimensions of the primary deictic context.2 That reinterpretation can take several forms, which are more or less metaphorical. I will briefly discuss four secondary uses, already recognized by Kühner-Gerth, focusing on ὅδε and οὗτος. One important secondary use concerns situations in which ὅδε is used for entities which are mentally or emotionally (rather than physically) close to the speaker, and οὗτος for entities which are mentally or emotionally more distant from the speaker. This was pointed out by Kühner-Gerth: Aus der sinnlichen Anschauung entwickelt sich die geistige. In dieser treten die Pronomen aus ihren ursprünglichen engen Schranken heraus und drücken freieren Beziehungen aus. So können zwei Gegenstände räumlich dem Redenden gleich nahe stehen; beide liegen in seiner Sphäre, sind ihm aber nicht von gleichem Werte; alsdann wird der in den Vordergrund des Interesses tretende durch ὅδε, der minder wichtige durch οὗτος bezeichnet. O [sic; read: Θ], 109 τούτω μὲν (ἵππω) θεράποντε κομείτων, τώδε δὲ νῶι / Τρωσὶν ἔφ’ ἱπποδάμοις ἰθύνομεν. Hier bezieht sich τούτω auf die Rosse Nestors, deren Langsamkeit Diomedes getadelt hatte, die sich aber in seinem Bereiche befanden (100 στῆ δὲ πρόσθ’ ἵππων), τώδε aber auf seine eigenen, die er wegen ihrer Tüchtigkeit lobt. kühner-gerth 1898–1904: 1 643–6443 One might perhaps more simply say that τώδε expresses the idea that Diomedes feels more closely linked to his own horses than to the (mentally more distant) horses of Nestor.4 Note that τούτω and τώδε are spoken by the same speaker 2 For the difference between primary and secondary deixis, see Lyons 1995: 310. 3 Cf. CGCG 352 on ὅδε referring ‘to something immediately near/present to the speaker (physically or mentally)’. Lyons 1995: 310–311 gives some English examples of this and that used to express approval and dislike/aversion, respectively. 4 Ruijgh 2006: 157 rejects this view; according to him τούτω means, even more simply, ‘those (horses) of yours’, while τώδε = ‘these (horses) of mine’, and he calls τούτω ‘addressee-oriented’. This is attractive, but note that in such a case Engl. ‘those’, at least, does have a pejorative nuance. Also, it does not work in a case like Il. 3.178, for which see below.

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deixis in teichoscopy as a marker of emotional urgency table 12.1 The main uses of demonstrative pronouns in Classical Greek Independent pronoun Deictic, situationbound, exophoric

ὅδε, ἥδε, τόδε this (person, thing) (here): proximal, within close range of the speaker (and the addressee) οὗτος, αὕτη, that (person, thing) τοῦτο (over there): distal, i.e. at some distance of the speaker and the addressee, but within his and the addressee’s visual field; also: near you, the addresseea ἐκεῖνος, that ( far away) (perἐκείνη, ἐκεῖνο son/thing): remote, (almost) outside the visual field of speaker and addressee; also e.g. of Plato’s Ideas, and of a dead person αὐτόν, αὐτήν, lacking αὐτό

ὁ, ἡ, τό lacking (always modified by connective particles)

Anaphoric/cataphoric, discoursebound, endophoric

Use as determiner Deictic

this (one), i.e. the following (cataphoric)

this (here) two positions: ὅδε ὁ πόλεμος/ ὁ πόλεμος ὅδε this war (we’re engaged in) this, that (one): of two positions: animate entities: (s)he αὕτη ἡ γυνή/ ἡ (anaphoric) γυνὴ αὕτη that woman (over there)

that (one): anaphoric, often contrasted with other entities; in such cases e.g.: the person mentioned earlier

Anaphoric/cataphoric

this, i.e. the following two positions: οἵδε οἱ λόγοι/ οἱ λόγοι οἵδε these (= the following) words two positions οὗτος ὁ Κροῖσος/ ὁ Κροῖσος οὗτος this Croesus (mentioned previously; anaphoric use)b

that ( far away (very rare) …) two positions: ἐκεῖνος ὁ χρόνος/ ὁ χρόνος ἐκεῖνος that time (long ago)

him, her, it: anaphoric, does not apply non-emphatic 3d ps. pronoun, i.e. cannot be Focus; cf. Dutch ’m, ’r, ’t he, she, it: anaphoric; lacking with δέ: establishes topic-shift; also (καὶ ὅς, καὶ τόν)

does not apply

functions as definite article; possible source of ambiguity, e.g. ὁ δὲ Γύγης (and) Gyges or (and) he, Gyges

a It is often claimed that οὗτος basically expresses Du-deixis, for which Karl Brugmann’s authority is invoked. In reality, however, Brugmann considered οὗτος the demonstrative of ‘Dér-Deixis’, adding ‘Auch die “Du”Deixis kommt ihm zu’ (Brugmann 1913: 487); more elaborately in Brugmann 1904: 76–78. See also Ledesma 1987: 211–212; Manolessou 2001: 131. A prototypical example of ‘Dér-Deixis’ is Hom. Il. 10.476–478: τὸν δ’ Ὀδυσεῦ προπάροιθεν ἰδὼν Διομήδει δεῖξεν· | Οὗτός τοι, Διόμηδες, ἀνήρ, οὗτοι δέ τοι ἵπποι, | οὓς νῶιν πίφαυσκε Δόλων, ὃν ἐπέφνομεν ἡμεῖς. (‘Odysseus / was the first to see him and pointed him out to Diomedes: “Here is our man, see, Diomedes, and here are his horses, / those that Dolon, the man we killed, pointed out to us.” ’, transl. Lattimore). Observe that ‘There’ would have been possible, too. b Discussed in Rijksbaron 1993 = 2018: 223–236.

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and that, in spatial terms, that speaker is equally close to both pairs of horses. Another case of what Kühner-Gerth call ‘geistige Anschauung’ is exemplified by the use of τοῦδ’ at Od. 3.352 τοῦδ’ ἀνδρός Ὀδυσσῆος, where ‘Nestor den abwesenden Odysseus gleichsam vor seinem geistigen Auge sieht’ (644). Secondly, whereas in the example just discussed ὅδε and οὗτος refer to two different entities (Diomedes’ and Nestor’s horses, respectively), the pronouns can also alternate in references to single entities. In that case, ὅδε refers to the (in the eyes of the speaker) most prominent, familiar or important aspect(s) of the referent, whereas οὗτος points to less prominent aspects. Kühner-Gerth are again instructive: Auch können beide Pronomen: ὅδε und οὗτος auf einen und denselben Gegenstand hindeuten, ὅδε denselben emphatisch vergegenwärtigend, οὗτος auf denselben bloss hinweisend. kühner-gerth 1898–1904: 1 644

The passage from Sophocles’ Antigone that Kühner-Gerth mention to illustrate this point is quoted here in full: ἐκ τῶνδε τούτους ἐξεπίσταμαι καλῶς παρηγμένους μισθοῖσιν εἰργάσθαι τάδε. 295 οὐδὲν γὰρ ἀνθρώποισιν οἷον ἄργυρος κακὸν νόμισμ’ ἔβλαστε· τοῦτο καὶ πόλεις πορθεῖ, τόδ᾿ ἄνδρας ἐξανίστησιν δόμων, τόδ᾿ ἐκδιδάσκει καὶ παραλλάσσει φρένας χρηστὰς πρὸς αἰσχρὰ πράγμαθ’ ἵστασθαι βροτῶν 300 πανουργίας δ’ ἔδειξεν ἀνθρώποις ἔχειν καὶ παντὸς ἔργου δυσσέβειαν εἰδέναι. ‘I know well that these people have been beguiled and bribed by those men to do this thing. There is no institution so ruinous for men as money; money sacks cities, money drives men from homes! Money by its teaching perverts men’s good minds so that they take to evil actions! Money has shown men how to practise villainy, and taught them impiousness in every action!’ S. Ant. 293–301, transl. lloyd-jones

The properties and effects of money mentioned by Creon, who has to cope with fierce opposition in the city, become ever more relevant to his particular situation (note the transition from τοῦτο to τόδ’), culminating in the long

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list of lines 299–301, headed by τόδε: τόδ’ ἐκδιδάσκει καὶ παραλλάσσει φρένας, etc. Observe again that both pronouns are used by the same speaker.5 Thirdly, as Kühner-Gerth indicate, ὅδε is found to refer to a freshly introduced entity, contrasting with οὗτος, which refers in such cases to an (absent) entity with a long-standing presence in the mind of the speaker and the addressee: οὗτος, aus der sinnlichen Anschauung in die geistige übertragen, [dient] sehr oft dazu, auf eine bereits früher in die Seele aufgenommene Vorstellung hinzuweisen, während ὅδε eine eben erst herantretende Erscheinung zum Ausdrucke bringt. So wird οὗτος von allem Bekannten gebraucht, auf das der Redende hinweist, sowie auch von berühmten oder berüchtigten, überhaupt vielfach besprochenen Personen oder Sachen. kühner-gerth 1898–1904: 1 645

More simply put, the use of οὗτος in such cases expresses familiarity, or ‘givenness’; it suggests that an entity is part of the common ground between speaker and addressee, but not currently ‘active’ in the discourse.6 Instructive passages which illustrate this usage can be found in Demosthenes’ Philippica and other Demosthenic speeches, in which οὗτος is frequently used to refer to Philip, who is of course physically absent and yet omnipresent in the mind of the speaker and his addressees. Particularly remarkable is the following instance, in which οὗτος is even accompanied by a deictic iota (which is otherwise virtually always linked to gestural reference within the immediate speech situation):7 τί δὲ τἄλλα λέγοι τις ἄν; ἀλλ’ ὁ μάλιστα δοκῶν νῦν ἡμῖν ἐχθρὸς εἶναι Φίλιππος οὑτοσί, … But why mention other cases? just take who now appears to be our worst enemy, that man Philip, … D. 23.121

In this section of the speech, Demosthenes lists several foreign statesmen who first pretended to be friendly to Athens, but later turned out to be enemies in 5 For οὗτος and ὅδε used by different speakers see below. 6 See Manolessou 2001: 136. Compare a sentence such as, ‘Do you still have that book I gave you for Christmas?’ On common ground, see also Van Gils and Kroon in this volume. 7 The use of οὑτοσί, and the differences with οὗτος, are discussed in an insightful article by Blass 1889. For οὑτοσί in reference to Philip, see also D. 19.229; 23.111.

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order to show that the Athenians should not too quickly bestow honours and powers on people who may later turn on them. The culminating example is Philip, who once liberated some Athenians from foreign captivity. If, Demosthenes goes on to say, the Athenians had then issued a decree in gratitude, promising for instance to punish anyone killing Philip, ‘how terribly humiliated would we be’ (καλήν γ’ ὕβριν ἦμεν ἂν ὑβρισμένοι, 121) now that he proved to be Athens’ mortal enemy! The use of οὑτοσί reinforces Demosthenes’ reasoning: the demonstrative pronoun evokes everything the Athenians know and feel about Philip, effectively asking them just to imagine how stupid it would be to issue a decree favouring that man. I will now make use of some of the, to my mind often surprisingly modern, insights of Kühner-Gerth, in interpreting the use of deictic pronouns in a selection of passages from Homer’s Iliad and Euripides’ Phoenissae.

Homer’s Iliad My starting-point is a passage from the Teichoscopy in the Iliad, in which Priam asks Helen about the identity of some of the Greek leaders whom he spots from the walls. The scene is famed for its emotional intensity.8 When Greeks and Trojans agree on a truce to allow Paris and Menelaus to fight, Iris, resembling Priam’s daughter Laodice, approaches Helen in the palace. Helen is weaving a carpet, and the battle scenes between Greeks and Trojans that she embroiders into it are suggestive of her emotional state. On both sides many men suffered ‘because of her’ (ἕθεν εἵνεκ’, 3.128), which suggests a deep-felt sense of guilt.9 When Iris announces the duel and summons Helen to the wall, she is overcome by a desire for her former husband and family, and sets off in tears (3.139– 142). At the Scaean Gate, a group of elderly Trojans admire her for her beauty (‘like immortal goddesses’, 3.158), but nonetheless express the sentiment that this ‘source of sorrow’ for themselves and their children will soon disappear, together with a victorious Menelaus, back to Hellas. Their self-centred focus and hostile reception contrasts with Priam’s sensitivity to Helen’s own precarious situation. He kindly invites Helen to sit next to him, using a form of address

8 Kirk 1985 ad 3.161–246 points for instance at Helen’s concerns for her missing brothers, the Dioscuri. 9 Griffin 1980: 97; De Jong [1987] 20042: 120. In this volume Bowie discusses this passage and demonstrates the ambiguities in Homer’s portrait of Helen, pointing for instance at the ambivalence of ἕθεν εἵνεκ’ (‘because of her’), and suggesting ‘in pursuit of her’ as an alternative interpretation, which would imply that she is not guilty.

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that underlines family status (φίλον τέκος … ἐμεῖο, ‘dear child of mine’, 3.162). At the same time he acknowledges her entitlement to a desire to see her former husband and friends (3.163), and exonerates her from blame for the war. By thoughtfully and sympathetically putting her at ease, he prepares Helen for her task to inform him about the identity of the Greek leaders below the walls, and continues:

170

ὥς μοι καὶ τόνδ’ ἄνδρα πελώριον ἐξονομήνῃς, ὅς τις ὅδ᾿ ἐστὶν Ἀχαιὸς ἀνὴρ ἠύς τε μέγα τε. ἤτοι μὲν κεφαλῇ καὶ μείζονες ἄλλοι ἔασι, καλὸν δ’ οὕτω ἐγὼν οὔ πω ἴδον ὀφθαλμοῖσιν, οὐδ’ οὕτω γεραρόν βασιλῆι γὰρ ἀνδρὶ ἔοικε. So you could tell me the name of this man who is so tremendous; / who is this Achaian man of power and stature? / Though in truth there are others taller by a head than he is, / yet these eyes have never yet looked on a man so splendid / nor so lordly as this: such a man might well be royal. hom. Il. 3.166–170, transl. lattimore, my italics

τόνδ(ε) in 166 is clearly, and ὅδ(ε) in 167 probably, deictic.10 More importantly, these proximal deictics imply a certain degree of emotional proximity. After all, given the distance between the viewers Helen and Priam and their referent one would rather expect οὗτος or ἐκεῖνος if only physical distance determined the choice of pronoun in a Teichoscopy situation like this. Furthermore, Priam apparently assumes that τόνδε alone is insufficient for Helen to establish a reference to the man meant by him. It is the specifications provided by πελώριον (166), καλόν (169), γεραρόν and especially the cue-word βασιλῆι (170) that enable Helen to identify Agamemnon in the crowd of warriors on the battlefield beneath the walls of Troy. These cues are also needed for the narratee, who, in contrast to Helen, cannot see whom Priam is pointing at. They make τόνδ(ε) and ὅδ(ε) into an instance of what I would like to call ‘weak deixis’, as opposed to ‘strong deixis’, where the demonstrative pronoun is strictly the verbal counterpart to a gestural reference, without any further descriptive details.11 Compare, in this respect, the following sentences, taken from a setting that is prototypic-

10 11

For it might be anaphoric. ‘Weak deixis’ is not the same as ‘impure deixis’, which is already in use for other phenomena, see Lyons 1995, 307–310. Observe also that descriptive details like those in Priam’s question also provide the audience with information on the outward appearance of the heroes.

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ally favourable for deixis: a doctor’s office. In this office a doctor who practices palpation may ask: (1) Is this where it hurts, the knee? (weak deixis) (2) Is this where it hurts? (strong deixis) A patient may reply to either question with ‘Yes, that’s where it hurts’, using a shift in the deictic pronoun (from ‘this’ to ‘that’). A similar shift can be observed in Helen’s reply to Priam’s question in the Iliad:

180

οὗτός γ’ Ἀτρείδης εὐρὺ κρείων Ἀγαμέμνων, ἀμφότερον βασιλεύς τ’ ἀγαθὸς κρατερός τ’ αἰχμητής· δαὴρ αὖτ’ ἐμὸς ἔσκε κυνώπιδος, εἴ ποτ’ ἔην γε. That man is Atreus’ son Agamemnon, widely powerful, at the same time a good king and a strong spearfighter, once my kinsman, slut that I am. Did this ever happen? hom. Il. 3.178–180, transl. lattimore, my italics

On οὗτος in Helen’s answer Leaf (1899, ad loc.) aptly observes: ‘οὗτος is “anaphoric,” not “deictic”; in other words it means “he of whom you ask,” while Priam (167) uses ὅδε, “this warrior whom I see.”’12 Indeed, ‘he of whom you ask’ is the correct interpretation, not ‘he whom you are pointing at’, nor ‘that man before your eyes’,13 since the asking was explicitly mentioned by Helen in line 177 (ὅ μ’ ἀνείρεαι ἠδὲ μεταλλᾷς). Also, it would be rather odd for Helen to actually ‘point’ to Agamemnon here. Helen’s βασιλεύς (179) confirms Priam’s surmise about the royal status of the man he sees. Furthermore, Helen provides some descriptive details of her own about Agamemnon, personal details, partly of an invisible nature (δαήρ, 180), unlike those provided by Priam, which are all visible. The pronouns have not escaped the attention of Ameis-Hentze either.14 They observe, ad 167: ‘Beachte den regelmäßigen Wechsel der Pronomina ὅδε 12 13

14

The notions ‘deictic’ and ‘anaphoric’ were reintroduced, from Apollonius Dyscolus, into linguistics in a pioneering study by E. Windisch 1869. Ruijgh 2006: 158. Incidentally, the distinction between ‘before my eyes’ (ὅδε) and ‘before your eyes’ (οὗτος) puts perhaps too much emphasis on the sense-organ, at the cost of the difference in deixis: ‘here’ versus ‘there’ is not the same as ‘before my eyes’ versus ‘before your eyes’. I was not able to check whether the information on ὅδε and οὗτος was already present in the first edition.

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und οὗτος in Frage und Antwort … Beide sind hinweisend, ὅδε drückt lediglich die unmittelbare Anschauung aus, οὗτος nimmt zugleich Bezug auf die Frage.’ Leaf and Ameis-Hentze were preceded by Kühner-Gerth (1, 642) who comment on ὅδε here: ‘Oft entsprechen sich ὅδε und οὗτος in Frage und Antwort, indem οὗτος anaphorisch auf die Frage des anderen Bezug nimmt.’15 As with ‘that’ in the patient’s reply to the doctor, οὗτος in Iliad 3.178 is indeed endophoric or discourse-bound, and, more specifically, anaphoric.16 The pattern of 3.166–180 returns in the case of Odysseus (3.191–224), who gets a detailed description in three stages: first, from Priam (192–198), who describes his current behaviour, as he is moving ‘like a ram’ (196) through the ranks of his troops, and secondly, from Helen, who, now, too, volunteers some extra information, naming Odysseus, and mentioning his Ithacan origins and famed cleverness, (200–202), and finally, most extensively, from Antenor, who reacts to this last point and remembers Odysseus’ remarkable performance as an ambassador, along with Menelaus, before the war broke out (204–224). Next, Helen spends only one verse on Aias (229), and thereupon, without having been asked by Priam to do so, starts speaking about Idomeneus, whom Menelaus often hosted in Sparta. In this case, specific spatial guidance is needed to guide Priam’s and Antenor’s gaze, which is provided by the phrase ἑτέρωθεν … ἕστηκ’ (‘he stands … on the other side’ 230–231). Ameis-Hentze ad 230 aptly observe: ‘zugleich entspricht es ihrer Seelenstimmung (139f.), daß sie von Idomeneus sprechen will, um die Vergangenheit zu gedenken.’ Thus, Priam’s and Helen’s choice of deictic pronouns and the other ways in which she introduces the various Greek leaders confirm the emotional state that Helen experiences in this scene (a desire to return home, to Greece, cf. 3.139–140), and also hint at emotions like pity and paternal love in the case of Priam, who shows himself, in denying her guilt (3.164), sensitive to Helen’s ambivalent position among the women of Troy.

Euripides’ Phoenissae Next, I will make some remarks about deictic pronouns in the question-andanswer sequences in the Teichoscopy scene at the beginning of Euripides’ Phoenissae (88–201), in which a servant identifies the leaders of the Argive army in front of the gates of Thebes for Antigone (the servant has been to 15 16

For ὅδε and οὗτος in Homer see especially Manolessou 2001: 137–139. For deictic pronouns and adverbs followed by anaphoric ones see Ehlich 1982 and Goedegebuure 2003: 19, with further literature.

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the enemy camp to propose a truce and is therefore well informed; cf. 95–98). This Teichoscopy is more varied than the one in the Iliad, with the initiative in pointing and eliciting information passing from the servant to Antigone.17 As Mastronarde notes, one function of the scene is to evoke a ‘wider vista of the beleaguered Theban landscape, the strength and fearsomeness (and partly ferocity) of the attacking army and its leaders, and the fear of the potential captives within the city’.18 Since the audience do not, of course, actually see the Argive leaders, in principle the same conventions (including ‘double deixis’) operate as in the epic narrative of the Iliad: the audience ‘witness’ the people and events about which Antigone and the servant talk only in their imagination.19 They are guided by the words and gestures of Antigone and the servant, who offer them a mental topography of the scene, information about the outward appearance of the Argive leaders and their emotional response to them. There are six question-and-answer sequences: (i) 119–130 (Hippomedon), (ii) 131–138 (Tydeus), (iii) 145–150 (Parthenopaeus), (iv) 156–162 (Polynices), (v) 171–174 (Amphiaraus), (vi) 179–189 (Capaneus). They are part of a dialogue between the two characters in which the servant speaks, and Antigone sings the verses. Their main features are as follows. i) E. Ph. 118–130: (Θε.) Ἀν.

Θε. Ἀν. Θε.

17

18

19

ἀλλ’ εἰσόρα †τὸν πρῶτον, εἰ βούλῃ μαθεῖν.† τίς οὗτος ὁ λευκολόφας, πρόπαρ ὃς ἀγεῖται στρατοῦ πάγχαλκον ἀσπίδ’ ἀμφὶ βραχίονι κουφίζων; λοχαγός, ὦ δέσποινα. τίς, πόθεν γεγώς; αὔδασον, ὦ γεραιέ, τίς ὀνομάζεται; οὗτος Μυκηναῖος μὲν αὐδᾶται γένος, Λερναῖα δ’ οἰκεῖ νάμαθ’, Ἱππομέδων ἄναξ.

120

125

Apart from the Iliad, another literary ancestor of our scene is the dialogue between the scout and Eteocles in the shield scene of Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes. See Lamari 2010: 34, 129–134. Mastronarde 1994: 167. See Lamari 2010: 34–35: ‘The eyes of the two actors become the mental eyes of the spectators, who gain a wide view of the Theban landscape and the imminent danger’. Lamari 2010: 33.

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Servant: ‘But look †at the first man, if you are desirous to learn who he is†.’ Ant.: ‘Who is he of the white plume who stands in front of the army to lead it, bearing lightly upon his arm a shield all of bronze?’ Servant: ‘A captain, lady.’ Ant.: ‘Who and whence sprung? Tell me, old man, what is his name?’ Servant: ‘He is said to be a Mycenaean by birth, and he dwells by the waters of Lerna: he is Lord Hippomedon.’ transl. d. kovacs

The text of line 118 is uncertain, but it seems that the servant directs Antigone’s attention to a particular man on the battlefield. In that case, οὗτος is anaphoric (referring back to ‘the man you point at’), and the following descriptive λευκολόφας, which is further followed by an extensive descriptive relative clause, functions to make sure that Antigone has singled out the man which the servant wished her to look at first (τὸν πρῶτον). Alternatively, οὗτος may be an instance of ‘weak’ deixis, with Antigone herself picking out a first man to focus her attention on. The next οὗτος, in line 125, however, is more clearly anaphoric (‘the man about whom you have asked’). Note also that this sequence of questions and answers deviates considerably from that in Iliad 3. Antigone first provides details about the activity displayed by the first man who has aroused her interest (120–122), and it is only after the answers to her questions, given rather reluctantly and in two stages (123, 125), that she describes Hippomedon’s outward appearance: Ἀν. ἒ ἔ, ὡς γαῦρος, ὡς φοβερὸς εἰσιδεῖν, γίγαντι γηγενέτᾳ προσόμοιος ἀστερωπὸς ⟨ὡς⟩ ἐν γραφαῖσιν, οὐχὶ πρόσφορος ἁμερίῳ γέννᾳ.

130

Ah, ah! How grim, how fearful to look upon, like a giant born of the earth, with dazzling visage, ⟨as⟩ in a picture, not like men of mortal begetting! transl. d. kovacs, E. Ph. 127–130

ii) E. Ph. 131–138 Θε. τὸν δ’ ἐξαμείβοντ᾿ οὐχ ὁρᾷ Δίρκης ὕδωρ λοχαγόν; Ἀν. ἄλλος ἄλλος ὅδε τευχέων τρόπος. τίς δ’ ἐστὶν οὗτος; Θε. παῖς μὲν Οἰνέως ἔφυ Τυδεύς, Ἄρη δ’ Αἰτωλὸν ἐν στέρνοις ἔχει.

131

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Servant: ‘Do you not see the man crossing the water of Dirce, a captain?’ Ant.: ‘Other, other is the fashion of his arms. Who is he?’ Servant: ‘He is Tydeus, son of Oeneus, and Aetolian is the war spirit he bears within his breast.’ transl. d. kovacs

The second sequence exhibits a different way of questioning. With Antigone still absorbed by the sight of Hippomedon, the servant takes the initiative and urges her on to the next leader.20 But as soon as Antigone focuses her attention on that leader, she can hardly conceal her excitement, as Mastronarde rightly concludes from ‘the repetition ἄλλος ἄλλος’ and from ‘the fact that she comments on the strangeness of the armour before asking “who?” ’21 In this context ὅδε (chosen over οὗτος) may have the value mentioned by Kühner-Gerth, quoted above: ‘der in den Vordergrund des Interesses tretende [Gegenstand wird] durch ὅδε, der minder wichtige durch οὗτος bezeichnet.’22 Antigone is initially far more interested in the remarkable armour than in the man himself. This changes dramatically after she has heard his name, Tydeus, which triggers an astonished rhetorical question: is that man the husband of the sister of Polynices’ wife? (135–137) iii) E. Ph. 145–150: Ἀν. τίς δ’ οὗτος ἀμφὶ μνῆμα τὸ Ζήθου περᾷ, καταβόστρυχος, ὄμμασι γοργὸς εἰσιδεῖν νεανίας, λοχαγός, ὡς ὄχλος νιν ὑστέρῳ ποδὶ πάνοπλος ἀμφέπει; Θε. ὅδ᾿ἐστὶ Παρθενοπαῖος, Ἀταλάντης γόνος.

145

150

Antigone: ‘But who is the one who walks near the tomb of Zethus, a young man with long curls, grim of face to look upon? He is a captain, to judge by the armed throng who follow on his heels.’ Servant: ‘This is Parthenopaeus, son of Atalanta.’ transl. d. kovacs 20 21 22

So Mastronarde 1994: 189. Mastronarde 1994: 190. In addition, given that ὅδε, as we have seen, refers to newly introduced entities, the pronoun here may also mark Antigone’s shift of attention (‘who is this new one, then?’). When she has singled out the new captain, and he has become ‘given’ information, so to speak, she refers to him with an ‘activating’ οὗτος.

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v) E. Ph. 171–174: Ἀν. οὗτος δ᾿, ὦ γεραιέ, τίς κυρεῖ, ὃς ἅρμα λευκὸν ἡνιοστροφεῖ βεβώς; Θε. ὁ μάντις Ἀμφιάραος, ὦ δέσποιν’, ὅδε· σφάγια δ’ ἅμ’ αὐτῷ, γῆς φιλαίματοι ῥοαί.

171

Ant.: ‘But who is this, old man, mounted on a white chariot and holding the reins?’ Servant: ‘That is the seer Amphiaraus, my lady. With him are sacrificial victims, to provide streams for the earth, which thirsts for blood.’ transl. d. kovacs

I take iii and v together, since they present the same problem. In both cases οὗτος clearly expresses ‘weak’ deixis (note the descriptive relative clauses), but they show a puzzling use of ὅδε. Is ὅδε simply anaphoric, like οὗτος in the Homeric instances above? This would be very rare.23 Or are we dealing with geistige Anschauung? If so, is Parthenopaeus in iii, and Amphiaraus in v, ‘wichtiger’ for the Servant than the other captains? Or does Antigone’s detailed description in iii make the Servant mentally see Parthenopaeus near him? Perhaps rather the latter. But this explanation fails in v, and I must admit that I see no way out here. iv) E. Ph. 156–162: Ἀν. ποῦ δ’ ὃς ἐμοὶ μιᾶς ἐγένετ’ ἐκ ματρὸς πολυπόνῳ μοίρᾳ; ὦ φίλτατ’, εἰπέ, ποῦ ᾿στι Πολυνείκης, γέρον; Θε. ἐκεῖνος ἑπτὰ παρθένων τάφου πέλας Νιόβης Ἀδράστῳ πλησίον παραστατεῖ. ὁρᾷς; Ἀν. ὁρῶ δῆτ’ οὐ σαφῶς, ὁρῶ δέ πως μορφῆς τύπωμα στέρνα τ’ ἐξῃκασμένα.

160

Ant.: ‘But where is he that was born of one mother with me, by a fate full of woe? Dearest old man, tell me, where is Polynices?’ Servant: ‘He stands over there near the tomb of Niobe’s seven daughters, next to Adrastus. Do

23

Compare Kühner-Gerth 1898–1904: 1 646.

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you see him?’ Ant.: ‘I do not see clearly, but I see somehow, the outline of his form and the semblance of his chest.’ transl. d. kovacs

vi) E. Ph. 179–189: (Ἀν.) Θε. Θε. Ἀν.

ποῦ δ’ ὃς τὰ δεινὰ τῇδ’ ἐφυβρίζει πόλει; Καπανεύς; ἐκεῖνος προσβάσεις τεκμαίρεται πύργων ἄνω τε καὶ κάτω τείχη μετρῶν. ἰώ, Νέμεσι καὶ Διὸς βαρύβρομοι βρονταί /…/ ὅδ᾿ ἐστίν, αἰχμαλώτιδας ὃς δορὶ Θηβαίας Μυκηνηΐσιν ⟨ ⟩ Λερναίᾳ τε δώσειν τριαίνᾳ, …

180

Ant.: ‘But where is he who uttered the terrible proud words against the city, Capaneus?’ Servant: ‘He is calculating the approaches to the battlements, measuring the walls from top to bottom.’ Ant.: ‘Hear me, Nemesis and the deep-booming thunders of Zeus … This is the man, who ⟨boasted⟩ he would give ⟨the maidens⟩ of Thebes as spear captives to ⟨women⟩ of Mycenae and to the Trident of Lerna, …’ transl. d. kovacs

iv and vi, too, can conveniently be discussed together, as they exhibit the same way of questioning, which deviates again from the Teichoscopy in Homer, but also from the other passages from Phoenissae discussed here. In both cases Antigone misses a person, whom she apparently cannot detect in the plains around Thebes, and this induces her to start her questions with ποῦ rather than τίς. Where is Polynices? And where is Capaneus? The answers here are particularly revealing, for they make it clear that Antigone has used ποῦ with good reason: both men are referred to by means of ἐκεῖνος. They are either far away, as in the case of Polynices, who is, in fact, so far out that he is barely visible (161–162), or invisible altogether, as in the case of Capaneus. Indeed, from the absence of all information on the visibility of Capaneus I infer that he cannot be seen at all.24 This must be because he, while measuring the height of the 24

ἐκεῖνος ‘Souvent en parlant d’ un absent’ (Chantraine 1963: 170); ‘It (ἐκεῖνος) is mainly used

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wall, is at the foot of the wall, outside the visual field of the Antigone and the servant on the roof.25 His name provokes first of all an outburst of emotional appeals to the gods. But then it becomes clear that Capaneus, although he may be physically absent, is very much present in Antigone’s mind. For I take it that ὅδε (185) indicates that Capaneus is seen by Antigone with her geistigen Auge (see above), together with his horrible deeds. The semantic contrast between ἐκεῖνος and ὅδε is here exploited with great dramatic effect.

Conclusion In this contribution I have analysed two Teichoscopy scenes and, following the outlines of Kühner-Gerth, argued that the demonstrative pronouns in these scenes do not reflect the distance between viewers and their referents, but are rather indicative of their emotional states. In both cases, direct relatives of members of the attacking army look down from the walls and respond with apprehension, admiration, surprise and fear to the spectacle unfolding under their gaze. Deictic ὅδε in these cases tends to refer to entities that come close to the viewer’s mind, whereas οὗτος is often (but not always) used anaphorically, referring back to the referent after whose identity is asked. ἐκεῖνος is used for referents that are far away or invisible, though the final example shows that this does not preclude the use of ὅδε when the mind of the viewer is fully absorbed by that referent and all his related (mis)deeds.

Abbreviations CGCG

25

Emde Boas, E. van, Rijksbaron, A., Huitink, L., Bakker, M. de, The Cambridge Grammar of Classical Greek (Cambridge 2019).

to refer to something outside the situation of utterance. In this use the basic semantic feature “over there” is converted into “elsewhere, in another place” (local) and/or “a considerable time ago” ’ (Ruijgh 2006: 159). That the Servant can have knowledge of Capaneus’ whereabouts is clear from his words in lines 95–98: πάντα δ’ ἐξειδὼς φράσω | ἅ τ’ εἶδον εἰσήκουσά τ’ Ἀργείων πάρα, | σπονδὰς ὅτ’ ἦλθον σῷ κασιγνήτῳ φέρων | ἐνθένδ’ ἐκεῖσε, δεῦρό τ’ αὖ κείνων πάρα. (‘Since I am well informed, I shall tell you all that saw and heard from the Argives when I went from here to there bearing a truce to your brother and also when I brought this truce here’, transl. Kovacs). Cf. Mastronarde on 94–98: ‘The audience needs to know from the beginning of the scene that this servant is the man Jocasta referred to in 83 and why he can identify the attackers for Antigone.’ Lines 181–182 imply that Capaneus had a ladder; the ladder is mentioned, in fact, in v. 1173.

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Bibliography Ameis, K.F., Hentze, C., Homers Ilias. Erstes Band, erstes Heft. Gesang i–iii (Leipzig / Berlin 19302). Blass, F., ‘Demosthenische Studien’, RhMus 44 (1889) 1–24. Bonifazi, A., ‘How to Do Things with (ἐ)κεῖνος and αὐτός in Tragedy: Initial Suggestions.’, in G. Martin, F. Iurescia, S. Hof, G. Sorrentino (eds.), Pragmatic Approaches to Drama. Studies in Communication on the Ancient Stage, Leiden (2020) 19–42. Brugmann, K., Die Demonstrativpronomina der indogermanischen Sprachen (Leipzig 1904). Brugmann, K., Griechische Grammatik (Munich 1913). Chantraine, P., Grammaire homérique. Tome ii: Syntaxe (Paris 1963). Dancygier, B., ‘Personal Pronouns, Blending, and Narrative Viewpoint’, in A. Tyler, Y. Kim, M. Takada (eds.), Language in the Context of Use: Discourse and Cognitive Approaches to Language (Berlin 2008) 167–182. Ehlich, K., ‘Anaphora and Deixis: Same, Similar, or Different?’ in R.J. Jarvella, W. Klein (eds.), Speech, Place and Action. Studies in Deixis and Related Topics (New York 1982) 315–338. Goedegebuure, P.M., Reference, Deixis and Focus in Hittite. The Demonstratives ka- ‘this’, apa- ‘that’ and asi ‘yon’ (Amsterdam 2003) (Thesis). Griffin, J., Homer on Life and Death (Oxford 1980). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London [1987] 2nd edn. 2004). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Double Deixis in Homeric Speech: On the Interpretation of ὅδε and οὗτος’, in M. Meier-Brügger (ed.), Homer, gedeutet durch ein großes Lexicon: Akten des Hamburger Kolloquiums vom 6.–8. Oktober 2010 zum Abschluss des Lexicons des frühgriechischen Epos (Berlin 2012) 63–84. Kirk, G.S., The Iliad. A Commentary. Volume i, Books 1–4 (Cambridge 1985). Kühner, R., Gerth, B., Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache. Vol. 1 (Hannover 1898–1904). Lakoff, R., ‘Remarks on This and That’, Chicago Linguistic Society 10 (1974) 345–356. Lamari, A.A., Narrative, Intertext, and Space in Euripides’ Phoenissae (Berlin / New York 2010). Leaf, W., The Iliad. Edited with Apparatus Criticus, Prolegomena, Notes and Appendices. Vol. i, Books i–xii (London 19002). Ledesma, A., ‘El significado de los demonstrativos en el “Corpus Lysiacum”’, Emerita 55 (1987) 209–231. Lyons, J., Semantics (Cambridge 1977). Lyons, J., Linguistic Semantics. An Introduction (Cambridge 1995). Manolessou, I., ‘The Evolution of the Demonstrative System in Greek’, Journal of Greek Linguistics 2 (2001) 119–148.

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Mastronarde, D.J. (ed.) Euripides, Phoenissae. Edited with Introduction and Commentary (Cambridge 1994). Rijksbaron, A., ‘Sur quelques différences entre οὗτος ὁ (substantif), οὗτος δὲ ὁ (substantif) et ὁ δὲ (substantif) οὗτος chez Hérodote’, Lalies 12 (1993) 119–130. Rijksbaron, A., Form and Function in Greek Grammar. Linguistic Contributions to the Study of Greek Literature. Edited by R.J. Allan, E. van Emde Boas and L. Huitink (Leiden 2018). Ruijgh, C.J., ‘The Use of the Demonstratives ὅδε, οὗτος and (ἐ)κεῖνος in Sophocles’, in I.J.F. de Jong, A. Rijksbaron (eds.), Sophocles and the Greek Language (Leiden 2006) 151–163. Windisch, E. ‘Untersuchungen über den Ursprung des Relativpronomens in den indogermanischen Sprachen. Cap. iii: Das anaphorische Pronomen und sein Unterschied vom Demonstrativpronomen’, in E. Curtius (ed.), Studien zur griechischen und lateinischen Grammatik, zweiter Band, zweites Heft (Leipzich 1869) 201–419.

chapter 13

Exercises in Anger Management: From Achilles to Arginusae Christopher Pelling

Anger and Narrative* Anger can be pleasurable. Homer’s Achilles knew as much, though he regretted it: anger … … which much sweeter than dripping honey rises in men’s breasts like smoke. hom. Il. 18.108–110

And Aristotle, quoting those lines, thought he knew why. The pleasure comes because humans like to linger on the thought of revenge (Rh. 1378b6–10, cf. 1370b10–15). Anger is also accompanied by pain (Rh. 1380b1, cf. 1382a12–13), and Aristotle could explain that too (Rh. 1378a30–1380a5). It is because pain is a response to being slighted by someone you thought lacked the status to make this permissible, especially in cases where in the past you treated them well or where the scorn concerns something on which you pride yourself. Aristotle is not the last word on such matters and some of what he says seems odd, arguably not just to modern sensibilities;1 but still his advice on how to damp anger down has much wisdom. You should represent the targets of your audience’s anger as people they should fear, or whom they should respect, or who had done them a favour, or who did whatever they did unwillingly, or as feeling deep regret for what they had done (Rh. 1380b31–34). That maps closely enough on to, for instance, the arguments in Thucydides’ Mytilenean debate, not so much the ones that Diodotus makes but those that Cleon anticipates and is eager to

* Many thanks to Tim Rood, Emily Baragwanath, and the editors for much-needed help and comments, and of course to Irene de Jong for all we have learned from her over the years. 1 On Aristotle’s treatment see esp. Konstan 2003 and 2006: 41–76; W.V. Harris 2001: 56–61, 93–98.

© Christopher Pelling, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_015

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rebut (3.36–40):2 Cleon emphasizes that the Mytileneans acted voluntarily, and that they had not repaid the favour that, so he claims, their peculiar treatment had deserved; their behaviour amounts to a slight on a superior power that they should have respected and feared. Certainly Aristotle’s advice is harder and more practical than he gives on stirring anger; he is more concerned there to distinguish different types of scorn and different things that make one angry, and ends weakly by saying that the orator’s job is to get people to feel that way (1380a2–5). He has nothing directly to say about what we might expect to be a central concern, which is how an annoyed litigant might lead uncommitted jurors to share his own anger.3 But that makes his advice more pertinent to the concern of this essay, which focuses on speakers who are, in the main, in the position that Aristotle envisages in Rh. 1380a6–1380b34: their audiences are already furious, or at least have been furious so recently that the flames stand a good chance of rekindling. No wonder Cleon’s speech fits so well.4 As the historians’ cases are embedded in a broader work, they interact with narrative too, and this makes them all the more pertinent to a field that our honorand has made her own. They do so in two ways. First, they are embedded in the writer’s own narrative, and speech and narrative each complement and qualify the other. Secondly, it is also clear that narrative is one of the most powerful tools in the forensic orator’s repertoire, and most of the cases considered here share forensic characteristics, concerned as they are with what people have done and how indignant one should be about it. Demosthenes knew the power of narrative (think of Against Meidias); so did Lysias (think of On the Murder of Eratosthenes); so did Aristotle when he counted narrative as distinctive of the lawcourt (Rh. 1414a38, cf. 1416b16–1417b20; Quint. Inst. 4.2.1– 132). In real-life ancient speeches we can see the skill with which narratives are constructed.5 Studies of modern courtroom rhetoric and its effectiveness confirm as much; seasoned observers can even tell from a judge’s narrative summing-up which way they are going to decide or nudge the jurors towards deciding.6 2 Konstan 2001: 80–82. 3 For the importance of jurors’ anger in real-life trials, Allen 2000: 50–51, 148–151, and 2003: 51, and 348 n. 2; for the techniques orators used see Carey 1994: 29–32 = 1996: 402–404; Rubinstein 2004; Konstan 2006: 66–68; Sanders 2012: esp. 364–369. 4 For similar readings of Thucydidean speeches in the light of Aristotle’s Rhetoric cf. Pelling 2012 and Kurpios 2015. Macleod’s articles, collected in Macleod 1983, led the way. 5 Cf. esp. Carey 1994: 30–31 = 2003: 402–403 = 410–414; Gagarin 2003; Spatharas 2009; Edwards and Spatharas 2019. 6 Posner 1988: 269–316, esp. 308–309. The papers in Brooks and Gewirtz 1996 are extremely illuminating, esp. Section iv on ‘The Rhetoric of the Judicial Opinion’ (pp. 175–237).

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In ancient historiography these two types of narrative relevance come together in an important way, as when the speakers tell a tale they are often giving their own inflection to points that the narrator has already handled. But full narratives are not typically given again, especially in speeches concerned to calm anger rather than inflame it. There are at least two reasons for that. The first concerns the historians: as narrators they are selective and do not weary their narratees with material they already know, and so anything that just repeats their own narrative is likely to be cut.7 The second is more interesting, and is a matter of oratory—at least defence oratory—rather than historiography. Wrath resists easy soothing, no matter how the events are retold that caused it. We can see that if we go back to where Greek literary anger begins: Homer’s Achilles.

Achilles We are in Iliad 16. The time has come for Achilles to think of relenting.8 His ruminations show how painful it is to dwell on what has happened (Iliad 16.49– 100). He repeats the story of Book 1: they have taken the girl, I was the one who won her, Agamemnon treated me like a nobody. Then he tries to pull himself together: But we shall let that go as over and done with. There was, so it seems, no way to keep anger unabated in my heart. True, I said that I would not lay my wrath aside before, but only when the noise and the warfare reached my ships. hom. Il. 16.60–649 He had said (or possibly ‘thought’, as Aristarchus took ἔφην at 61) that he would go back when the fighting reaches the ships, and that moment is at hand (16.61–63).10 But we soon see that he cannot bring himself to do it: revisiting 7

8 9 10

This point holds however closely we think that historians followed what they knew of those originals, as on any view they were selective in what they chose to include or cut out. Achilles’ anger is also discussed by Demoen and Kahane in this volume. For his pity for Patroclus (and its disastrous consequences), see Finglass’ contribution. All translations are my own. What in fact he had said at 9.649–653 was that he would not fight until Hector reached and set fire to the Myrmidons’ ships. The firing has not quite happened yet (the first ships are set alight at 16.112–129), but it looms close.

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it mentally has not helped. The compromise Patroclus has suggested—allow Patroclus himself and the Myrmidons to go—offers a way out, and he grasps it, for he recognizes that something must be done now that the Greeks are doing so badly. Here too he runs over what we already know from the narrative, with Hector raging so irresistibly. But even so (ἀλλὰ καὶ ὧς), Patroclus, go and do what you can (16.80–81). ‘But even so’? Not ‘And therefore …’? The Achaean plight has changed from being a reason for Patroclus to re-engage to being a reason against, one that needs to be overborne, for it shows how forcefully his anger is making his point. For the same reason Patroclus must drive the Trojans from the ships, but go no further; otherwise he will make Achilles less honoured (ἀτιμότερον, 16.90). One can track the psychology in action: any sort of dwelling on what has happened makes it harder to let things drop, whether that is the quarrel itself or the setbacks that followed. Maybe—though this touches on one of the oldest compositional issues of the Iliad—this even makes him speak as if Book 9 had never happened and Agamemnon’s peace-offering had never been made.11 And, of course, it is all going to go dreadfully wrong. It will take that later calamity, not any soothing now and certainly not any retelling of the past, to make him set the wrath aside, or at least redirect it towards Hector and Troy. We can now see how wise the ambassadors of Iliad 9 had been in their own ‘narratives’. Much of Odysseus’ speech is in a way a narrative of Agamemnon’s offer, though he has the good sense to suppress Agamemnon’s inflammatory final words (9.158–161); he also recalls the advice that father Peleus gave as Achilles left for the war (9.251–259). His tone leaves something to be desired, but at least he does not revisit the quarrel itself. Phoenix has two extended narratives, one of his own past and the other the story of Meleager. Both intersect in interesting ways with Achilles’ own position, but again there is no direct attempt to tell of the quarrel itself and put it in a new light. Finally Ajax does not mention Agamemnon at all, telling a different tale of Achilles’ letting his comrades down and refusing a very good offer. The speaker who does relive the quarrel is Achilles himself, and in furious terms: how badly Agamemnon has treated him ‘just like some honourless vagrant’ (ὡς εἴ τιν’ ἀτίμητον μετανάστην, 9.647–648)! This is one of the passages Aristotle quotes to exemplify classic rage (Rh. 1379b7). So the only good soothing narrative is often a narrative of something different, touching only obliquely on the cause at issue. Euripides’ Helen, with her life at stake, is wise to pass lightly over her elopement with Paris; she dwells instead

11

This is not the place to revisit that issue. The two passages are 16.72–73 and 85–86.

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on Hecuba’s failure to expose him at birth, the visit of the three goddesses, and her claimed attempt to escape to the Greek ranks (Tr. 914–966). Hecuba, predictably, tells of the seduction at greater length (Tr. 983–1001). Sophocles’ Tecmessa says not a word about the humiliation Ajax has just suffered, but paints instead an imaginary future narrative of the insults she, and by extension he, will suffer if he dies, and the plight of their son at the hands of unsympathetic guardians (Soph. Aj. 500–505, 510–513). Case after case in the historians shows the same. When Diodorus’ Syracusans debate the fate of the surrendered Athenians, it is the vindictive Spartan Gylippus (very different from Thucydides’ Gylippus) who talks of what the Athenians have done in Sicily, and how many families they have bereaved; the merciful Nicocles prefers to tell of other empires which have fallen through their inhumanity, of the generosity shown by Gelon two generations before and by the Athenians and Spartans in the last few years (there is some bending of truthfulness here), and to picture a future narrative of Syracuse basking in the glory of clemency (13.19.4–33.1). Plutarch’s Volumnia has nothing to say about the humiliation that so infuriated Coriolanus; she too paints several futures, the son riding over the mother’s corpse, the citizen triumphing over his country, the alternative of an honourable reconciliation (Cor. 35–36). Sallust’s Cato has a lot to say about the current crisis; his Caesar spends more time on exemplary incidents from the past (Cat. 51–52). Still, there are also cases that needed to be argued differently. Xenophon’s Theramenes must revisit and justify his changes of front (Hell. 2.3.24–49); Polybius’ Leon has to fill his Roman audience in on the influencers who have led the Aetolians astray (21.31.6–16). The rhetorical needs of the situation always need to be thought about. Here I will look more closely at these in Xenophon’s debate on the Arginusae generals (Hell. 1.7), with some further backward glances to that in Thucydides on Mytilene (3.34–50).12

Arginusae Memories of Thucydides’ Mytilene are strong at the end of Hellenica 1; memories of the real-life debate may well have been in the air in autumn 406 bce. Even the battle’s location helps, for the narrator has reminded us that Arginusae, the scene of the victory, is just opposite Mytilene (Hell. 1.6.27). The Myti12

The two episodes are brought together by Due 1983: 41; Gish 2012: 163–167; Kapellos 2019: 186 and 191, but they do not discuss the similarities in detail. Tamiolaki 2014: 129–130 has a little more, linking the Arginusae episode also with Thucydides’ Plataean debate.

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lene debate lasted into a further day, allowing a change of heart; so does this one, but this time an initially merciful reaction (1.7.6) gives way to anger and a verdict of death. Here too the vote is close, so close indeed that a recount reverses the decision (1.7.34). Diodotus warned against τάχος and ὀργή (Th. 3.42.1); Xenophon’s Euryptolemus urges the angry Athenians not to proceed immediately, but to allow time for regular trials—‘what are you afraid of to be in such a hurry?’ (Hell. 1.7.26). Thucydides’ Athenians were troubled about punishing everyone rather than just the men responsible (τοὺς αἰτίους, Th. 3.36.4); Euryptolemus urges the wisdom of focusing on those whose job it was to pick up survivors (Hell. 1.7.31). Thucydides’ debate was triggered by people’s remorse at the over-hasty decision (Th. 3.36.4–5); Euryptolemus warns the assembly about jumping to a verdict that they will quickly regret (Hell. 1.7.19, 27). Yet that verdict is passed; the assembly does indeed soon regret it (1.7.35); but by then it is too late. All they can do is turn on the speakers who persuaded them (1.7.35), in just the way that Diodotus had claimed was so characteristic (Th. 3.43.5; cf. 8.1.1). If Thucydides’ readers were prompted to muse on the growing problems of democratic debate, Xenophon’s can reflect on how, over twentyone years, matters have got worse.13 Thucydides’ Mytilene debate had something of the trial about it. His Plataean debate had even more, and if that is a ‘parody of legality’,14 the Arginusae assembly is even more of a travesty, at least as Xenophon portrays it. The contrast with regular procedure is here explicit, as there are established alternatives on offer, and it is these that Euryptolemus asks for: put the generals on trial according to one regular procedure or another—the assembly even has a choice—and let each general make his case (1.7.19–23). Others too protest at the illegality,15 but they are howled down, with threats to their own lives (1.7.12). The prytaneis too are bullied out of their objections, with the notable exception of Socrates who says he will not act in conflict with the law (1.7.15). The namecheck of so ethically impeccable a figure is a clear prompt to the reader on what to think.16 13

14 15 16

This reading seems to me more convincing than, for instance, seeing it as praise for Socrates’ refusal to be bullied (Henry 1967: 197–199) or ‘a memorial to the good qualities of Euryptolemus’ (Gray 1989: 86) or a defence of the dêmos by heaping blame on to individuals (Lang 1992: 274–275) or ‘an insightful account of the institutional virtues, as well as the limits, of dēmokratia at Athens’ (Gish 2012: 214). See also Tsakmakis’ contribution to this volume, on the characterization of the Athenian dêmos in the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia. Macleod 1977: 242 = 1983: 118. Or what they see as illegality: see the final section below. Pownall 2018 suggests that this may be felt as a foretaste of Socrates’ own trial and what Xenophon saw as its populist injustices; certainly Euryptolemus’ claim that the generals

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There is no ‘prosecution’ address. Cleon’s Mytilenean speech made uncomfortable reading, but at least it was necessary for him to make it; he had clearly spoken on the day before as well (Th. 3.36.6). It is even more disquieting now that no formal speech is given at all, and the popular mood, untempered by any supporting λόγος, is regarded as enough. There are non-verbal modes at play as well. On—according to Xenophon—Theramenes’ unscrupulous bidding,17 people posing as the relatives of the dead appear with shorn hair and wearing black at the festival that intervenes between the two debates, casting gloom over what should have been a day of public joy. Such parades were a hackneyed forensic ploy used by those on trial (Pl. Ap. 34d; Arist. Rh. 1386b2),18 but here they switch to the attack rather than defence, and foster vindictive rage rather than pity. These same ‘relatives’ are active again on the day of the assembly, persuading one Callixenus to denounce the generals in the boulê: on his motion, the boulê proposes to the assembly a vote on whether the generals—all together, in a single vote—‘seem to have done wrong in not picking up the victors in the sea-battle’ (1.7.9): the phrasing embraces both survivors and corpses.19 The tension builds, with the proposal spelt out in full, including the voting procedure: more narrative words are spent on this (1.7.9–10) than there were on the battle itself (1.6.33). A man comes into the assembly ‘saying that’ he was saved by clinging to a barley barrel, and he is now coming ‘as a messenger from the dying to say that the generals did not pick up those who had shown themselves the best of men for their country’ (1.7.11). That ‘saying that’ does not encourage belief, and Xenophon is insinuating that there were further dark arts at play. Those protests at illegality are howled down: ‘it will be appalling if the dêmos is to be forbidden to do whatever it wishes’ (1.7.12). Euryptolemus does his best.20 He does not try, like Thucydides’ Diodotus, to shift the register to the symbouleutic: there is no argument along the lines

17

18 19 20

should be garlanded rather than condemned might then recall Socrates’ counterproposal for himself of dinner in the Prytaneum (1.7.33; Pl. Ap. 36d–e). Or, literally, that of ‘Theramenes and his associates’, οἱ περὶ τὸν Θηραμένην: as in later Greek this might mean no more than ‘Theramenes’ (Radt 1980: 47–56 at 50, though cf. also Gorman 2001). Anyway it is clear that Xenophon’s unfriendly focus is firmly on Theramenes. Xenophon’s insinuation that Theramenes orchestrated this parade of the relatives is probably unjustified, but I do not here enter the long-standing controversy about Theramenes’ role in the trial itself. For examples in real–life trials see Dover 1974: 195; Carey 1994: 33 = 1996: 405. Elsewhere in 1.7 (4–5, 18, 29) οἱ ναυαγοί is used, and this directs attention more to the survivors. Diod. 13.100–101 talks of corpses throughout. Cf. below, p. 222. Due 1983 similarly emphasizes the skill with which he plays to his audience.

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of ‘what sort of precedent will this set? Who will want to serve the city if they are to run such a risk?’ He starts with an arresting touch of the unexpected, a good ploy to capture the attention of a hostile audience: he has come to make a charge against his cousin Pericles and his friend Diomedon as well as to offer some defence. And the charge? That they had dissuaded their fellow-generals from reporting to Athens the instruction to Theramenes and Thrasybulus to use forty-four ships to pick the men up (1.7.17).21 Much of what he then says is in line with the recommendations of Aristotle and with standard rhetorical practice.22 Beware the gods (1.7.19: for real-life examples cf. Carey 1994: 32–33 = 1996: 404–405); do not allow yourself to be deceived (1.7.19; cf. Critias at Hell. 2.3.51 and Diodotus, Th. 3.43.2); respect the laws (1.7.20, 29; cf. Rh. Al. 1433b21–24; Carey 1994: 36–37 = 1996: 408); remember what these men have done for the city, destroying all those enemy ships (1.7.25, 28, 33; cf. Arist. Rh. 1385a16–b10 on χάρις, Carey 1994: 33 = 1996: 405); adduce another case that is parallel, especially if it makes an a fortiori argument (1.7.28, the trial that was offered to the anti-democratic and traitorous Aristarchus: cf. Arist. Rh. 1397b17–29; 1398b21–99a6); the storm made it impossible to act differently (1.7.33; cf. Arist. Rh. 1373b27–29; 1380a9–12); my opponents are scoundrels (πονηροί, 1.7.33; cf. Arist. Rh. 1416a20–28 and Theramenes himself at Hell. 2.3.36). Rhetorica ad Alexandrum gives as typical defence tactics the demonstration that the act was not intended, or was one of which the defendant had no knowledge, or was committed by other people, or was a matter of misfortune rather than bad planning (1427a30–37): that is not a bad summary of Euryptolemus’ case. One awkward point that has engaged modern critics is not addressed at all, and that may be wise: why did the victorious generals take time to disembark and discuss rather than move immediately to pick up survivors?23 The use of narrative is less in line with what we have so far seen—because there is some. Euryptolemus sets out what happened in some detail, placing it for effect just before the peroration (1.7.29–32). He describes the way the

21

22 23

There may be some silent polemic here against an alternative version. Diod. 13.101.2 reports that the generals did send such a letter ‘to the people’. It is perfectly possible, though not demonstrable, that Diodorus’ version goes back to soon after the time of the events, perhaps via the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia and Ephorus. Still, it is possible that an initial letter on Xenophon’s line was supplemented by a later one detailing Theramenes’ and Thrasybulus’ commission: so e.g. Hamel 2015: 75, 77. Cf. Xen. An. 3.3.12–20, another calming speech, this time one of Xenophon himself, that is thoroughly in line with Aristotle’s advice (Winter 2016: 173). The point was raised forcefully by Grote 1851: 282–283; but see the counter-arguments of Kagan 1987: 356–358 and Hamel 2015: 55–56.

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decision was reached and carefully notes how many ships the trierarchs were given, nearly four for every wreck they had to deal with.24 He can even cite a witness, with an implication that this is a more reliable one than the alleged barleybarrel survivor: this time it is one of the generals who himself was wrecked, but now absurdly stands in the same jeopardy as the others (1.7.32).25 Here, then, a defence speaker does employ narrative straightforwardly in an attempt to calm; yet the very presence of a narrative at all is an index to how everything is going wrong. The audience were so under-informed that they needed telling, but their minds were so made up that it did no good. The narrator has left room for this by the way he himself described the battle, for an ellipsis there is filled by an analepsis now.26 There the Athenians’ initial deployment had been described at some length (Hell. 1.6.29–31), partly no doubt to inject the names of the generals into the narratee’s mind, partly to make it clear that it was all done in a professional and careful way. The fighting itself had been described rather perfunctorily (1.6.33)—Diodorus’ account is much fuller, 13.98–100—but perfunctoriness is the norm with naval battles;27 Thucydides’ Great Battle in the Harbour (7.69–72) is wholly exceptional.28 No doubt though was left about the magnitude of Athens’ victory, with only 25 ships lost against the enemy’s 69 (1.6.34): that is important for our perception of the debate from the outset, for—though 25 ships are not few—we also recall that these generals were great victors. The crucial aftermath was there given only briefly: ‘the Athenian generals’ decided to entrust the trierarchs Theramenes and Thrasybulus with taking care of ‘the sunk ships and the men on them’, a phrase that could mean survivors or those who had died on them or both (1.6.35, cf. 1.7.9);29 meanwhile the generals would sail off to deal with the 50 ships of Eteonicus blockading Mytilene (1.6.35, cf. 26). There was no description, as a historian intent on arousing πάθος might have savoured, of survivors struggling in the water amid the debris and the corpses, or even, as Diodorus has (13.100.4), of a coastline strewn with wreckage and bodies. That would have

24

25 26

27 28 29

There is an apparent mismatch here with Xenophon’s own narrative, as Euryptolemus says that twelve ships were lost; the narrative said 25 (1.6.34; Diod. 13.100.3 agrees). Perhaps some triremes had already broken apart (Krentz 1989: 168), but Euryptolemus may be bending the truth in his favour. The truth of this is very dubious: Krentz 1989: 168; Pownall 2000: 507. Cf. Due 1983: 34–35. Andrewes 1974: 112–113 finds this a ‘quite extraordinary order of presentation’, leaving a gap in the original narrative ‘that no historian ought to have left unfilled’. It is not as extraordinary as all that. Lendon 2017: 157–163. Cf. Rood in this volume. Cf. n. 19.

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risked stimulating the narratee to the sort of pity that those black-clad ‘relatives’ sought to arouse. All that the narrative told us was that the onset of the storm made it impossible to do what the generals had wished (1.6.35). That too is ambiguous, as it is unclear whether this just refers to the sailing off to face Eteonicus or also to the dealing with the wrecks. The effect is that the narratee finds out the full facts of the case gradually, at the same time as the assembly is told: first the brief statements that were all that the generals were allowed, describing the split of responsibilities and the entrustment of the ships to Theramenes and Thrasybulus (1.7.5); then Euryptolemus’ fuller account. The narratee may find Euryptolemus wholly persuasive: if anyone is to blame, it is the trierarchs whose job it was to deal with it—though Euryptolemus, like the generals themselves, is careful to add that even these could have done nothing because of the storm (1.7.32, cf. 1.7.6). The mismatch between the readerly response—ours—and that of the assembly is clear; in any case, the swift but fruitless regret of the Athenians makes it clear what we should make of it all. If there were various possible responses to Thucydides’ portrayal of the assembly and its leaders, there is no doubt of the judgement to be passed on this assembly now.30 It is a crass and brutal shambles. This brings us back to the Mytilenean debate. ‘The quarrel between Diodotos and Kleon is as much about how to conduct debate in the ekklesia as about the fate of Mytilene’, said Gomme, and scholars have generally concurred.31 It is easy to agree, too, that the reader of Thucydides is encouraged to draw comparisons and contrasts, weighing the discussion here against others in the history. Most obviously, there are those resonant (and much-discussed) verbal echoes of Pericles in Cleon’s speech.32 In that context where anger is so dominant and indecision so rampant one may look back with longing to the man who ‘had the stature to respond to the people with anger’ of his own (2.65.8) and who understood popular ὀργή (1.140.1; 2.60.1) and had ways of quelling and calming it (2.22.1, 59.3). The dazzling fireworks of Cleon’s chiding are a much-diminished substitute, and these growing difficulties in democratic decision-making are fundamental to those in anger-management. We can now tie in Xenophon’s Arginusae debate as well: as several other recent studies have brought out, Xenophon does not merely continue Thucy-

30 31 32

Pace Gish 2012: cf. n. 13. Gomme et al. 1945–1981: ii. 315. Cf. e.g. Connor 1984: 82–83; Debnar 2000: 162; Pelling 2000: 10; Mader 2017: 5; and esp. E.M. Harris 2013. 3.37.2 ~ Pericles’ 2.63.2; 3.38.1~ 2.61.2; 3.40.4 ~ 2.63.2–3.

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dides’ narrative but can build on it intertextually.33 Thucydides has after all been in the reader’s mind since the recognition that Xenophon’s opening words ‘After this …’ (Μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα …) signal this to be a continuation of Thucydides’ narrative.34 The prominence of Hermocrates and the Syracusans (1.1.27– 31, 3.13) has reinforced that awareness, including those Syracusans imprisoned in Athenian quarries in a gruesome mirroring of the Syracusan equivalent (1.2.14, cf. Th. 7.87).35 If the reader does think back to Thucydides’ debate, this is indeed a continuing story, exploring democracy in action and in all its woes; and speeches, by now speeches in different authors, are combining to construct that troubling story. Contrasting speeches are not merely supplementing a narrative of change, they are creating one. Nor is that story at an end, for the confrontation of Critias and Theramenes (Hell. 2.3.24–56) will also have Mytilene in the background,36 and be just as disturbing. But that is not a topic for here.

Conclusion Narrative and speech work together, that remains clear. Both Thucydides and Xenophon trace the ways of the dêmos in their narrative voice as well as through their speakers; nor are formal speeches the only way that conflicting perspectives can be conveyed, as any reader of Irene de Jong’s Narrators and Focalizers knows. Some of each author’s focalization techniques are very subtle. If we glance again at the Mytilenean debate, we recall Thucydides’ oarsmen rowing ‘to an outlandish task’, ἐπὶ πρᾶγμα ἀλλόκοτον (3.49.4): outlandish just to them, or to Thucydides, or to the readers? And which of these turns ‘outlandish’ into ‘horrid’ and ‘repugnant’, which is how any reader takes it?37 And think too of the ‘illegality’ of the procedures in the Arginusae assembly. It is easy to lose track of where this impression comes from. ‘Euryptolemus and some others’ challenge Callixenus, saying that his proposals were παράνομα; the prytaneis initially say that they will not allow a vote παρὰ τὸν νόμον; Socrates alone then 33 34

35 36 37

Cf. esp. Rood 2004 and 2012; Nicolai 2006: 695–706 and 2010; Tamiolaki 2008 and 2014; Baragwanath 2012 and 2017; Kapellos 2019. For other echoes of Thucydides and continuation of his themes see esp. Rood 2004: 274– 280; for ways in which Xenophon ‘acknowledges Thucydidean emphases, but then shelves them’ see Pitcher, forthcoming. Rood 2004: 360–362. Tamiolaki 2008: 40–43. Cf. Hornblower 1994: 135 and Stadter, personal communication cited at Pelling 2000: 276 n. 31.

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maintains his position that he will do everything κατὰ τὸν νόμον (Hell. 1.7.12–15). Euryptolemus then makes similar claims (1.7.25–28). In fact the legal position is anything but plain,38 and it is not likely that anyone was wholly clear about it at the time. ‘By placing all accusations of illegality into the mouths of others, Xenophon creates the impression that the procedure adopted by Athenian democracy is illegal, without saying so in his own voice.’39 Equally subtle are the ways in which the speeches themselves weave into the narrative, and sometimes in their juxtaposition construct a narrative themselves. The historian’s own narrative is complemented by perspectives, responses, and interpretations. To understand Athenian politics we need to know that the anger was there, and the vindictiveness, and the impatience and the remorse. The emotions inspired in the narratee will not map evenly on those at play in the events themselves. Readerly anger may indeed be provoked, but it will be anger with Cleon, not the Mytileneans, and with the demagogic manipulators, not the generals.40 The theoreticians too have continued to be valuable, but not all that might be theoretically relevant is practically advisable. Some of the arguments that the theorists suggest are not used. Rh. Al. also suggested arguing that ‘only small harm had resulted’ (1427a29, b8), that ‘everyone makes mistakes’ (1427a37–40), or that the action had been ‘lawful and right’ (1427b6; for all three cf. 1444a6– 16). One can imagine how badly any of those would have gone down, especially the last; the nearest we get to ‘everyone makes mistakes’ is again in the Mytilenean debate, with Cleon’s denial that any such talk could apply in this case (Th. 3.40.1), and with Diodotus’ musings about punishment (Th. 3.45). Nor is there any attempt to shift responsibility from the human culprits on to the gods, as Agamemnon uncomfortably tries to do at Iliad 19.74–143; luckily for him, by then it does not matter much what he says, given Achilles’ impatience to get back to the fight. Still less is there any general philosophizing about the dangers of excessive rage of the sort we get in Philodemus’ or Seneca’s De Ira or Plutarch’s De Cohibenda Ira. Phoenix’s storytelling may suggest as much obliquely, but the nearest we have seen here is in those reflections of Achilles himself on oozing, honey-sweet anger. We might compare what Marcus Aurelius advised saying to himself every day at dawn, resolving not to become angry with any fellow-human: after all, they are simply falling short of his own understand-

38 39 40

Cf. MacDowell 1978: 186–189, Pownall 2000: 502–504, Hamel 2015: 82–85, Rhodes 2019: 46– 47. Pownall 2000: 503. See the Introduction to this volume for such mismatches of response between internal and external narratees.

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ing of what is good or bad (To Himself 2.1).41 Such homilies are indeed better addressed to oneself than to others. The theoreticians also saw that often silence, or at least brevity, was best. Aristotle knew that narratives should be longer in attack than defence (Rh. 1417a8); Quintilian observed that defence narratives should typically be ‘of some sort, but not relating to the allegation that is being denied’ (4.2.19); Cicero knew the danger of going over damaging ground that the opposition had already covered (De Oratore 2.330). To angry ears, the most persuasive narrative can so often be none at all.

Bibliography Allen, D.S., The World of Prometheus. The Politics of Punishing in Democratic Athens (Princeton 2000). Allen, D.S., ‘Angry Bees, Wasps, and Jurors. The Symbolic Politics of ὀργή in Athens’, in S. Braund, G.W. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003) 76–98. Andrewes, A., ‘The Arginusai Trial’, Phoenix 28 (1974) 112–122. Baragwanath, E., ‘A Noble Alliance: Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon’s Procles’, in E. Foster, D. Lateiner (eds.), Thucydides and Herodotus (Oxford 2012) 316–344. Baragwanath, E., ‘Intertextuality and Plural Truths in Xenophon’s Historical Narrative’, in I. Ruffell, L.I. Hau (eds.), Truth and History in the Ancient World: Pluralising the Past (New York / London 2017) 155–171. Braund, S., Most, G.W. (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003). Brooks, P., Gewirtz, P. (eds.), Law’s Stories. Narrative and Rhetoric in the Law (New Haven / London 1996). Carey, C., ‘Rhetorical Means of Persuasion’, in I. Worthington (ed.), Persuasion: Greek Rhetoric in Action (London 1994) 26–45; repr. in A.O. Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Rhetoric (Berkeley / Los Angeles / London 1996) 399–415. Connor, W.R., Thucydides (Princeton 1984). Debnar, P.A., ‘Diodotus’ Paradox and the Mytilene Debate (Thucydides 3.37–49)’, RhM 143 (2000) 161–178. Dover, K.J., Greek Popular Morality in the Time of Plato and Aristotle (Oxford 1974). Due, B., ‘The Trial of the Generals in Xenophon’s Hellenica’, C&M 34 (1983): 33–44.

41

Cf. Gill 2003: 211–213; and for the broader Stoic enthusiasm for such daily moral selfexamination W.V. Harris 2001: 375–376, 379.

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Edwards, M., Spatharas, D. (eds.), Forensic Narratives in Athenian Courts (London 2019). Foster, E., Lateiner, D. (eds.), Thucydides and Herodotus (Oxford 2012). Gagarin, M., ‘Telling Stories in Athenian Law’, TAPhA 133 (2003) 197–207. Gill, C., ‘Anger in Virgil’s Aeneid and Hellenistic Philosophy’, in S. Braund, G.W. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003) 208–228. Gish, D., ‘Defending dēmokratia: Athenian Justice and the Trial of the Arginusae Generals in Xenophon’s Hellenica’, in F. Hobden, C. Tuplin (eds.), Xenophon: Ethical Principles and Historical Enquiry (Leiden / Boston 2012) 161–212. Gomme, A.W., Andrewes, A., Dover, K.J., A Historical Commentary on Thucydides, volume i–v (Oxford 1945–1981). Gorman, R., ‘οἱ περί τινα in Strabo’, ZPE 136 (2001) 201–213. Gray, V., The Character of Xenophon’s Hellenica (London 1989). Grote, G., A History of Greece, third edition (London 1851). Hamel, D., The Battle of Arginusae. Victory at Sea and its Tragic Aftermath in the Final Years of the Peloponnesian War (Baltimore 2015). Harris, E.M., ‘How to Address the Athenian Assembly: Rhetoric and Political Tactics in the Debate about Mytilene (Thuc. 3.37–50)’, CQ 63 (2013) 94–109. Harris, W.V., Restraining Rage. The Ideology of Anger Control in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge, MA 2001). Henry, W.P., Greek Historical Writing. A Historiographical Essay based on Xenophon’s Hellenica (Chicago 1967). Hornblower, S., ‘Narratology and Narrative Techniques in Thucydides’, in S. Hornblower (ed.), Greek Historiography (Oxford 1994) 131–166. Kagan, D., The Fall of the Athenian Empire (Ithaca, NY / London 1987). Kapellos, A., Xenophon’s Peloponnesian War (Berlin / Boston 2019). Konstan, D., Pity Transformed (London 2001). Konstan, D., ‘Aristotle on Anger and the Emotions: The Strategies of Status’, in S. Braund, G.W. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003) 99–120. Konstan, D., The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks. Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto / Buffalo / London 2006). Krentz, P., Xenophon. Hellenika i–ii.3.10 (Warminster 1989). Kurpios, M., ‘Reading Thucydides with Aristotle’s Rhetoric. Arguing from Justice and Expediency in the Melian Dialogue and the Speeches’, Eos 102 (2015) 225–260. Lang, M.L., ‘Theramenes and Arginousai’, Hermes 120 (1992) 267–279. Lendon, J.E., ‘Battle Description in the Ancient Historians, Part ii: Speeches, Results, and Sea Battles’, G&R 64 (2017) 145–167. MacDowell, D.M., The Law in Classical Athens (London 1978). Macleod, C., ‘Thucydides’ Plataean Debate’, GRBS 18 (1977) 227–246, repr. in C. Macleod, Collected Essays (Oxford 1983) 103–122.

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Macleod, C., ‘Reason and Necessity: Thucydides iii 9–14, 12–48’, JHS 98 (1978) 64–78, repr. in C. Macleod, Collected Essays (Oxford 1983) 88–102. Macleod, C., Collected Essays (Oxford 1983). Mader, G., ‘Demagogic Style and Historical Method: Locating Cleon’s Mytilenean Rhetoric’, Rhetorica 35 (2017) 1–23. Nicolai, R., ‘Thucydides Continued’, in A. Rengakos, A. Tsakmakis (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Thucydides (Leiden / Boston 2006) 693–719. Nicolai, R., ‘Senofonte e Tucidide: una ricezione in negativo’, in V. Fromentin, S. Gotteland, P. Payen (eds.), Ombres de Thucydide. La réception de l’historien depuis l’antiquité jusqu’au début du xxe siécle (Pessac 2010) 279–289. Pelling, C., Literary Texts and the Greek Historian (London 2000); Ch. 6, on Thucydides’ speeches is partly repr. in J. Rusten (ed.), Oxford Readings in Thucydides (Oxford 2009) 176–187. Pelling, C., ‘Aristotle’s Rhetoric, the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum, and the Speeches in Herodotus and Thucydides’, in E. Foster, D. Lateiner (eds.), Thucydides and Herodotus (Oxford 2012) 281–315. Pitcher, L., ‘Thucydides in Greek and Roman Historiography’, in P. Low (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Thucydides (Cambridge, forthcoming). Posner, R.A., Law and Literature. A Misunderstood Relation (Cambridge, MA 1988). Pownall, F.S., ‘Shifting Viewpoints in Xenophon’s Hellenica: The Arginusae episode’, Athenaeum 88 (2000) 499–513. Pownall, F.S., ‘Socrates’ Trial and Execution in Xenophon’s Hellenica’, Mouseion 15 (2018) 347–368. Radt, S.L., ‘Noch einmal Aischylos, Niobe fr. 162 N2 (278 M)’, ZPE 38 (1980) 47–58. Rhodes, P.J., ‘Lawlessness and Violence in Decision-Making in Xenophon’s Hellenica’, in A. Kapellos (ed.), Xenophon on Violence (Berlin / Boston 2019) 45–65. Rood, T., ‘Xenophon and Diodorus: Continuing Thucydides’, in C. Tuplin, V. Azoulay (eds.), Xenophon and his World. Papers from a Conference Held in Liverpool in July 1999 (Stuttgart 2004) 341–395. Rood, T., ‘The Plupast in Xenophon’s Hellenica’, in J. Grethlein, C. Krebs (eds.), Time and Narrative in Ancient Historiography (Cambridge 2012) 76–94. Rubinstein, L., ‘Stirring up Dicastic Anger’, in D.L. Cairns, R.A. Knox (eds.), Law, Rhetoric, and Comedy in Classical Athens. Essays in Honour of Douglas M. MacDowell (Swansea 2004) 187–203. Sanders, E., ‘“He is a Liar, a Bounder, and a Cad”: The Arousal of Hostile Emotions in Attic Forensic Oratory’, in A. Chaniotis (ed.), Unveiling Emotions. Sources and Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World (Stuttgart 2012) 359–387. Spatharas, D., ‘Kinky Stories from the Rostrum: Storytelling in Apollodorus’ Against Neaira,’ AncNarr 9 (2009) 99–120. Tamiolaki, M., ‘Les Helléniques entre tradition et innovation. Aspects de la relation intertextuelle de Xénophon avec Hérodote et Thucydide’, CEA 45 (2008) 15–52.

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Tamiolaki, M., ‘À l’ombre de Thucydide? Les discours des Helléniques et l’influence thucydidéenne’, in P. Pontier (ed.), Xénophon et la rhétorique (Paris 2014), 121–137. Winter, J., ‘Instruction and Example: Emotions in Xenophon’s Hipparchicus and Anabasis’, in E. Sanders and M. Johncock (eds.), Emotion and Persuasion in Classical Antiquity (Stuttgart 2016) 165–181.

chapter 14

Sunt lacrimae rerum: Emotions at the Deaths of Troilus, Priam, and Astyanax in Athenian Black-Figure Vase-Painting Geralda Jurriaans-Helle

Greek art is renowned for the naturalistic representation of the human body. However, the expression of emotions developed rather late. In classical Greek sculpture, most figures have serene faces. A famous fifth-century bce statue such as the Dying Niobid expresses her pain only with the—still elegant— posture of her body, not with her face, although the now lost paint applied to the statue may have added some expression. This changed in Hellenistic and Roman times, as exemplified by the first-century bce Laocoön statue, with the tormented faces and bodies curved by pain and effort. In black-figure vasepainting from Athens, for the most part dating to the sixth century bce, most figures seem to be unmoved by the happy or tragic events they are part of or looking at; at least they seem impassive to our eyes. But does that also apply to contemporary observers, or did they perceive more because they were acquainted with the conventions of the city’s common pictorial language?

Pictorial Language In my doctoral thesis, completed in 2017 with Irene de Jong as inspiring supervisor, I argued that there was a consistent pictorial language in Athenian blackfigure vase-painting. To represent a mythological or daily life scene vasepainters used typical compositions in which they combined typical elements (people, objects, or a combination of those), comparable with the type scenes, formulaic verses, and epitheta ornantia in the Homeric epics. Just like the singers, the painters could make variations and new compositions as long as they remained within certain boundaries. Contemporary Athenians, knowing intimately the conventions of their city’s pictorial language, understood the newly created compositions, because they recognized the components— typical compositions and typical elements—from which they were built, associating each of them with a specific action or story. They knew the standard meaning of the components and, noticing the changes, they combined this

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information and deduced the meaning of the new composition. The modern viewer can only approach this intuitive knowledge of the ancient viewer by analysing many depictions while paying close attention to details. Applying semiotic methods developed for the study of literary texts has proven to be of great help in this process. Although there is similarity between the way stories are told in texts and in visual art, there are also differences. In literature the story develops in a (mostly) linear way. In oral poetry, for instance, the audience depends on the order the singer follows as he tells his story and on the choices he makes to highlight elements of the plot. Because Greek vase-painters usually have only one panel to tell the whole story, they usually depict only one moment. Furthermore, the painter had only limited influence on the order in which the viewers looked at the various details: although most people first look at the centre of a picture, afterwards their gaze wanders all over the representation. However, depiction of a single moment of a story does not mean that the rest of the story is/was completely absent. When the viewer recognizes the scene, (s)he can fill in what happens before and after, because the picture is interpreted as part of a narrative.1 For this paper dedicated to Irene de Jong, a great specialist on Homer and the Trojan myths, I have assembled a number of Athenian black-figure depictions of the deaths of Troilus, Astyanax, and Priam, which are listed in the catalogue (referred to as Cat.) at the end.2 I will analyse these depictions to determine the meanings of some vase-paintings that are difficult for us modern viewers to understand at first sight, and also to demonstrate how painters could transfer typical elements of one scene to another and use them to express and arouse emotions in a style of painting where emotional body and face expressions are rarely depicted.3

1 De Jong 2014: 4. According to Aristotle, Poetics 1450b26–27, a plot is complete when it has a beginning, middle, and end. Vase-paintings usually show a scene from the middle but may evoke in the mind of the viewer the beginning and the end of a well-known story. 2 The Catalogue at the end of this article gives information on the whereabouts of the vases, inventory number, shape, painter, date, a short description of the depiction, and a reference to the record number in the Beazley Archive Pottery Database (BAPD), where photographs and references to publications can be found (beazley.ox.ac.uk/carc/Home). 3 I thank Professor Herman Brijder for thoroughly commenting on this paper and sharing his knowledge of the lekanis lid attributed to the C Painter, and Dr. Sandra E. Knudsen for improving my English.

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Tragic or Heroic? A preliminary question that must be asked is whether depictions on blackfigure vases were meant to arouse emotions in the viewers. Not all scenes that to our eyes are tragic, held the same connotation for the ancient Greeks: for example, the countless depictions of dying warriors may seem heart-breaking to us, but to Athenians the focus in these scenes was on the heroism of both the victor and the victim, who was slain honourably while doing his duty. Serving in the army was part of a citizen’s life, and armed men were generally considered equal opponents. However, there are also vase-paintings where the opponents are clearly not equal and where warriors attack defenceless victims of war, such as old men, women, and children. One may assume that the victims feel strong emotions, such as terror, grief, and despair, but they endure the events with serene unmoved faces. The same calm can be observed in the onlookers watching the gruesome events unfold before their eyes as internal ‘viewing’ narratees. Did the painters intentionally avoid emphasizing the pain and sorrow of the victims because they were perceived as collateral damage of the heroic deeds of the Greeks? Or do we modern observers focus too much on facial expressions, and did the painters use other ways to express the emotions of the depicted figures and to arouse emotions in external ‘viewing’ narratees? One indication that such scenes were indeed considered terrible is that they are very rarely found on vases associated with wedding-related rituals, whereas heroic battle scenes are often found on these.4 The most common scenes with defenceless victims are all related to the Trojan War: the death of the young boy Troilus and the hunting of Polyxena, the deaths of King Priam and Astyanax, and the rape of Cassandra in the temple of Athena. For this paper I have chosen to examine the deaths of Troilus, Astyanax, and Priam because the compositions are in many ways related to each other.5

4 Jurriaans-Helle 2017: 205, 2021: 115. 5 The differences between the literary tradition and the depictions in Greek vases of the deaths of Troilus and Astyanax, and the intertwinement of and confusion about the iconography of these scenes have been noticed long time ago and are discussed in many publications. I hope that this essay is a useful contribution to the discussion. During the research for this paper I tried to come independently to an interpretation by applying the method I developed for my doctoral thesis, partly out of necessity because of the Covid crisis and the closing of the University Library which meant that I had access only to part of the relevant literature in a very late stage of the research. Relevant studies especially for classicists include: Wiencke 1954; Mota 1957; Touchefeu 1983; Corchia 1990; Robertson 1990; Schefold 1992; Mackay 1996; Mangold 2000; Hedreen 2001; Recke 2002.

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Ut pictura poesis? The death of Troilus is part of the epic cycle and was told in the Cypria.6 According to Ps.-Apollodorus (Epit. 3.32) Troilus was ambushed and killed by Achilles in the sanctuary of Apollo Thymbraeus near Troy, but how he was killed is not described. The deaths of Priam and Astyanax are told in the Little Iliad and in the Iliupersis: Priam was killed in his palace by Neoptolemus on the altar of Zeus, or—after he was drawn from the altar—in the doorway of his palace. After the sack of Troy Astyanax was thrown from the wall of Troy by Neoptolemus or Odysseus.7 The pictorial tradition broadly tells the same stories, but there are differences in details, which warn us not to consider vasepaintings mere illustrations of Greek literature.

Troilus Of the various moments of the story of Troilus depicted on Athenian blackfigure vases the most frequent are Achilles hiding in ambush behind the fountain that Polyxena visits to fetch water and Troilus visits to water his horses, and Achilles running after Troilus who is trying to escape on horseback while Polyxena is running away. But there are also depictions of Achilles killing Troilus, which is the relevant scene for this essay. The earliest representations of the death of Troilus are found on non-Attic objects: on a bronze tripod leg from Olympia dating to ca. 625–600 bce and on some bronze shield bands from Olympia dating to 590–580 bce, where Troilus standing on an altar is threatened with a sword by Achilles, and slightly later on a Corinthian krater now in Paris dating to ca. 575bce,8 where Achilles holds Troilus (with name-inscription) upside down above an altar, to kill him with his (now lost) sword, while from both sides Trojan hoplites and horsemen (amongst whom Hector and Aeneas) are approaching. 6 On the Cypria, see also Finglass in this volume. 7 Neoptolemus of his own accord: Ilias Parva, Allen 1969: 134–135, xix; Lycophron Alex. 1268; Pausanias 10.25.9. By order of the council of the Greeks persuaded by Odysseus: Iliupersis, Proclus Chrestom, Allen 1969: 108; Euripides, Troades 709–725, 1118–1135. The stories are told in many other poems, tragedies, and also Roman literature. In the Iliad, Andromache mentions the possibility of Astyanax thrown from the wall as a mother’s nightmare in her despair about what is going to happen to her fatherless son (Iliad 24.734–739, see Bowie in this volume). 8 Tripod leg: Olympia B3600, LIMC s.v. Achilles 375. Shield bands: Kunze 1950: 140–142, Taf. 5, 73, Form ib (Troilus on altar with palm tree); Taf. 41–42, Form xvb (Troilus on altar with cock); Schefold 1966: 86, figs 34–35. Corinthian krater Paris, Musée de Louvre 638bis: Payne 1931: 318, nr. 1196; LIMC i: Achilleus 365; Mota 1957: fig. 6; Corchia 1990: fig. 5.

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Achilles threatening Trojans with his spear on which he has put the head of Troilus (Cat. 3). Tyrrhenian Amphora, Athens, Timiades P. 565–560bce munich, staatliche antikensammlungen 1426. (after osborne 1998: 96, fig. 44)

On two Tyrrhenian amphorae (Cat. 2–3), Athenian vases dating to ca. 565– 560 bce, the killing of Troilus is depicted, as clarified by name-inscriptions (dipinti). In both cases the boy is already dead and his decapitated body is lying on the ground next to an omphalos-shaped altar. On Cat. 2 Achilles is holding Troilus’ head in his hand to hurl it towards the Trojans who are approaching to rescue Troilus, and on Cat. 3 (fig. 14.1) he is threatening the Trojans with the spear on which he has mounted the head of the boy, while Hermes and Athena stand behind him. These early representations illustrate that although some typical elements are the same—a man killing a young boy by decapitation, an altar, Trojan forces approaching—there was not yet a typical composition: different choices were made and name-inscriptions were added for identification. However, around the middle of the sixth century bce in Athens the foundation was laid for a pictorial language that identified narrative scenes by typical compositions and typical elements (or sometimes a meaningful detail), and that was used throughout the rest of the century. That is why we may assume that on a Little Master cup (Cat. 8) dating to ca. 540 bce, the killing of Troilus is depicted: although there are no name-inscriptions, the typical elements leave no doubt:

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Achilles holding Troilus decapitated by his ankle above an altar, ready to hurl the head of the boy to his opponents (Cat. 8). Little Master band cup, Athens, 550–540bce basel, antikenmuseum und sammlung ludwig bs 1424. (after latacz et al. 2008: 375, nr. 113)

an unarmed man is holding a decapitated boy by his ankle above an altar, ready to hurl the head of the boy towards the group of hoplites advancing from the right side. Behind the man Athena holds her spear ready to attack his opponents (fig. 14.2). On two hydriai attributed to the Leagros Group (Cat. 17–18) dating to the last quarter of the sixth century a hoplite killing a young boy on an altar is depicted. On Cat. 17 the boy is standing upright on top of the altar and the hoplite threatens him with his sword. From the left side four horses of a chariot approach; on the right side a gate is depicted with hoplites and also four horses running out of the city; on top of the gate the heads of an archer and a hoplite standing on the wall are visible. On Cat. 18 (fig. 14.3) a similar scene is depicted, but here the boy is already decapitated; his body is falling off the altar, and his head is in the raised right hand of the hoplite who is threatening two hoplites attacking from the right. At the left side the four horses of a chariot are visible. Both vase-paintings depict the killing of Troilus by Achilles: the decapitation, the altar, and the Trojan forces coming from the city to help the boy, are all in accord with the myth and the other representations of the death of Troilus.

Priam and Astyanax Representations of the death of King Priam are easy to recognize: an old man in a richly decorated garment is sitting or lying on an altar, threatened by a hoplite who can be identified as Neoptolemus. The earliest known vase-paintings9 are

9 The representation is also found on a shield band from Olympia (570–560bce): Kunze 1950: 157–159, Pl. 31, 32, 73, Form xc; Schefold 1966: 93, fig. 40.

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Troilus decapitated falling from the altar while Achilles is threatening the approaching Trojans with the boy’s head (Cat. 18). Hydria, Athens, Leagros Group, 520–500bce london, british museum b326. © the trustees of the british museum

attributed to the painter Lydos and date to 560–540bce (Cat. 4–5). On Cat. 4 (fig. 14.4) the king is lying on his back on the altar, his eyes are closed, and his arm is hanging down, all of which suggest that he is already dead. Neoptolemus is approaching from the left side. On his left arm he carries a shield, but in his raised right hand he does not brandish a spear but a little boy, holding him by

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Neoptolemus holding Astyanax by his ankle ready to smash him on Priam lying dead on the altar (Cat. 4). At the left the rape of Cassandra. Fragment of belly-amphora, Athens, Lydos, 560–550 bce paris, musée du louvre f29. (after mangold 2000: 20, abb. 9)

the ankle and ready to smash him on the body of the king. On Cat. 5 Lydos painted the same scene with some variations: Priam is still alive, sitting on top of the altar and stretching out his hand towards the chin of Neoptolemus. A dead man is lying behind the altar. Neoptolemus carries a shield on his left arm and in his lowered right hand he holds a little boy by the ankle. The impression is that with one blow he will kill both the old king and the young boy. On both vases there is another scene from the Iliupersis depicted on the left side of the panel: on Cat. 4 Cassandra and Ajax near the statue of Athena (that in the composition recalls the representation of the goddess on Cat. 3); on Cat. 5 the recovery of Helen by Menelaus. On the other side of Cat. 5 Achilles is chasing Troilus and Polyxena; he is depicted in a similar pose as Neoptolemus, and this visual repetition connects both sides and the stories shown on them and emphasizes the relationship of father and son.10 On a tripod exaleiptron (a container for perfumed unguents) dating to ca. 550 bce (Cat. 6) Priam is also shown lying dead on the altar while Neoptolemus is brandishing a young boy. The young boy held by his ankle combined with Priam on the altar is usually interpreted as Astyanax, the young son of Hector and Andromache. As mentioned above, according to the literary tradition Astyanax was thrown from the wall after the sack of Troy.11 So neither the place nor the time of the vase10 11

Steiner 2007: 109–110. A hoplite lifting a boy from the ground and threatening him with a sword is found on a shield band from Olympia (580–570bce): Kunze 1950: 159–161, Pl. 26, 29, 27, Form ixc; Schefold 1966: 93, fig. 41.

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Neoptolemus killing Astyanax with his sword above the dead body of Priam lying on the altar (Cat. 7). Lekythos, Athens, Dolphin Class, c. 540bce syracuse, museo archeologico regionale paolo orsi 21894. (after mota 1957: 31, fig. 4)

paintings corresponds with the story told in the texts. However, one can imagine that the vase-painters visualized the way Astyanax was taken by his ankle and hurled down from the walls of Troy. Recognizing the resemblance between the deaths of the boys both killed at a young age, and also the family relationships of the two boys and their killers, they used the—already existing—typical composition of the Troilus scene, a boy killed on an altar, and made some alterations to make it clear that this time the boy is meant to represent Astyanax. The boy is not decapitated, the altar of Apollo, (one of the typical elements in the Troilus scene) has become the altar of Zeus on which Priam was killed, and through the addition of the death of Priam to the composition the depicted moment has become the fall of Troy (the death of Troilus had happened earlier in the war). By combining the deaths of Astyanax and Priam the painters could not only use all typical elements of the death of Troilus for a new story but also create at the same time a powerful image: two generations of the royal house of Troy, the father and son of Hector, destroyed in one blow by the son of Achilles, the man who killed not only Hector but also Troilus, the image of whose death was used to create this new composition. The representation on a lekythos (oil flask) of the Dolphin Class (Cat. 7) dating to ca. 540 bce is different in details: Priam is lying dead on the altar, but this time he is depicted naked (fig. 14.5). Neoptolemus is not brandishing Astyanax as if he is going to smash him; instead he holds him above the altar, ready to kill him with his sword above the body of his grandfather. This recalls the way

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Troilus is killed on the Corinthian krater mentioned above and resembles a sacrifice rather than a murder in anger during the sack of Troy. The painter returns here to the original context of the killing of Troilus, maybe because there was a tradition that the death of Astyanax thrown from the wall was a sacrifice.12 In the third quarter of the sixth century bce typical compositions were developed for many scenes on Athenian black-figure vases. Typical elements in the composition of the death of Priam include: an old man lying or sitting on an altar (instead of a throne) and a hoplite attacking him with a weapon (spear or sword) or with the body of a boy. On the vases dating to this period the king is usually depicted lying or leaning backwards on the altar. On Cat. 11 and possibly on Cat. 9 he seems to have already died; on other vases he is still alive and sometimes stretching out his arms to plead with his attacker or bending an arm back to his forehead in a gesture of mourning (fig. 14.6, Cat. 10). Only on the atypical depiction by the Swing Painter (Cat. 13) is the king sitting quietly on a chair, threatened by a hoplite with a spear. This scene is composed of two figures often found on Athenian black-figure vases, the striding attacking warrior and the quietly sitting old man, and it owes its identification as Neoptolemus killing Priam mostly to the combination with the scene on the left side of the panel. There, the recovery of Helen is depicted just as on Cat. 5, which places both events in the context of the sack of Troy. It is the only image of Priam’s death in blackfigure vase-painting where there is no altar; furthermore, Astyanax is left out, and there are no mourning or anxious bystanders. It is the essence of the story: the king, symbol of the power of Troy, threatened by the hoplite, symbol of the Greek army. That the Swing Painter knew of the usual iconography of the king killed on the altar, is evident from the painting on another belly amphora by his hand, where—in a comical variation on the death of Priam—the Egyptian king Busiris is lying on the altar in the same position as Priam, while Heracles is hurling one of the Egyptians at his ankle to smash the king, and other Egyptians are running away. By making Heracles recognizable by his lion skin and the Egyptians by their shaven heads and dresses, the painter made clear which myth he depicted.13 On Cat. 9, 10 (fig. 14.6), and 14, Neoptolemus is brandishing Astyanax. On Cat. 11 the body of Astyanax is not depicted but Neoptolemus is holding the head of the boy in his hand, ready to hurl it at Priam, a detail that is also depicted on Cat. 2 and 8, where the killing of Troilus is depicted. On Cat. 12, 13, 15, and 16, Astyanax is not depicted and Neoptolemus uses a spear to kill the king. 12 13

Apollodorus, Epit. v 23. Sen. Tro. 523–536, 634–635, 1097–1103. Cincinnati, Art Museum 1959.1, belly amphora, Swing Painter, 550–540 bce (BAPD 340563).

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Neoptolemus brandishing Astyanax above Priam lying on altar and bending an arm back to his forehead in a gesture of mourning. Woman making gestures of mourning standing nearby. At the left a boy running away; at the right two men, one running away looking back (Cat. 10). Belly-amphora, Athens, Group E, 540–530 bce london, british museum b 205. © the trustees of the british museum

On the vases dating to the last decades of the century (Cat. 20–27) Priam is depicted as more active, sitting up straight on the altar and stretching out his hands towards his attacker in supplication (fig. 14.7, Cat. 22). Neoptolemus is threatening him with his spear or sword (Cat. 23) except for Cat. 24 where he is brandishing Astyanax, and the lekythos Cat. 27, where he is holding the head of Astyanax in his hand and the boy’s body is not depicted. On Cat. 20 horses of chariots are visible on both sides of the panel. This typical element does not belong to the composition of the death of Priam, which is situated within the palace, but to the death of Troilus where hoplites and equestrian forces arrive from Troy to rescue the boy. It seems that the painter placed the horses here because of the similarity in composition between the death of Troilus and that

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Neoptolemus killing with his spear Priam sitting on altar. Women standing nearby (Cat. 22). Neck-amphora, Athens, near Leagros Group, 520–500bce leiden, rijksmuseum van oudheden i 1992/6.100

of Astyanax when he is used as weapon against Priam. However, in this case Astyanax is not depicted: Neoptolemus kills the king with his spear. After 540 bce the typical composition loses in most cases the horrifying and unrealistic detail of the use of Astyanax as a weapon, which corresponds with the tendency in Athenian vase-painting of this period to add daily-life and realistic details to mythological scenes.14 Furthermore, the typical composition of the death of Priam—a man sitting on an altar and threatened by a hoplite— was firmly established and well known to the public and did not need more explicating details. Even in the fifth century the composition was still used on a lekythos attributed to the Haimon Painter and dated to 480 bce (Cat. 30); to make sure the viewers understood that it was a king who was murdered, the painter depicted Priam sitting on a throne on top of an altar.

14

Jurriaans-Helle 2017: 306–312, 2021: 187–190.

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Back to Troilus There are a few vases in the Catalogue that I have not mentioned yet. On the body of a hydria of the Leagros Group (Cat. 19) dating to the last quarter of the sixth century, a hoplite killing a young boy is depicted, but the composition is unusual: the altar is placed at the right side of the panel and on top is a large tripod (fig. 14.8). The hoplite is holding the boy by the ankle in his raised right hand, ready to smash him on the altar. At the left side of the panel the horses of a chariot and two hoplites are coming out of a gate, but they find Athena blocking their way, facing to the left with a spear in her raised hand. In the middle of the scene an old man is squatting on the ground. A tree standing next to the gate reaching with its branches into the panel on the shoulder of the vase connects the two scenes. On the shoulder an unusual scene is depicted: there is a row of battlements painted along the top of the body of the vase and behind them the upper bodies of an archer, hoplites, and some women are visible as if they are standing on the wall looking at what is happening below. One of the women is stretching her hands out towards the hoplite in a gesture of supplication, the others are bringing their hands to their foreheads in a gesture of mourning. What scene is here depicted? When the old man is identified as Priam, one may think of Neoptolemus killing Astyanax.15 But the king is not sitting on the altar but near it, and he does not seem to be threatened. Furthermore, the horses bursting out of the gate as well as the people on the wall suggest that the event is situated outside Troy and that the hoplites and horses belong to a Trojan rescue party. The tripod on the altar indicates that the altar is dedicated to Apollo. On two later lekythoi (Cat. 28–29, dating to the end of the sixth century and the beginning of the fifth century bce) a hoplite holding a boy by his ankle is depicted, too, with a palm tree standing behind an altar, which indicates again that the scene is situated in an Apollo sanctuary16 and that, therefore, the boy is Troilus. But, when we assume that on Cat. 19 the death of Troilus is depicted, who is the old man and what is he doing there? To answer those questions I will finally discuss the first item of the Catalogue, the lid of a lekanis (a shallow lidded bowl) attributed to the C Painter (Cat. 1) and dating to ca. 570–565bce (fig. 14.9). Here we see a fully-armed hoplite running to the left towards an altar on which a fire is burning, while

15

16

Those who interpret the scene as the killing of Astyanax are Wiencke 1954 (with some reservation); Mota 1957; Touchefeu 1983 (with some reservation). Interpreting the scene as the murder of Troilus are Beazley 1956; Schefold 1992; Mangold 2000 (the squatting old man is not Priam but a priest); Hedreen 2001; Latacz et al. 2008. Hedreen 2001: 68–80.

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Achilles holding Troilus by his ankle ready to smash him on an altar with on top a large tripod. Trojan forces are coming out of a gate finding Athena on their way. In the middle an old man is squatting on the floor. On the shoulder of the vase an archer, hoplites and some gesturing women are looking at what happens below (Cat. 19). Hydria, Athens, Leagros Group, 520–500bce munich, staatliche antikensammlungen 1700. (after latacz et al. 2008: 356, nr. 91)

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figure 14.9

Achilles running to the left towards an altar while holding Troilus by his ankle, followed by hoplites and horsemen running in the same direction all around the lid. At the left side of the altar Priam and Hecabe are standing raising their arms (Cat. 1). Lid of lekanis, Athens, C Painter, 570bce naples, museo archeologico nazionale 132615. (after vasi antichi 2009: 24)

holding a boy by his ankle; the boy is in fact depicted in the same pose as the hoplite: when viewed upside down (which is possible since the lid is round) he seems to run away from the site. The hoplite is followed by two young horsemen with spears in their raised arms, and three groups of seven hoplites each followed by a dismounted hoplite with his squire leading his master’s void horse, all running in the same direction around the lid. There may be confusion about their identity, since in Greek vase-painting Greeks and Trojans are depicted the same, just as there is no difference in description in Homer. An old man and a woman are standing on the other side of the altar raising their arms. The C Painter—in whose name the ‘C’ stands for ‘Corinthianizing’17—may have

17

Beazley 1951: 21.

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painted this scene knowing representations of the more sacrifice-like death of Troilus on Corinthian vases such as the krater in Paris mentioned in the beginning of this article, and giving the boy a more dramatic pose.18 Indeed, various typical elements of the representations of Achilles slaying Troilus are present, but there are two new details invented by the C Painter: first, the boy is not decapitated or killed by a sword but seems still alive, and the impression is that he will be smashed against the altar, and second, the presence of the old man and the woman. Since the context—the killing of a child on an altar—must be Trojan (whether it is Troilus or Astyanax) they may be identified as Priam and Hecuba. They are more or less in the same place as Hermes and Athena on Cat. 3 (fig. 14.1), but they are not passively looking at what happens, but reacting as internal narratees to what they are seeing: Priam has his mouth opened and both are stretching their hands out in a gesture of supplication, as it seems, towards the hoplite approaching from the right. But why are they brought into this scene and which scene is depicted? When the killing of Troilus is meant, king Priam is not expected to be there because he does not play a role in this part of the story, and the sanctuary of Apollo Thymbraeus is outside Troy, while in Athenian vase-painting Neoptolemus’ killing of Astyanax during the sack of Troy is often combined with the murder of Priam.19 Comparing the compositions on Cat. 1 and on Cat. 19 (figs 14.8–14.9), we see that they are very similar, and in my opinion in both cases the death of Troilus is depicted because all the typical elements of this scene are present: an altar (without Priam sitting on it), the boy held by his ankle (also used for Astyanax but in Corinthian vase-painting belonging to the Troilus scene), and the hoplites which I interpret as Trojan forces coming to rescue the boy (which makes no sense if this was the sack of Troy), maybe with friends or peers of Troilus in the lead. The unusual element on both vases is the old man near the altar, on Cat. 1 in the company of a woman, both standing and stretching out their arms to the hoplite, and on Cat. 19 passively squatting. I interpret him in both cases as Priam, although the presence of the old king at the murder of Troilus is unexpected and illogical to our eyes.

18

19

See note 8. It is also possible that both the C Painter and the Corinthian painters were inspired by an older representation. On another lekanis lid attributed to the C Painter, the departure of Amphiaraus is depicted, which resembles the painting on the Corinthian Amphiaraus krater, once Berlin St. Museen Antikensammlung, F 1655 (BA 9019292). Interpreting as the killing of Astyanax: Wiencke 1954 (with some reservation); Beazley 1956; Mota 1957; Recke 2002. Interpreting the scene as the murder of Troilus: Mangold 2000; Hedreen 2001.

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However, the C Painter was a great artist, and he innovated other representations by adding or changing details, so that stories could be told without the addition of name-inscriptions.20 In the case of Cat. 1 he used the round form of the lid to slide different scenes together in a clever way and make a powerful, dramatic composition. The Trojan forces are not approaching from both sides; they come from the right side, and the whole army is running around the lid, so that the last man in the detachment is depicted just to the left of the altar. The painter wanted to indicate that they are not moving from the altar but from Troy, and he therefore painted as point of departure and symbol for Troy the king and queen, who are always situated inside the city or on the walls. By doing this he melted the moment of Troilus’ death and the moment that his parents hear the news into one synoptic representation, in which the king and queen are placed near the altar as if they are physically present at the scene, while logically they have to be thought of as being in Troy. The painter of Cat. 19 used the same composition, but because he was painting on a square panel, the Trojan forces are coming out of the gate at the left side. The king is in the middle of the composition and again should not to be thought of as actually being in the sanctuary of Apollo, but rather symbolically present at the fulfilment of one of the conditions for the fall of Troy, the death of Troilus.21 Depictions of the murder of Troilus with Priam present may well have been less rare than perhaps now seems, considering that we have less than 1 % of all Athenian vases produced in the sixth century. However, the same is true for the other compositions. From the fact that we have Cat. 1 and Cat. 19, painted ca. 50 years apart, we may conclude that although other compositions were more popular, the old ones were not completely forgotten, as is also shown by the detail of the hurling of the head of Troilus found in both early and late vasepaintings.

Emotions The ekphrasis, a description in literature of visual art, was a popular literary device since the description of the shield of Achilles in Homer’s Iliad (18.478– 607). In these descriptions the narrator determines not only in what order

20 21

Jurriaans-Helle 2017: 96–97, 168, 303–304. Jurriaans-Helle 2021: 52, 98, 186. Hedreen 2001: 147–148, n. 86–89 discusses the identity of the boy and the different choices made, and settles on Troilus: ‘The grief of Priam over the death of Troilus is given prominent visual form in this picture … but it is not necessary to assume that, in the underlying story, Priam was a close eyewitness to the event.’

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the viewers (internal narratees) (and through them the external narratees: the readers or audience) take note of the details; he usually also gives a description of how they react to it; a famous example is the passage in Virgil’s Aeneid (1.453– 493) from which the title of this article is taken.22 In visual art we have the depiction itself, and although we may feel emotion when we see it, we cannot gauge how contemporary viewers (external narratees) reacted to it. However, often there are internal ‘viewing’ narratees, the bystanders who are watching what is happening, and their reactions may give us clues about the emotions aroused in contemporary external ‘viewing’ narratees. As stipulated at the beginning of this article, the facial expressions of the depicted figures are rarely much help. In some scenes, furthermore, bystanders are not naturally present. The killing of Troilus, for instance, happened in a remote place without direct witnesses. In the representations on the Tyrrhenian amphorae (Cat. 2–3) the explicit horrible details may certainly have evoked emotions such as fear and pity in the external viewers. Within the painting however, no emotion is expressed. The only attendees are the Trojan forces arriving too late, which in itself is also a cause for pity for the external viewers, while Athena and Hermes on Cat. 3 (fig. 14.1) look calmly and unmoved at the scene. On Cat. 8 (fig. 14.2) Athena even seems to defend Achilles against the Trojans. It is the C Painter who by his clever composition brings the personal reaction of internal viewers into the representation (Cat. 1, fig. 14.9). By placing the parents of the boy near the altar (although probably not thought to be there physically), with their arms raised and Priam with his mouth opened, expressing despair and begging for mercy at the same time, he arouses compassion in the external viewer. In later depictions of the death of Troilus the painters also made the effort to bring internal viewers into the depiction: on Cat. 17 the heads of warriors on the wall, on Cat. 19 the people standing behind the battlements painted on the shoulder of the hydria gesturing and apparently begging the hoplite for mercy, and the figure of the squatting king in the centre of the panel (fig. 14.8). The intention of these additions must have been to arouse emotion in the external viewers by showing the reactions of the internal viewers. In the case of the death of Priam it was easier to bring internal viewers into the depiction. Women stretching out their arms, touching their forehead or grabbing their hair in a gesture of mourning, or supporting the head of Priam,

22

For discussions of ekphrasis see also the contributions of Létoublon and Verhelst to this volume, with further references, and Van den Broek on apostrophes in ekphrasis.

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figure 14.10

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Priam lying on the altar surrounded by lamenting women in a composition derived from a prothesis (laying out of a corpse) scene (Cat. 15). Neck-amphora, Athens, Circle of Antimenes Painter, Group of Würzburg 179, 530–510bce würzburg, martin von wagner museum l179. (after mangold 2000: 16, abb. 29)

just as women do on many representations of daily life prothesis scenes where a corpse is laid out, are found in nearly all depictions (fig. 14.10, Cat. 15, and figs 14.4, 14.6, 14.7). They are only missing in depictions where there are no bystanders at all and the focus is on the essence of what is happening: Cat. 13 (discussed above), 14, 24 (see below), and 30. In the early paintings by Lydos, women are the only bystanders. On Cat. 4 (fig. 14.4) two women stand near the dead king; one is supporting the head of the king with one hand and stretching out the other to Neoptolemus. The other with bare upper body is stretching out both hands. Is she Andromache from whose arms Astyanax was ripped and who is now showing her motherly breasts to his murderer? Their despair matches that of Cassandra who is depicted at the left side of the panel. On Cat. 5 two women standing near the altar are stretching out their arms; here one is grabbing her hair with one hand, probably tearing it out in grief. Their rather calm posture matches the scene at the left side of the panel, where Helen is standing quietly with Menelaus.

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On Cat. 6 not only women are present: at the right side two warriors are painted; one is raising his spear towards Neoptolemus, the only example known to me. Maybe this detail is derived from the Trojans arriving to attack Achilles in the Troilus scenes. The other hoplite is fleeing from the scene, a detail found also on Cat. 10 (fig. 14.6). Warriors fleeing from the battlefield were for Greeks probably an indication of the hopelessness of the situation. In this Trojan context it may also refer to Aeneas, who is often depicted on Athenian vases escaping from Troy with his son Ascanius, especially because in the same picture at the left side a little boy is also depicted fleeing. On Cat. 24 a fleeing boy is the only attendee at the scene. At the left side of the depiction on Cat. 6 a man and a woman, both carrying a spear, are standing quietly looking at the scene. Although they are not identified by attributes, they recall Hermes and Athena watching the killing of Troilus on Cat. 3 (fig. 14.1). Non-reacting onlookers are included more often after the middle of the century. Behind the fleeing man on Cat. 10 a second man is standing, and also on Cat. 7 (fig. 14.5), 12, 15 (fig. 14.10), and 16 men (even hoplites) are depicted who are not taking part in the action; the two hoplites on Cat. 25 have their helmets on the back of their heads, not ready to fight. While in the last decades of the sixth century the compositions become simpler, with only one or two women standing nearby, there is more to say about Cat. 15 (fig. 14.10) and 16: I mentioned above the tendency to add dailylife details to mythological scenes after the middle of the century. Not only the gestures but also the compositions on Cat. 15 and 16 are derived from prothesis scenes: the mourning women, one of them with short cut hair (Cat. 15), taking care of the body, and the different gestures, with an old man sitting on the side, all suggest the bustle of a crowded room. The attention of these internal viewers is directed to Priam, who is in both cases depicted still alive but who is taken care of as if he is already deceased, as a kind of prolepsis of the near future, a device also used in literature to give the reader a flash-forward about what is about to happen.23 It is as if the figure of Neoptolemus is just set into this scene, without making contact with the attendees. The result is that the emphasis is not on the heroism of the victor but on the pain and sorrow of the victims so that the external viewer was and is moved by their tragic fates.

23

De Jong 2014: 78–87.

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Sunt lacrimae To return to the question of whether these pictures were meant to arouse emotions—pity or fear—in the viewers, I think we may give an affirmative answer. The vase-painters brought attendees into the pictures even in scenes where they are not expected and gave them a role somewhat comparable to that of the chorus in tragedy: by representing the emotions of the internal narratees/viewers, they show the external viewer what they should feel.24 The emotions are expressed mostly in the gestures and not in the faces: women stretch out their hands, grab their hair or touch their foreheads, men flee the scene. In many cases the bystanders are only onlookers and do not show reactions, but even then the external viewer can identify with them, as if present at the scene. Finally, composition can be used to arouse emotions: by using the typical composition of a daily-life prothesis scene for the death of Priam, the external viewer, reminded of the emotions at the deaths of loved ones, will feel compassion for Priam’s fate. Catalogue 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

24

Naples, Mus. Arch. Naz. 132642 (132615), BAPD 300496. Lekanis, C Painter, 570–565bce. Achilles brandishing Troilus by the ankle; altar; Priam and woman standing nearby; Trojan forces approaching. Florence, Mus. Arch. Naz. 70993, BAPD 310006. Tyrrhenian amphora, Prometheus Painter, 565–560 bce. Achilles hurling head; Troilus lying decapitated near altar; Trojan forces approaching. Munich, St. Antikensammlungen 1426, BAPD 310005. Tyrrhenian amphora, Timiades Painter, 565–560 bce. Achilles with spear with head; Troilus lying decapitated near altar; Trojan forces approaching; Athena and Hermes. Paris, Musée du Louvre F29, BAPD 310167. Belly amphora, Lydos, 560–550bce. Neoptolemus brandishing Astyanax by the ankle; Priam lying dead on altar; two women, one naked. Berlin, St. Museen Antikensammlung F 1685, BAPD 310170. Belly amphora, Lydos, 550–540bce.

See also the observations of Van Peer in this volume.

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6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

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Neoptolemus brandishing Astyanax by the ankle; Priam sitting alive on altar; two women, dead man. Berlin, St. Museen Antikensammlung F 3988, BAPD 360. Tripod exaleiptron, 550 bce. Neoptolemus brandishing Astyanax by the ankle; Priam lying dead on altar; woman, two hoplites, one fleeing, man and woman standing at the left. Siracuse, Mus. Arch. Reg. Paolo Orsi 21894, BAPD 351478. Lekythos, Dolphin Class, 540 bce. Neoptolemus with sword holding Astyanax by the ankle; Priam lying dead, naked, on altar; two women, youth with spear. Basel, Antikenmuseum, Samml. Ludwig BS1424 (BO 77), BAPD 6894. Band cup, Little Master, 540bce. Achilles, hurling head; Troilus decapitated, held by the ankle near altar; Athena; Trojan forces approaching. Paris Market, BAPD 320398. Neck amphora, Painter of Berlin 1686, 540bce. Neoptolemus brandishing Astyanax by the ankle; Priam lying alive(?) on altar; woman. London, British Museum B205, BAPD 310315. Belly amphora, Group E, 540–530bce. Neoptolemus brandishing Astyanax by the ankle; Priam lying alive on altar; two mourning women, boy fleeing, and two men, one fleeing. Bonn, Akademisches Kunstmuseum 45, BAPD 320415. Belly amphora, Princeton Group, 540–530bce. Neoptolemus hurling head of Astyanax; his body is not depicted; Priam lying dead on altar; woman, fighting hoplites. Rome, Mus. Capitolini 98, BAPD 320429. Belly amphora, Princeton Group, 540–530bce. Neoptolemus with spear; Priam lying alive on altar; woman, man, hoplite. San Simeon, Coll. Hearst 5476, BAPD 7865. Belly amphora, Swing Painter, 540–530 bce. Neoptolemus with spear; Priam sitting alive on chair. Paris, Musée du Louvre F222, BAPD 301645. Neck amphora, Bucci Painter, 530–520bce. Neoptolemus brandishing Astyanax by the ankle; Priam lying alive on altar. Würzburg, Martin von Wagner Museum L 179, BAPD 320339. Neck amphora, Circle of Antimenes Painter, 530–510 bce. Neoptolemus with spear; Priam lying alive on altar; two women, old man sitting, hoplite.

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16. Berlin, St. Museen Antikensammlung F 3996, BAPD 301678. Neck amphora, Three Line Group, 520bce. Neoptolemus with spear; Priam lying alive on altar; three women, girl, two men, one sitting. 17. Lissabon, Manuel Vinhas, Estoril, BAPD 302021. Hydria, Leagros Group, 520–500bce. Achilles with sword; Troilus standing on altar; Trojan forces approaching, people on wall. 18. London, British Museum B326, BAPD 302023. Hydria, Leagros Group; Group of Vatican 424, 520–500bce. Achilles hurling head; Troilus decapitated on altar; Trojan forces approaching. 19. Munich, St. Antikensammlungen 1700, BAPD 302022. Hydria, Leagros Group, 520–500bce. Achilles brandishing Troilus by the ankle towards altar with tripod; Priam squatting nearby; Trojan forces approaching; Athena. In shoulder panel: people on wall. 20. Würzburg, Martin von Wagner Museum L 311, BAPD 302030. Hydria, Leagros Group, 520–500bce. Neoptolemus with spear; Priam sitting alive on altar; two women; Trojan forces approaching. 21. London, British Museum B241, BAPD 302170. Neck amphora, Leagros Group, 520–500bce. Neoptolemus with spear; Priam sitting alive on altar; two women. 22. Leiden, Rijksmuseum van Oudheden i 1992/6.100, BAPD 9025051 Neck amphora, near Leagros Group, 520–500bce. Neoptolemus with spear; Priam sitting alive on altar; two women. 23. London Market, Christies, BAPD 59. Neck amphora, Leagros Group; Group of Friends of the centaurs, 520– 500bce. Neoptolemus with sword; Priam sitting alive on altar; woman. 24. Bonn, Akademisches Kunstmuseum 39, BAPD 2756. Neck amphora, Painter of Mourning Trojan Women, 520bce. Neoptolemus brandishing Astyanax by the ankle; Priam sitting alive on altar; boy fleeing. 25. London, British Museum 1899.2–18.67, BAPD 370004. Lekythos, Edinburgh Painter, 510–500bce. Neoptolemus with spear; Priam sitting alive on altar; two women, hoplites.

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26. Padula, Mus. Arch. Lucania Occ. BAPD 380864. Lekythos, Edinburgh Painter, 510–500 bce. Neoptolemus with spear; Priam sitting alive on altar; three? women. 27. Athens, National Archaeological Museum N936, BAPD 15004. Lekythos. 500 bce. Neoptolemus hurling head; Astyanax’s body not depicted; Priam sitting alive on altar; woman. 28. Copenhagen, Nationalmuseet ChrVIII383, BAPD 11504. Lekythos, Leagros Group, 520–500 bce. Achilles holding Troilus by the ankle; altar, palm tree; hoplites. 29. Athens, National Archaeological Museum NM 1046 CC901, BAPD 303589. Lekythos, Class of Athens 581, 490bce. Achilles brandishing Troilus by the ankle; altar, palm tree; hoplite. 30. Rome once, Castellani collection, BAPD 9023265. Lekythos, Haimon Painter, 500–480 bce. Neoptolemus with sword; Priam sitting alive on chair on altar.

Abbreviations LIMC

Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (Zürich 1981–2009).

Bibliography Allen, T.W., Homeri Opera, Tom. v (Oxford 1969). Beazley, J.D., The Development of Attic Black-figure (Los Angeles / London 1951–1986). Beazley, J.D., Attic Black-figure Vase-painters (Oxford 1956). Corchia, R., ‘Parola ed immagine: dalla “poesia all’iconografia”’, ArchClass xlii (1990) 377–386. Hedreen, G., Capturing Troy. The Narrative Functions of Landscape in Archaic and Early Classical Greek Art (Ann Arbor 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narratology and Classics. A Practical Guide (Oxford 2014). Jurriaans-Helle, G., Composition in Athenian Black-figure Vase-painting: The ‘Chariot in Profile’ Type Scene (diss. University of Amsterdam 2017). Jurriaans-Helle, G., Composition in Athenian Black-figure Vase-painting: The ‘Chariot in Profile’ Type Scene (Leuven 2021). Kunze, E., Archaische Schildbänder. Ein Beitrag zur frühgriechischen Bildgeschichte und Sagenüberlieferung (Berlin 1950). Latacz, J., Greub, T., Blome, P., Wieczorak, A. (eds.), Homer. Der Mythos von Troia in Dichtung und Kunst (Munich / Basel 2008).

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MacKay, E.A., ‘Visions of Tragedy. Tragic Structuring in Attic Black-figure Representations of the Story of Troilos’, Akroterion 41 (1996) 31–43. Mangold, M., Kassandra in Athen. Die Eroberung Trojas auf attischen Vasenbildern (Berlin 2000). Mota, C., ‘Sur les représentations figurées de la mort de Troilos et de la mort d’Astyanax’, RA 50 (1957), 25–44. Osborne, R., Archaic and Classical Greek Art. Oxford History of Art (Oxford 1998). Payne, H., Necrocorinthia. A Study of Corinthian Art in the Archaic Period (Oxford 1931). Recke, M., Gewalt und Leid. Das Bild des Krieges bei den Athenern im 6. und 5. Jh. v. Chr. (Istanbul 2002). Robertson, M. ‘Troilos and Polyxena: Notes on a Changing Legend’, in J.-P. Descoeudres (ed.), ΕΥΜΟΥΣΙΑ. Ceramic and Iconographic Studies in Honour of Alexander Cambitoglou (Sydney 1990) 63–70. Schefold, K., Myth and Legend in Early Greek Art (New York 1966). Schefold, K., Gods and Heroes in Late Archaic Greek Art (Cambridge 1992). Steiner, A., Reading Greek Vases (Cambridge 2007). Touchefeu, O., ‘Lecture des images mythologiques. Un exemple d’images sans texte, la mort d’Astyanax’, in F. Lissarrague, F. Thélamon, F. (eds.), Image et Céramique Grecque. Actes du Colloque de Rouen 25–26 novembre 1982 (Rouen 1983) 21–27. Vasi antichi. Museo archeologico nazionale di Napoli (Naples 2009). Wiencke, M.I., ‘An Epic Theme in Greek Art’, AJA 58 (1954) 285–306.

chapter 15

What the Greeks Left Us: Perspectivation as a Tool in the Pursuit of (Emotional) Knowledge Willie van Peer

We have been told repeatedly that we are heirs to Greek civilization. But what exactly is it that we are heir to? In this chapter I will argue that at the basis of their civilization, the Greeks developed an attitude that is rare among societies, what I shall call ‘perspectivation’. It is the attitude that one may look at things from different angles. It is a cognitive operation, demanding some distance from oneself, and the readiness to view things from a perspective different from one’s own. But it is also an emotional one, involving the ability to engage oneself with inner feelings of other humans. In line with this, ancient Greeks considered these cognitive and emotional forms of involvement a worthwhile social enterprise to be pursued. This attitude of seeing things from different perspectives is to be found in their stories, plays, and poems, their rhetoric, their contacts with other peoples, and of course in their philosophy. The paper will outline a range of examples, and argue that this attitude counts as one of the major breakthroughs of civilization, and, indeed, the one Western societies are largely heir to.*

‘We Women Are the Most Unfortunate’ (Euripides, Medea 230) Let us start by observing some (rather well-known) stories from Greek antiquity: – Euripides’ drama Hippolytus is a gripping story of shame and downfall: the protagonist, Phaedra, has passionately fallen in love with her stepson and succumbs to the social pressure condemning such a liaison. – Medea, by the same author, is a mesmerizing, even terrifying, narrative about jealousy, racism, sexism, and horrible vengeance.

* I am grateful to the editors of this volume for sharing with me incisive criticisms on an earlier version of this chapter, which has helped me to improve my general argumentation.

© Willie van Peer, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_017

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– Antigone, by Sophocles, recounts the spellbinding story of a young woman, about to be married, torn between the laws of worldly powers and the eternal law of her conscience, leading to her eventual destruction. – Lysistrata, a frivolous but also sincere comedy by Aristophanes, has all the women go on a sex strike as long as their husbands continue their warfare. Judging by such themes, one would guess that women must have had an important role in ancient Greek society. But the opposite was the case: women were largely confined to the home and mostly barred from public life. Daily life of women in ancient Greece was not much different from that of their gender peers in other cultures in the ancient world.1 That world was overwhelmingly dominated by men, and by masculine values, such as courage, honour, and valour—if one may call these values ‘masculine’. So how can we explain that Greek women, in spite of their limited role in society, occupied such a frequent and central role in many of the stories that have been preserved for us? And why did this happen in Greece, and not elsewhere? The summaries above are but a few out of a plethora of literary works that have come down to us from the eighth century bce onwards. What we have is only a fraction of the enormous output, maybe some 10 %, according to the best estimates. Given the time lapse of two and a half millennia, it is astounding how much has survived. If I may use an old-fashioned argument, this fact in itself may reveal that these works deal with concerns that are still very much alive today. Why, in other words, would anyone in highly developed industrial societies care to read or witness works from such a long time ago? Or have we perhaps developed toward such societies precisely because we adhere to some of the principles that ruled Greek society? In order to explore this issue further, I will look at what I consider the distinctive mark of Greek culture, its penchant toward the exploration of different perspectives. So let us scrutinize in some more depth the characteristics of the stories and plays.2

‘Flashes of Still Greater Passion’ (Euripides, Medea 106) Stories are presumably a universal among human societies. In fact, the anthropological evidence in favour of this view is overwhelming.3 Stories are uni-

1 See, for instance, Pomeroy 1975, 2002; Blundell 1995; Nardo 2000; MacLachlan 2012; Lefkowitz and Fant 2016. 2 I will largely omit lyric poetry here, though some of the present analyses certainly apply to that genre too. 3 E.g. Brown 1991; Dissanayake 1992; Hogan 2003; Pinker 2003; Eibl-Eibesfeldt 2007; Boyd 2009.

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versal carriers of human experience. But not of any experience. They depict experiences that are ‘tell-worthy’. One of the major reasons for stories to be worth telling is their emotional content and impact. Indeed, being emotionally touched is one of the major reasons people give when asked why they read stories. Being turned on by narratives happens because they convey emotions as their major ingredient.4 The four stories referred to in the previous paragraph certainly qualify as such: they are emotional rollercoasters. In order to contrast Greek society with other ancient societies, the epic of Gilgamesh may serve as an interesting example to start from. Inasmuch as we may recreate the story from the extant clay tablets, the heroic exploits of the protagonist are chronicled. If that were all there was to the story, it might never have been remembered—and not have reverberated either in antiquity or in our time. But apart from the heroism there is something much more human that is evoked: first the friendship and then the death (and mourning) of Enkidu, and Gilgamesh’s subsequent quest for immortality. This is the emotional anchorage point, the devastating grief for the deceased friend, at which the story starts having its impact on readers.5 Two universal emotions are at stake: mourning (for a beloved person) and fear (of death). No one will have difficulty recognizing (and sharing) these emotions. But what do we mean by ‘emotions’? I follow the groundbreaking insight of Frijda (1987) here: emotions are fine-tuned evaluation mechanisms with both bodily and mental aspects (and being partly codified culturally).6 But evaluation of what? Basically: of events and their repercussions for a person’s plans and concerns. The relevance of the concerns in question is a yardstick for the strength of the emotion. If the events touch on a passing plan with little bearing on one’s general well-being, the emotion will be a transient one, leaving but a fleeting impression. But such are not the emotions in Gilgamesh. The relevance of the events here is of vital significance: the hero’s life-plans involve an uninterrupted continuation of his friendship with Enkidu, whose untimely death thwarts these plans, and cruelly destroys his long-term concerns. Oatley (1992) speaks of junctures in this respect: Gilgamesh’s goals run into an abyss and fall apart. The juncture becomes a rupture. Because the concerns involved

4 See Longo 2019 for an in-depth overview, and compare also the discussions of Bowie, Van Emde Boas and Kahane in this volume about the essential, determining role of emotions in narration. 5 Whenever there is talk of the ‘reader’ in this chapter, the term is equally meant to refer to the listener, or, in case of the theatre, the spectator. 6 See the Introduction for an overview of further developments in thinking about emotions, e.g. appraisal theory.

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in these goals are of existential value, the ensuing emotions are extraordinarily powerful: they threaten his subjective equilibrium. And since the emotions are palpable, readers are affected by them. The inner processes felt in this recognition are usually referred to as empathy: readers feel with Gilgamesh’s pain and grief as if it were their own. The stories from Greek antiquity also deal with powerful emotions, but in their case, recognition is often thwarted, they are indeed ‘flashes of still greater passions’. Surprise or—more aptly—wonder instead of recognition emerges. Empathy presupposes that one may easily experience what the other person is going through. Now presumably all humans fear death and all may occasionally confront grief when losing a dearest person. But not many will fall in love with their stepson or face voluntary death because of their conscience. Though women may occasionally withhold sex from their partners out of frustration, anger or vengeance, they have so far not collectively used this stratagem to end wars. And murdering one’s own children because of dissatisfaction with one’s husband is pretty much out of the ordinary. Here we witness an aspect of perspectivation, in the Greeks’ predilection for emotional extremes that are inconceivable to most people. Hence the potential for empathy is closed off. What comes instead of empathy in the case of these Greek heroines? Let us examine the issue somewhat deeper.

‘The Sons of Erechtheus’ (Euripides, Medea 824) How far this tendency of the Greeks goes to see things from a variety of different (mostly unusual) perspectives may be derived from the very choice of heroes who populate their stories. At first sight, these may look like usual heroes, but we should not forget that this is in itself already a product of us being heirs to Greek antiquity: our very notion of a hero has been shaped through our socialization, in which Greek models inevitably play an important part. If we compare Greek heroes with those from other cultures, however, some things become clear. The closest comparable work to Homer’s epics and the tragedies is, perhaps, a medieval work such as Beowulf (eighth-tenth century ce, though the events play before that time). It likewise originates in a masculine, martial society in which fate is an overwhelming power to be reckoned with, and in which honour, shame, valour, and courage are the central values—all comparable to the world of the ancient Greeks. Beowulf is no doubter: he is a real hero, who will liberate his fellow men from the monster and the fear it spreads in their community. His profile is fully in line with the picture of life in a traditional society, as described by Crone (2011: 189):

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The pre-industrial scenario may be summarized as follows. Society is tied to a superior being or beings (…): an enduring truth above mere human beings generates or sanctifies a socio-political ideal with corresponding institutions. Since the truth cannot change, the institutions it spawns ought likewise to retain their original form, only minor changes to meet the needs of the times being acceptable; and since the truth is whole rather than partial, it ought to govern all aspects of life. Society was thus dominated by a tradition, a time-honored way of doing and looking at things; and conscious attempts at change were usually envisaged as restoration: the ideal was a concrete order exemplified in the past, not an unknown future. This clearly is the world in which heroes like Beowulf operate. A hero is a ‘warrior who lives and dies in the pursuit of honor’ and demonstrates his greatness by the skill and splendour with which he kills.7 This is precisely the world of Greek warriors, in which ‘the sons of Erechtheus’ operate. But the way in which a number of Greek heroes behave is rather different. What we see instead are, surprisingly, a number of heroes who do not behave as such: a wavering Ajax, a sulking Achilles, an oath-breaking Jason, men in conflict with their peers or with themselves, like Oedipus, in search of a truth they yearn for but at the same time avoid at all costs. True, not all Greek heroes answer to this profile, but the mere fact that they turn up in this martial society is already remarkable. There is a formidable gap between the self-confident heroes of traditional societies like Beowulf or, for that matter, Gilgamesh, and the reflective, unsettled heroes that populate classical Greek literature. By contrast, the female characters in Greek drama are outspoken, self-conscious, and assertive. This contrast is certainly highly uncommon in antiquity. In Greek tragedy, it even seems to be the norm.

‘Honour is Coming to the Female Sex’ (Euripides, Medea 419) If the protagonists of ancient Greek narratives surprise in their deviation from traditional heroic models, it comes as an even greater surprise to observe how many of the central protagonists of Greek drama are powerful women, for instance Antigone, Electra, Iphigenia, Medea, Phaedra. Although their predic-

7 Schein 1984: 58.

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aments differ, they all epitomize a fundamental conflict between two visions of the world: on the one hand, the pragmatic daily world of the polis, and, on the other hand, the existential eternal world of the nomos.8 Although they form part of a traditional social group, their attitude and their mission make them into outsiders. Let us take Sophocles’ Antigone as a prototypical example: she firmly stands against the prevailing power of Creon, who in fact suffers from anxiety (of being deposed). She calmly and steadily pursues her objective, one that is larger than herself—in contrast to the short-term aims of Creon, which are created by himself. The opposition is between the divine and the worldly. Remarkably, the general mood is on the side of Antigone, the outsider. And then there is a third character, Ismene, Antigone’s sister, who is torn between the love for her sister and her longing for a ‘normal’ life, driven by her fear of the powerful Creon. Though she represents a pragmatic position, she is not endowed with sympathy. Both male and female protagonists in this play deviate from the typical heroes and heroines in pre-industrial societies. Inevitably this must have led to far-reaching cognitive explorations on the part of spectators. But not only cognitive: also emotional, as we shall see in an instant. What are the consequences of this choice of extraordinary male and female characters for the emotional impact of the stories? One very clear effect is, as one may expect, emotional uncertainty. Readers and audiences will find themselves in uncharted territory, taken out of their comfort zone. And so they will inevitably feel uncertain about what to feel. In the case of Antigone: is one to rejoice in her steadfastness, while at the same time knowing that this will lead to her downfall and destruction? In literary studies, there is a word for this emotional state: defamiliarization, and it is, importantly, also related to literary style. The notion of defamiliarization goes back to the work of the Russian Formalists, but gained currency in the West under the term foregrounding; Simpson (2014: 50) gives a neat (albeit somewhat narrow) definition: a form of textual patterning which is motivated specifically for literaryaesthetic purposes. Capable of working at any level of language, foregrounding typically involves a stylistic distortion of some sort, either through an aspect of the text which deviates from a linguistic norm or, alternatively, where an aspect of the text is brought to the fore through repetition or parallelism.

8 Zimmerman 2015: xxii.

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In a broader treatment, Van Peer and Hakemulder (2006) bring out the link to the Poetics of Aristotle, who emphasizes the role of unusual elements, like improbable actions and events, even at a basic level of language: the diction becomes distinguished and non-prosaic by the use of unfamiliar terms, i.e. strange words, metaphors, lengthened forms, and everything that deviates from the ordinary modes of speech. aristotle, Poetics 1458a20, tr. barnes

And: Such incidents have the greatest effect on the mind when they occur unexpectedly. aristotle, Poetics 1452a3

Aristotle does not speak about emotions in this context, but it is clear that his notion of unusual language may be broadened to unfamiliar emotions. That, at least, is how he describes the notion of catharsis, as due to stirring up the emotions of pity and fear (Poetics 1449b6). Recent research has demonstrated that such unusual literary language brings readers (without being aware) into a heightened state of emotional arousal.9 It has now been empirically established that such stretches of foregrounded language cause heightened feelings of empathy, and even boost readers’ readiness to, for instance, donate to charity organizations, regardless of personality traits.10

‘I Have Heard the Voice’ (Euripides, Medea 131) Until now, we have spoken about the characters and about the (emotional) content of stories. But there is more: how are they told, and in whose voice are we given the story content? In narratological terms, we are dealing with narrative perspective, and especially with a concept that gained currency in the 1980s: focalization. The term may perhaps sound confusing, but basically boils down to the point of perception from which a story is told, in contrast to the more abstract notion of point of view. The latter refers to the psycholo-

9 10

Miall and Kuiken 1994. Kuijpers 2014; Koopman 2016.

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gical centre from which events are narrated. Narratology distinguishes several such perspectives: a story may be told from an individual I-perspective (a firstperson) or a distanced third-person narration, which in turn may be told from an omniscient (authorial) or limited (personal) perspective.11 These different modes of distance and involvement allow the narrator to feed, or to withhold, information. So point of view is about the asymmetry between narrator, character, and reader. The effects of these different modes of telling on the reader are of a cognitive, emotional, attitudinal, and social kind, as we now know from research into reader response.12 It is one of the merits of Irene de Jong’s work that it has drawn attention to the use of point of view in ancient Greek literature. She has particularly concentrated on the device of focalization, distinguishing between a narrator of the events in the text and a focalizer who perceives them.13 Often in ancient literature, narrator and focalizer come together when a story is told by an invisible, omniscient narrator. The story of Gilgamesh is a clear example of this from antiquity: we do not know the narrator-focalizer, who is present at all events in the narrative world, but who does not participate in them. In this sense, this kind of narrator is everywhere, but nowhere visible. In the Greek world, however, we also encounter narrators who are major actors in the events. The prototypical example here is the Odyssey: in Book 8, the invisible primary narrator-focalizer suddenly gives way to Demodocus, a blind poet who visits the court of king Alcinous. He sings, unbeknownst of the physical presence of Odysseus, of the latter’s adventures. So here we have an instance of secondary focalization: readers learn about Odysseus’ exploits through the narration of Demodocus, who cannot know the thoughts and emotions that Odysseus had during his adventures. Then (in Book 9) Odysseus himself takes the floor and gives an account of his deeds. But because he speaks about his own experiences, he has also access to his inner life, his ideas and feelings. And so his account is an instance of internal focalization.14 Here we clearly see a gap between the epic of Gilgamesh and that of Odysseus: we have one

11 12 13 14

Fludernik 1993; Leech and Short 2007; Stanzel 2008; Herman 2009; Herman et al. 2012; Ryan 2015. For instance, Gibbs 1994; Van Peer and Pander Maat 1996 and 2001; Hakemulder 2000; Van Peer and Chatman 2001; Bortolussi and Dixon 2003; Miall 2006. De Jong [1987] 20042. This has consequences for the way in which the story is told, as Van der Mije points out in his contribution to this volume. For instance, Odysseus as a narrator does not know exactly what the gods are doing, whereas the primary narrator-focalizer provides the narratee with such insights.

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external narrator-focalizer in the former, and three different kinds (primary, secondary narrator-focalizer, and internal narrator-focalizer) in the latter. The variation of focalization is a measure of complexity in matters of narration, and it is clear that the perspectival variation in the Odyssey is superior to that in Gilgamesh. This is what I mean by perspectivation as a steady element in ancient Greek culture: the constant search for multiple views on matters of human significance.

‘Persuaded by the Words of a Greek’ (Euripides, Medea 801–802) There is yet another fundamental issue we must confront when we consider Greek society: the invention and subsequent development of the dramatic genre. As far as we know, it originated in the context of religious festivals, especially those of Dionysus, but detached itself from the religious framework and developed into one of the greatest inventions in Western civilization. In the theatre, stories were performed, that is, enacted, by live actors (no actresses) in front of a live audience. They were not read or listened to, but witnessed live, in public displays. This shift from narrative to drama had far-reaching consequences for society as a whole, and from a literary perspective especially regarding focalization (and emotions, about which more in an instant). What distinguishes a theatrical performance from a narrative account is the poly-perspectival rendering of events, actions, emotions, and their consequences. They are visualized in the here and now. A story may present events from different perspectives, as we have seen. But narrative devices have their limitations: they ultimately depend on a reader’s (or listener’s) competence in imagining the point of view from which the narrative proceeds. In that way, through the presentation of speech, thought, and emotions of different characters, the reader is able to discern the gist and details of actions and their consequences. All that is common in most cultures. The Greeks, however, invented a method by which different perspectives may be instantiated and actualized in a much more potent way: through the display of events by means of live actors in front of spectators. Again this is a unique characteristic of Greek culture. As far as we know, no other culture in antiquity knew theatrical performances such as the ones in ancient Greece. The progress is from ‘telling’ to ‘showing’, without any intermediate agency: spectators now see and hear before their own eyes and ears which different views, opinions, thoughts, feelings, but also which bodily sensations like falling, laughing, weeping, succumbing, shape the core of the story. Spectators are now not hearing about events, they are witnessing them. What are the consequences of this shift for our previous analysis?

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The notion of focalization is seldom used in the analysis of drama.15 At the level of the play as a whole, it is the author, without any intermediate entity, who decides which characters are on stage (and how). Within the story world, however, the focalizers are now multiplied: every single character becomes a focalizer, without any further intervention.16 So instead of narrative interference allowing focalization, we now have a visualization of multiple points of view. There are as many focalizers as there are participants in the story world. This means an explosion of perspectives. Again, this is so much part of our present-day expectations that we experience all this as natural. But it is not: it had to be invented. And in the course of the ensuing history, it became part and parcel of the repertoire of tacit assumptions in Western cultures. Next to philosophy, the theatre contributed to a cultural consciousness in which the situatedness of people’s point of view became acutely visible to the audience. For the theatre was also a communal happening, in which the whole town participated, albeit almost exclusively adult, free men, of course. Their presence in the theatre was not a businesslike matter, not a run of the mill obligation. We know from contemporary testimony that these men could be moved to tears when in the theatre. And these were not meek wimps: many of them had fought in wars and faced deadly man-to-man fights in mortal combat. They were hardened hoplites in the defence of their city, but now, sitting here in the theatre, and witnessing the fate of a young girl (Antigone), an embittered daughter (Electra), or a betrayed wife (Medea), they were overcome by emotions. This outpouring was the reason why Plato, in his Republic, condemned the theatre and would have most literature banned from public life, because—in his view—it made men weak, and an ideal state should dispense with ‘weaklings’. Aristotle, his student, agreed with the empirical observations of his master, but disagreed about their effect. To him, the emotions, as we mentioned before—especially those of pity and fear—had a beneficial, cathartic effect on the human psyche, purifying the soul of negative emotions.17 For our present concerns, the reflections by both philosophers show how central to Greek culture these stories and their perspectives were.

15 16

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Richardson 1988 proposes a basic typology of narrators in drama; McIntyre 2006 employs narratological concepts in the study of plays. Except for whatever interpretation a director might give to staging and enactment. The picture presented here is the ‘standard’ one, while there have been experiments in which one of the characters on stage is actually a director (or author), arranging the action. Such meta-theatrical experiments culminated in Pirandello’s Six Characters in Search of an Author (1921), in which the whole focalization structure tumbles down. See Frade’s contribution to this volume.

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As if this was not enough, the perspectivation was ‘squared’, as a viewpoint external to that of the protagonists was introduced, namely that of the chorus. By having a community as focalizer it leads directly to reflection on the actions. The chorus is mostly not itself involved in the actions, but comments on them from an outside perspective. This may be information that the characters do not yet possess, or it may contain a range of evaluative commentaries, such as general public opinion, or of a subgroup of the population (women, for instance), or particular moral maxims. Or it may represent a kind of ideal spectator, or direct spectators toward an interpretation of events, or it may express what the characters themselves are not allowed (or able) to see and say.18 One could surmise how the invention of the theatre, including that of the chorus, might easily lead to a glorification of their own customs and beliefs. But observation contradicts this assumption: the sarcastic outcry of Medea in the heading of the present section is but one example. She bitterly complains about Jason’s betrayal of her and, as a barbarian, scoffs at what she feels to be the treacherous nature of the Greeks. And this accusation is publicly thrown in the face of the Greek audience. Her accusation is no trifle: ‘Respect for your oaths is gone’ (491).19 Aeschylus’ Persians provides another example. The play was performed in 472bce, a mere eight years after the decisive battle of Salamis, in which the Greeks routed the Persian navy. One would expect a theatrical celebration of that victory, amidst a general atmosphere of triumphalism. But nothing of the sort is the case. The action is situated in Susa, the capital of the Persian empire, and emphasizes the grief experienced by the mother of the king and Xerxes’ own agony at the lost war. Nothing here on the part of the Greeks that would only for a moment rejoice in the pain of the defeated enemy. On the contrary, the great achievements of the Persian kings are foregrounded.20 The play illustrates to what extent the principle of perspectivation applies to the Greeks’ daily reality. All this raises the question of what is the origin of this deeply ingrained attitude. Let us look briefly at three factors that may have contributed to the emergence of perspectivation: the geographical situation, literacy, and the way Greek religion functioned.

18 19 20

Compare, in this volume, Jurriaans-Helle’s observation on the role of bystanders painted on vases in mediating the reception of the scene by the viewer. On the wider implications of Medea’s accusation and the importance of oaths in Greek society, see Kovacs 1994: 289; see Van Peer 2001 for further discussion. See especially Dihle 1994: 36–37 for an analysis.

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Influencing Factors: Sea, Literacy, Religion The Greeks’ tendency to consider perspectives different from their own may in part be a consequence of their geography.21 A mere glance at the map of Greece makes clear that it has an extremely long and ragged coastline, with innumerable islands in its archipelago of some 3.000 islands. Moreover, the country is very mountainous: 80% of its surface are mountains that are hardly inhabited and difficult to cross, making the roads winding and travelling difficult, except by boat, and thus leading to the development of shipyards and ever better vessels. A consequence of this geography is the need for orientation. One has to have a notion where one is situated—and this necessarily involves a consciousness of where other people are situated. A geographical situation that makes it difficult to reach other people, even friends and relatives, creates a mentality that always counts on danger, obstacles, and difficulties in contacting them. With their navigational skills and their seaworthy ships came the exploration of other countries, thus confronting the Greeks, from an early stage onwards, with people (very) different from their own. The colonization of the Ionian coast and of Magna Graecia, but even more so their travels as far as the region around the Black Sea are well-documented. Historical accounts such as Xenophon’s Anabasis, or literary works such as the Odyssey, or the tale of the Argonauts, are a testimony to the travels of the ancient Greeks. The same holds for travelogues such as the Arismapeia by Aristeas22 and the works of Scylax and Hecataeus from Miletus, as efforts to come to terms with newly discovered geographic areas and their concomitant cultures. One could say that these peregrinations led to the embryonic forms of ethnography as a systematic exploration and comparison of individual cultures. All this must have contributed to the Greeks’ realization of the multitude of peoples and cultures, but also their unique place in this universe. But uniqueness was, in their view, not superiority—instead, it was eagerness to learn about other ways of thinking and living: terra incognita had to be examined and studied.23 The narratives referred to above formed part of everyday knowledge possessed by the Greeks. The stories were recounted again and again, so perspectivation must have occupied a special place in both individual life and

21 22 23

On cultural geography, see Bergman 1995; Domosh et al. 2019; and especially Moretti 2006. On Aristeas of Proconessus, see also Bierl in this volume. One may think of the influence of Egyptian culture on Greek art and medicine; see Lefkowitz 1996 for a critical view.

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in Greek-speaking groups. By and large, this narrative repertoire became available also in writing. Literacy was relatively widespread in ancient Greece, certainly when compared to its neighbouring peoples.24 The work of Goody (1977; 1986) on ancient philosophy demonstrates that this kind of widespread literacy led to a heightened form of epistemological consciousness, which gave rise to philosophical questions and their systematic treatment, something that would have been much more difficult—and therefore rare—without a simple and accessible writing system that was disseminated in significantly large number in circles of free adult males. So Goody’s explanation, literacy being at the heart of the Greek penchant for philosophy, may have been fed by the stories that functioned centrally in their culture. Indeed, many of the stories concern philosophical issues: the individual vs. society, human vs. divine law, power vs. vulnerability. In the theatrical visualizations we may see a parallel to the visualization of language in writing. Some kind of intertwined relationship of literacy and ethnographic experiences may have been instrumental in opening up and stimulating philosophical questions. And it will come as no surprise that their philosophical pursuits interconnected with their religion. Religion in Greek society took a turn that was—again—exceptional in antiquity. While blasphemy is a capital offence in most traditional cultures, it was not really so in ancient Greece. While lack of respect for sanctuaries, religious processions or rituals could have serious consequences, still, compared to other societies, the sanctions were relatively mild: Insulting behavior towards holy things and holy places is attested as not all that unusual for late fifth- and early fourth-century Athens by both Thucydides and Plato. kearns 2010: 141

The confrontation with different people had made them reflect on their own gods. Especially the world beyond the Black Sea and the fringes of Central Asia may have increased the Greeks’ sense of differences between religious conceptions. In Herodotus, foreign religion is viewed not as inferior, but often admired. Such reflections may have led to Xenophanes’ famous dictum: But if cattle and horses and lions had hands or could paint with their hands and create works such as men do, horses like horses and cattle like cattle

24

Harris 1991; Thomas 1992; Robb 1994; Johnson and Parker 2009.

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also would depict the gods’ shapes and make their bodies of such a sort as the form they themselves have. xenophanes, fr. 15 Diels-Kranz

To be able to utter such a view, a conviction that there are multiple ways to view the universe and its meaning, is a necessary condition. Without it, Xenophanes could never have written these lines. This condition I have termed perspectivation. The foregoing sections have provided examples of how it was inscribed deeply in ancient Greek society. As far as we can tell, neither ancient Egyptian nor Roman culture was characterized by a similar degree of perspectivation, making Greek culture truly unique.

Conclusion So here we are: the notion that issues may be looked at from different angles permeates much of Greek culture, and may be said to be unique among preindustrial societies. It was shown in narratives, in the choice of protagonists, in the uptake of female positions, in the theatre and the role of chorus, and of course—what I have not dwelled on—in philosophy. One only needs to think about Plato’s Dialogues as a genre, or of the sophists as representatives of a relativistic, hence multi-perspective view of things. I have termed this mindset ‘perspectivation’, the social organization to guarantee the possibility to involve oneself in the exploration of viewpoints other than one’s own. Our insights into the emotional depths of the heroes and heroines of ancient Greek literature derives from a unique penchant for perspectivation on the part of its authors and audiences. This last point has also been proposed in a nutshell by Irene de Jong: after having convincingly demonstrated the occurrence of figural narration in classical Greek literature, she points to the central role of perspective in Greek culture: After all, what is figural narration other than the technique of placing oneself in the position of another, and looking at life through the eyes of another. This is exactly something at which Greek culture excelled, with its philosophers arguing first against and then for the same proposition, its female dramatic roles written and performed by men, and its litigants accusing others and defending themselves in speeches written by ghostwriters. de jong 2001: 80

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Bibliography Barnes, J. (ed.), The Complete Works of Aristotle, Volume 2 (Princeton 1984). Bergman, E.F., Human Geography: Cultures, Connections, and Landscapes (Hoboken 1995). Blundell, S., Women in Ancient Greece (Harvard 1995). Bortolussi, M., Dixon, P., Psychonarratology. Foundations for the Empirical Study of Literary Response (Cambridge 2003). Boyd, B., On the Origin of Stories: Evolution, Cognition, and Fiction (Cambridge, MA 2009). Brown, D.E., Human Universals (New York 1991). Crone, P., Pre-Industrial Societies. Anatomy of the Pre-Modern World (Oxford 2011). Dihle, A., Die Griechen und die Fremden (Munich 1994). Dissanayake, E., Homo Aestheticus. Where Art Comes from and Why (Seattle 1992). Domosh, M., Neumann, R.P., Price, P.L., Contemporary Human Geography. Culture, Globalization, Landscape (New York 2019). Eibl-Eibesfeldt, I., Human Ethology (New Brunswick 2007). Fludernik, M., The Fictions of Language and the Languages of Fiction. The Linguistic Representation of Speech and Thought (London 1993). Frijda, N., The Emotions (Cambridge 1987). Gibbs, R., The Poetics of Mind. Figurative Thought, Language, and Understanding (Cambridge 1994). Goody, J., The Domestication of the Savage Mind (Cambridge 1977). Goody, J., The Logic of Writing and the Organization of Society (Cambridge 1986). Hakemulder, J., The Moral Laboratory. Experiments Examining the Effects of Reading Literature on Social Perception and Moral Self-Concept (Amsterdam 2000). Harris, W.V., Ancient Literacy (Cambridge, MA 1991). Herman, D., Basic Elements of Narrative: What’s the Story? (New York 2009). Herman, D., Phelan, J., Rabinowitz, P. (eds.), Narrative Theory. Core Concepts and Critical Debates (Columbus, OH 2012). Hogan, P.C., The Mind and Its Stories. Narrative Universals and Human Emotion (Cambridge 2003). Johnson, W.A., Parker, H.N. (eds.), Ancient Literacies. The Culture of Reading in Greece and Rome (Oxford 2009). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London [1987] 2nd edn. 2004). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Origins of Figural Narration in Antiquity’, in W. van Peer, S. Chatman (eds.), New Perspectives on Narrative Perspective (New York 2001) 67–81. Kearns, E., Ancient Greek Religion. A Sourcebook (Oxford 2010). Koopman, E., Reading Suffering. An Empirical Inquiry into Empathic and Reflective Responses to Literary Narratives (diss. Rotterdam 2016).

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Kovacs, D., Cyclops, Alcestis, Medea (Cambridge, MA 1994). Kuijpers, M., Absorbing Stories. The Effects of Textual Devices on Absorption and Evaluative Responses (diss. Utrecht 2014). Leech, G.N., Short, M.H., Style in Fiction. A Linguistic Introduction to English Fictional Prose (London 2007). Lefkowitz, M.R., Not Out of Africa (New York 1996). Lefkowitz, M.R., Fant, M.B., Women’s Life in Greece and Rome. A Sourcebook (Baltimore 2016). Longo, M., Emotions through Literature. Fictional Narratives, Society and the Emotional Self (London / New York 2019). MacLachlan, B., Women in Ancient Greece. A Sourcebook (London / New York 2012). McIntyre, D., Point of View in Plays. A Cognitive Approach to Viewpoint in Drama and Other Text-Types (Amsterdam 2006). Miall, D.S., Literary Reading. Empirical and Theoretical Studies (New York 2006). Miall. D.S., Kuiken, D., ‘Beyond Text Theory: Understanding Literary Response’, Discourse Processes 17 (1994) 337–352. Moretti, F., The Novel. Volume 1. History, Geography and Culture (Princeton 2006). Nardo, D., Women in Ancient Greece (San Diego 2000). Oatley, K., Best Laid Schemes. The Psychology of Emotions (Cambridge 1992). Peer, W. van, ‘Justice in Perspective’, in W. van Peer, S. Chatman (eds.), New Perspectives on Narrative Perspective (New York 2001) 325–333. Peer, W. van, Chatman, S. (eds.), New Perspectives on Narrative Perspective (New York 2001). Peer, W. van, Hakemulder, F., ‘Foregrounding’, in K. Brown (ed.), The Pergamon Encyclopaedia of Language and Linguistics, Volume 4 (Oxford 2006) 546–551. Peer, W. van, Pander Maat, H., ‘Perspectivation and Sympathy: Effects of Narrative Point of View’, in R.J. Kreuz, M.S. MacNealy (eds.), Empirical Approaches to Literature and Aesthetics (Norwood, NJ 1996) 143–156. Peer, W. van, Pander Maat, H., ‘Narrative Perspective and the Interpretation of Characters’ Motives’, Language and Literature 10 (2001) 229–241. Pinker, S., Blank Slate. The Modern Denial of Human Nature (London 2003). Pomeroy, S.B., Goddesses, Whores, Wives and Slaves. Women in Classical Antiquity (New York 1975). Pomeroy, S.B., Spartan Women (Oxford 2002). Richardson, B., ‘Point of View in Drama: Diegetic Monologue, Unreliable Narrators, and the Author’s Voice on Stage’, Comparative Drama 22.3 (1988) 193–214. Robb, K., Literacy and Paideia in Ancient Greece (Oxford 1994). Ryan, M.-L., Narrative as Virtual Reality (Baltimore 2015). Schein, S., The Mortal Hero. An Introduction to Homer’s Iliad (Berkeley 1984). Simpson, P., Stylistics. A Resource Book for Students (London 2014).

what the greeks left us Stanzel, F., Theorie des Erzählens (Stuttgart 2008). Thomas, R., Literacy and Orality in Ancient Greece (Cambridge 1992). Zimmerman, B., Sophokles. Die Tragödien (Stuttgart 2015).

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part 3 Early Lyric, Tragedy, and Biblical Poetry

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chapter 16

Passion versus Performance in Sappho Fragments 1 and 31 André Lardinois

Fragments 1 and 31 of Sappho are among the most famous descriptions of love in antiquity. But should we ascribe the feelings expressed in these poems to their author? Longinus, who quotes the first four stanzas of fragment 31 in his treatise On the Sublime, had no problem in doing so. He ascribes the emotions, listed by the first-person speaker, directly to Sappho, although he recognizes a general validity in them as well: ‘All such things happen to people in love’ (πάντα μὲν τοιαῦτα γίνεται περὶ τοὺς ἐρῶντας).1 In fragment 1, the first-person speaker is addressed as ‘Sappho’ (or better: ‘Psappho’), thus clearly inviting us to identify her with the author of the poem. The ancients in general had the tendency to identify the first speaker of lyric Greek poetry with its author.2 This tendency was taken over in subsequent scholarship and strengthened by the Romantic movement in the nineteenth century. Only after the Second World War was the idea that the lyric ‘I’ reveals the emotions and ideas of its author questioned, although an exception is often made for Sappho.3 It was proposed instead that the first-person speaker in Greek lyric poetry was a ‘representational I’, who voiced the sentiments of the community but not necessarily those of the author. The realization that all these poems were originally performed played an important part in the reassessment of the first-person speaker in Greek lyric poetry. Such performances made sentiments expressed in the poetry automatically public, not private statements. It furthermore opened up the possibility that these poems were originally performed and reperformed by different persons than the poets themselves.

1 Longinus, Subl. 10.3. On the dating of the treatise and the possible name of its author, see De Jonge 2012: 273 n. 5 with earlier references. In the following, I will refer to the author as Longinus. See also De Jonge’s contribution to this volume. 2 Lefkowitz 2012: 2; 30–45. See also the pertinent remarks of De Jong 2002: 388–390 about the lack of reflection on the distinction between poet and first-person speaker in ancient Greek treatises on poetry. 3 Slings 1990. Sappho as exception: Diller 1971: 69–71; Skinner 1996; Stehle 1997: 262.

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Longinus most likely read Sappho fragment 31, but we have to assume that, like all other poems of Sappho, it was originally performed as a song. In the performance of songs it is necessary not only to distinguish between author and first-person speaker (or narrator),4 but between author, first-person speaker and performer. These three functions can overlap, but they often do not.5 In this paper I will argue that in the performance of fragments 1 and 31 a distance is created between the performer and the first-person speaker. This distance undermines the seriousness of these poems and throws doubt on the degree in which we are asked to equate the feelings of the first-person speaker with those of the author, even in the case of Sappho fragment 1. It also shows that the experience of hearing these poems performed as songs is different from reading them on the page.

Sappho, Fragment 31 I will begin my analysis of the relationship between first-person speaker, author and performer with the song that Longinus quotes, Sappho fragment 31:6 To me it seems that man has the fortune of gods, whoever sits beside you and close, who listens to you sweetly speaking and laughing temptingly. My heart flutters in my breast whenever I even glance at you— I can say nothing (ὤς με φώναισ’ οὐδ’ ἒν ἔτ’ εἴκει),

4 The term ‘narrator’ is sometimes used for the outer first-person speaker in archaic Greek lyric, although he or she often does not narrate, but prays, reasons, expresses her love, etc.: e.g. Hutchinson 2001 and Morrison 2007. Cf. Budelmann 2018c: 240–241. De Jong 2013 in her study of the poetry of Pindar and Bacchylides prefers to reserve the term narrator for passages in which the first-person speakers in lyric poetry actually tell a story. I follow her example and will therefore refer to the speaker in Sappho frs. 1 and 31 as the first-person speaker. 5 On the complex relationships between author, performer and first-person speaker in archaic Greek lyric, see the succinct summary, with earlier references, in Budelmann 2018a: 14–16. 6 The translation is by Rayor in Rayor & Lardinois 2014: 44.

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my tongue is broken (γλῶσσα ἔαγε). A delicate fire runs under my skin, my eyes see nothing, my ears roar, cold sweat rushes down me, trembling seizes me, I am greener than grass. To myself I seem needing but little to die. Yet all can be endured (ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον), since (ἐπεὶ †πένητα†) … sapph. fr. 31

The feminine forms of the Greek adjectives in line 14 (παῖσαν, χλωροτέρα) identify the first-person speaker in this song as a woman. There is debate whether the emotions that this first-person speaker describes only refer to what happened to her in the past, whenever she saw her beloved, or that we are supposed to believe that they are happening to her the moment the song is performed as well.7 I agree with those who argue for the latter: the fact that the first-person speaker addresses her beloved with ‘you’ suggests that we are at least to imagine that she is seeing her and speaking to her at the moment the song is performed. In performance, however, the statement of the first-person speaker that she can no longer speak and that her tongue is broken (lines 7–9) must have come as a surprise. The performer, after all, continues speaking, even singing, in highly stylized language and measured poetic form. As Eva Stehle has remarked, the first-person speaker and performer are split in this poem: the audience sees and hears a singer who is far from suffering the symptoms of aphasia that torment the first-person speaker.8 Still, something of the broken voice of the first-person speaker can be heard in the performance of the song in that the performer imitates a halting and staggering voice: in line 9, exactly at the point where the first-person speaker says that her tongue is broken, we find hiatus between the words for ‘tongue’ and ‘is broken’ (γλῶσσα ἔαγε) in the manuscripts of Longinus. Some editors, following Jakob Sitzler, insert μ’ (= μοι,

7 See the discussions in Hutchinson 2001: 172 and Budelmann 2018a: 132–133. 8 Stehle 1997: 289–290.

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‘for me’) between the two words in order to avoid the hiatus, but this is unnecessary and spoils the effect.9 Sean Gurd further notes a series of sound effects at the end of the second stanza (φώναι | σ’ οὐδ’ ἒν ἔτ’ εἴκει, ‘no longer is it possible to say anything’), of which the result is ‘a fracturing of speech at exactly the point where the poet begins to describe the same process, a linguistic enactment of the breaking of the tongue described in the first line of the next stanza.’10 The performer therefore keeps his or her distance from the first-person speaker, while at the same time identifying with her. This, I would argue, has a comical effect: the fact that the performer can continue to sing undermines the seriousness of the claims of the first-person speaker that she is devastated and silenced at the moment the song is performed. It also prevents the listener from fully immerging in the emotions of the first-person speaker,11 because of the uncertainty about the true feelings of the first-person speaker created by the performance. What the performer further does, adopting in this the identity of the author rather than that of the first-person speaker, is sublimating the raw emotions of the first-person speaker into an artistic form. This is seen perhaps most clearly at the end of the second strophe, where the performer imitates the fractured voice of the first-person speaker in a series of short, elided words and a repetition of ε-sounds all within the confines of the Sapphic stanza. This artistry draws our attention to the skill of the author. It is a real pity that the last stanza of this song has not been preserved, because it appears that the first-person speaker here distances herself from the raw emotions she expressed in the first sixteen lines. The words ‘but all can be endured’ (ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον) have been preserved together with the words ‘because … a poor man’ (ἐπεὶ … πένητα), which seem to have been part of a general statement.12 The first-person speaker thus contemplates her own situation

9

10 11

12

See Nagy 1974: 45; Ford and Kopff 1976; O’Higgins 1990 and Lardinois 2020 for a defence of the hiatus. Page 1959: 24 argues against the insertion of μ’ on linguistic grounds. Campbell 1990: 80 prints the inserted μ’, but Neri 2021: 146 does not. Gurd 2017: 20. See the Introduction to this volume on the immersion of the audience / readers in the emotions of the first-person speaker / narrator. On immersion, see also Allan’s contribution to this volume. For possible reconstructions of this stanza, see the references in Budelmann 2018a: 137. The words ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον ἐπεὶ †καὶ πένητα† are preserved in only one of the four manuscripts of Longinus, but that they were part of a concluding stanza is first of all suggested by Catullus’ adaptation of the poem in his carmen 51 (see below). One extra stanza would also provide the poem with the length (20 lines) we know from other poems of Sappho in the same metre (frs. 5, 16 and 17). Fragment 1 has 28 lines. So far no poem in the Sapphic stanza with only 16 lines has been attested. Finally, in the newly reconstituted

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and becomes more like the performer in distancing herself from her emotions. Alternatively, one could argue that this last stanza is spoken by the performer in response to the first-person speaker. The first-person speaker in the last stanza of Catullus’ famous adaptation of fragment 31 also turns against the persona whom he represented in the first part of his carmen 51: ‘Idleness, Catullus, does you harm. / In your idleness you run riot and exult too much. / Idleness ere now has ruined both kings and wealthy cities.’13 Catullus may have understood Sappho’s poem better than he is often given credit for in recognizing the split between the first-person speaker of the first stanzas of the poem and the persona who is speaking the last one. In Catullus this split takes the form of an interior dialogue by a persona who identifies himself as the author of the poem, but in Sappho it is an interior dialogue of an unidentified first-person speaker who in the last stanza echoes sentiments of an equally unidentified performer.

Sappho, Fragment 1 The next poem of Sappho I would like to discuss is fragment 1. Here we have a poem that is complete, although it has its own textual problems, notably at the beginning of line 19. It has a first-person speaker who identifies herself with the author (Ψάπφ’, 20), who could very well be the performer as well. First-person speaker, performer and author therefore appear, at first sight, to be one and the same. I will argue, however, that this is not the case and therefore refer to the first-person speaker as ‘Sappho’ and to the author as Sappho. Let me first cite the poem again:14 On the throne of many hues, Immortal Aphrodite, child of Zeus, weaving wiles: I beg you, do not break my spirit, O Queen, with pain or sorrow

13

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Tithonus poem of Sappho (fr. 58c Neri) we find a comparable list of symptoms (of old age), followed by a contemplative gnomê and paradigmatic tale (West 2004: 6). Otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est; | otio exultas niminumque gestis; | otium et reges prius et beatas perdidit urbas. Most editors agree that this stanza is part of Catullus’ carmen 51. For an overview of opinions, see Quinn 1973: 245 and Greene 2007: 147 n. 10. If this stanza did not belong to the poem, it would make up a separate poem, consisting of a single Sapphic strophe, which is unparalleled in Greek or Latin literature. Translation by Rayor in Rayor & Lardinois 2014: 20–21, but adapted in line 19 (see next note).

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but come—if ever before from far away you heard my voice and listened, and leaving your father’s golden home you came, your chariot yoked with lovely sparrows drawing you quickly over the dark earth in a whirling cloud of wings down the sky through midair, suddenly here. Blessed One, with a smile on your deathless face, you asked what have I suffered again and why do I call again and what in my wild heart do I most wish would happen: ‘Once again whom must I persuade, having set out to bring her to your love?15 Sappho, who wrongs you? If now she flees, soon she’ll chase. If rejecting gifts, then she’ll give. If not loving, soon she’ll love even against her will.’ Come to me now—release me from these troubles, everything my heart longs to have fulfilled, fulfill, and you be my ally. sapph. fr. 1

This poem takes the form of a typical Greek prayer, including an invocation, a narration, and a request.16 It is, however, not a real prayer that Sappho ever

15

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I follow here the reading of Parca 1982. For a defence of this reading, see De Kreij and Lardinois, f.c. Most editors mark a crux (e.g. Voigt 1971; Neri 2021) or print ἄψ σ’ ἄγην ἐς ϝὰν φιλότατα (‘whom am I to persuade to lead you back to her love’), following Edgar Lobel (e.g. Campbell 1990: 54). My argument in the following paragraphs is not affected by this issue. E.g. Pulleyn 1997: 132. The following three paragraphs are based, in part, on Lardinois 2021.

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spoke at a shrine of Aphrodite or in the privacy of her own home, but it is a song, composed in stylized poetic language and metre and intended for an audience of mortals. In performance this would be clear.17 There is, as a result, a split between the first-person speaker, ‘Sappho’, and the performer, because they are engaged in different activities: the one is praying, while the other is singing. Another reason why we are hampered in identifying ‘Sappho’ with the performer is the fictional character of the prayer.18 Its fictionality is already suggested by the fact that the woman whom ‘Sappho’ loves is not named. This makes the poem highly ineffective as a prayer, but works well for a song: it makes it easy to perform on different occasions.19 Another fictional element is the close encounter that ‘Sappho’ says she had with Aphrodite, not once but at least twice in the past (lines 15–18), and expects to have again. True, the ancient Greeks believed in epiphanies, but they would hardly have believed that a woman like Sappho received personal visits of the goddess of love every time she experienced problems with her beloved. Archibald Cameron in 1939 already observed that the image of the goddess descending in her chariot from heaven is not based on a genuine religious experience but on ‘the bright world of Homer’s fancy’.20 Such encounters between mortals and immortals were indeed considered more typical of the heroes and heroines in mythical times, as described by the epic poets. As several commentators have remarked, ‘Sappho’ in this song is portrayed as a Homeric hero, similar to Diomedes who prays to Athena in Iliad 5.21 The performer, on the other hand, is a mere mortal, who sings about what ‘Sappho’ and the goddess said to each other. Finally, interpreters of this song have rightly questioned what exactly Aphrodite promises ‘Sappho’ in lines 21–24: ‘If now she flees, soon she’ll chase. / If rejecting gifts, then she’ll give. / If not loving, soon she’ll love, even against her will.’ The object of the woman’s chase, gift giving, and love is not expressed in these lines. Aphrodite therefore does not necessarily promise that the woman will chase, give gifts to, or love ‘Sappho’ again in the future, but she could just as well be saying that the woman will chase, give gifts to, and love someone else against her will, just as ‘Sappho’ loved this woman in vain.22 This is not what 17 18

19 20 21 22

In generic terms I would qualify the song as an erôtikon (a song about passionate love), not a hymnos (a song in praise of a god). Compare Anacreon fr. 357. On the capacity of Greek lyric poetry in general and Sappho’s poems in particular to present fictional events, see Lardinois 2016; Budelmann 2018b: 6–9; D’Alessio 2018 and Power 2020. West 1970: 310. Cameron 1939: 16. E.g. Svenbro 1975; Winkler 1996 [1981]: 93–96, and Kelly 2021. Carson 1996 [1980], who points out that this is the usual lex talionis with which reluctant

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‘Sappho’ expects: she believes the goddess will help her, but the performer of the song may not: ‘Sappho’ in the song is a persona, with whom the performer may disagree. In so far as the author, Sappho, has created this ambiguity and is, like the performer, a mere mortal who does not speak to goddesses, we are probably expected to understand that she is closer to the performer in this respect than to ‘Sappho’. I consider it quite likely that Sappho was the performer of Sappho fragments 1 and 31, at least in the initial performances of these songs. In that case it would be easy to identify the performer with the author, but there would still be the gap between the poet/performer and the first-person speaker. They are in debate with one another, similar to the dialogue Catullus is having with ‘Catullus’ in his carmen 51. The effect of this in Catullus is humorous and I would argue that the same is the case in Sappho.23 I therefore side with those interpreters who say that we should not take the sentiments expressed in either poem too seriously, let alone autobiographically.24 Longinus, on the other hand, does seem to take the sentiments seriously (‘All such things happen to people in love’, quoted above) and he ascribes them to Sappho herself. This is in line with the way first-person statements in archaic Greek poetry were commonly read in his days, but it may also have something to do with the fact that he read her poetry instead of hearing it performed. When reading fragment 31, it is much easier to think that Sappho wrote that her speech is impaired than when one hears someone say this in performance. Similarly, it is easier to imagine that fragment 1 records a real prayer that Sappho addressed to Aphrodite when one reads the poem than when one hears it performed.

Conclusion It is a well-known fact that the ancient Greeks, at least from the classical period onwards, readily identified the first-person speaker in archaic Greek poetry with its authors.25 It is sometimes assumed that this is because many of these

23 24 25

lovers are threatened in ancient Greek love songs; cf. Calame 1999: 23–27. This interpretation helps to explain why Aphrodite is described as ‘weaving wiles’ (δολόπλοκε) in line 2. It also helps to explain why ‘Sappho’ does not list the actual help she received from Aphrodite in the past, as is common in prayers, but only what she was promised (cf. Diller 1971: 70; Hutchinson 2001: 157). Hutchinson 2001: 266 notes a similar comic effect in the undercutting of the first-person speaker in Anacreon fr. 347. Page 1959: 12–18; Stanley 1976; Burnett 1983: 245–258. E.g. Hdt. 2.135, 5.95. See note 2 above.

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authors performed their own poetry and that in this process author was identified with performer and performer with first-person speaker.26 In choral poetry, like Alcman’s partheneia, this is obviously not the case, but even in monody it is not necessarily so, as we have seen. On the contrary, I would maintain that poets like Sappho or Alcaeus composed songs that in principle anyone on Lesbos could perform: any woman can perform Sappho fragment 31 or even fragment 1 (singing about ‘Sappho’ and her conversations with Aphrodite). In the case of Alcaeus, any Lesbian man who wanted to pretend that he hated Pittacus or loved wine and boys could sing his songs. It is when these songs left the island of Lesbos and entered, for example, the symposia of Athens that people would have started to ask the question who exactly the first-person speaker was. When the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus were reperformed in a different community, a century or more later, the gap between first-person speaker and performer becomes too great for the performer to identify with the first-person speaker. No Athenian man could seriously claim that he was betrayed by Pittacus and, even when a fifth-century Athenian reperformed a more generic drinking song of Alcaeus, it would be difficult to equate him with the firstperson speaker who expresses himself in a Lesbian dialect a hundred years or more old. It was probably with the reperformances of these songs, outside of their original communities, that the idea took hold that the first-person speakers were one and the same as the authors of these poems.27 The performer, however, could never be confused with the first-person speaker or the author again, because the historical and linguistic differences between them had become too great. We see the same development in epic poetry: once the Homeric epics were reperformed by rhapsodes, Homer was identified with the narrator, while the performer was someone like Ion in Plato’s dialogue of the same name. Ion skillfully re-enacted Homer, as primary narrator, and he gave voice to the characters in his epics, but to Socrates and other Athenians of the fourth century bce the difference between this performer and the divine poet was clear. Similarly, an Athenian who lived one or more centuries after Sappho and Alcaeus and who performed their songs could agree with everything the first-person said, but

26 27

E.g. Rösler 1980 on the poetry of Alcaeus. Cf. Bakker 2017: 4: ‘Authorship in archaic Greece … is a response to the loss of specific features of an original (real or imagined) local performance for a local audience.’ He refers to Beecroft (2010) 1: ‘[T]he concept of authorship … serves as a substitute for the sort of contextual information once provided in performance through such elements as music and dance, and through the ability of the audience to connect the performance they are witnessing to the community in which they live.’

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no one in the audience would seriously believe that he and the first-person speaker were one and the same. Instead, this first-person speaker was identified with the author and this identification was strengthened when Greeks like Longinus later read about their sentiments in a book.

Bibliography Bakker, E., ‘Introduction’, in E. Bakker (ed.), Authorship and Greek Song. Authority, Authenticity, and Performance (Leiden 2017) 1–7. Beecroft, A., Authorship and Cultural Identity in Early Greece and China (Cambridge 2010). Budelmann, F., Greek Lyric. A Selection (Cambridge 2018a). Budelmann, F., ‘Introduction: Textual Events: Performance and the Lyric in Early Greece’, in F. Budelmann, T. Phillips (eds.), Textual Events. Performance and the Lyric in Early Greece (Oxford 2018b) 1–27. Budelmann, F., ‘Lyric Minds’, in F. Budelmann, T. Phillips (eds.), Textual Events. Performance and the Lyric in Early Greece (Oxford 2018c) 235–256. Burnett, A.P., Three Archaic Poets. Archilochus, Alcaeus, Sappho (London 1983). Calame, C., The Poetics of Eros in Ancient Greece. Translated by J. Lloyd (Princeton 1999). Cameron. A., ‘Sappho’s Prayer to Aphrodite’, HThR 32 (1939) 1–17. Campbell, D.A. (ed.), Greek Lyric. Vol. 1: Sappho and Alcaeus (Cambridge, MA 1990). Carson, A., ‘The Justice of Aphrodite in Sappho 1’, in E. Greene (ed.), Reading Sappho. Contemporary Approaches (Berkeley 1990) 226–232. First published in TAPhA 110 (1980) 135–142. D’Alessio, G.B., ‘Fiction and Pragmatics in Ancient Greek Lyric’, in F. Budelmann, T. Phillips (eds.), Textual Events. Performance and the Lyric in Early Greece (Oxford 2018) 31–62. Diller, H., ‘Möglichkeiten subjektiver Aussage in den frühen griechischen Lyrik’, in H.J. Newiger, H. Seyffert (eds.), Kleine Schriften zur antiken Literatur (Munich 1971) 64–72. Originally published in Ἐπιστημονικὴ Ἐπετηρὶς τῆς φιλοσοφικῆς Σχολῆς τοῦ Πανεπιστημίου Ἀθηνῶν 13 (1962/1963) 558–566. Ford, B.B., Kopff, E.C., ‘Sappho fr. 31.9: a Defense of the Hiatus’, Glotta 54 (1976) 52–56. Greene, E., ‘Catullus and Sappho’, in M. Skinner (ed.), A Companion to Catullus (Oxford 2007) 131–150. Gurd, S.A., Dissonance. Auditory Aesthetics in Ancient Greece (New York 2017). Hutchinson, G.O., Greek Lyric Poetry. A Commentary on Selected Large Pieces (Oxford 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de., ‘Van poeta tot persona in de vroegste Griekse literatuur’, Lampas 35 (2002) 387–398.

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Jong, I.J.F. de., ‘Metalepsis and Embedded Speech in Pindaric and Bacchylidean Myth’, in U.E. Eisen, P. von Möllendorf (eds.), Über die Grenze. Metalepse in Text und Bildmedien des Altertums (Berlin 2013) 97–118. Jonge, C.C. de., ‘Dionysius and Longinus on the Sublime: Rhetoric and Religious Language’, AJPh 133 (2012) 271–300. Kelly, A., ‘Sappho and Epic’, in P. Finglass, A. Kelly (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Sappho (Cambridge 2021) 53–64. Kreij, M. de, Lardinois, A. ‘Sappho Fr. 1, 18–19 Once More’ (Forthcoming). Lardinois, A., ‘Sappho’s Brothers Song and the Fictionality of Early Greek Lyric Poetry’, in A. Bierl, A. Lardinois (eds.), The Newest Sappho. P. Sapph. Obbink and P. GC inv. 105, frs. 1–4. (Leiden 2016) 167–187. Lardinois, A., ‘The Sound of Silence: Performing Silence in Greek Epic and Lyric Poetry’, in E. Papadodima (ed.), Faces of Silence in Ancient Greek Literature (Berlin 2020) 9– 26. Lardinois, A., ‘Sappho’s Personal Poetry’, in P. Finglass, A. Kelly (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Sappho (Cambridge 2021) 169–180. Lefkowitz, M., The Lives of the Greek Poets (London 2012). Morrison, A.D., The Narrator in Archaic Greek and Hellenistic Poetry (Cambridge 2007). Nagy, G., Comparative Studies in Greek and Indic Meter. (Cambridge, MA 1974). Neri, C., Saffo, testimonianze e frammenti. Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e commento (Berlin 2021). O’Higgins, D., ‘Sappho’s Splintered Tongue: Silence in Sappho 31 and Catullus 51’, AJPh 111 (1990) 156–167. Page, D., Sappho and Alcaeus: An Introduction to the Study of Ancient Lesbian Poetry (Oxford [1955] corrected edn. 1959). Parca, M., ‘Sappho 1.18–19’, ZPE 46 (1982) 47–50. Power, T., ‘Sappho’s Parachoral Monody’, in M. Foster, L. Kurke, N. Weiss (eds.), Genres of Archaic and Classical Greek Poetry. Theories and Models (Leiden 2020) 82–108. Pulleyn, S., Prayer in Greek Religion (Oxford 1997). Quinn, K., Catullus. The Poems. Second edition (New York 1973). Rayor, D., Lardinois, A., Sappho. A New Translation of the Complete Works (Cambridge 2014). Rösler, W., Dichter und Gruppe. Eine Untersuchung zu den Bedingungen und zur historischen Funktion früher griechischer Lyrik am Beispiel Alkaios (Munich 1980). Skinner, M.B., ‘Woman and Language in Archaic Greece, or, Why Is Sappho a Woman?’, in E. Greene (ed.), Reading Sappho. Contemporary Approaches (Berkeley 1996) 175– 192. Slings, S.R., ‘The I in Personal Archaic Lyric: An Introduction’, in S.R. Slings (ed.), The Poet’s I in Archaic Greek Lyric (Amsterdam 1990) 1–30. Stanley, K., ‘The Rôle of Aphrodite in Sappho Fr. 1’, GRBS 17 (1976) 305–321.

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Stehle, E., Performance and Gender in Ancient Greece. Nondramatic Poetry in Its Setting (Princeton 1997). Svenbro, J., ‘Sappho and Diomedes’, Museum Philologum Londiniense 1 (1975) 37–49. Voigt, E.-M. (ed.), Sappho et Alcaeus. Fragmenta (Amsterdam 1971). West, M.L., ‘Burning Sappho’, Maia 22 (1970) 307–330. Reprinted in Hellenica. Vol. 2: Lyric and Drama (Oxford 2013) 28–52. West, M.L., ‘The New Sappho’, ZPE 191 (2004) 1–12. Reprinted in Hellenica. Vol. 2: Lyric and Drama (Oxford 2013) 53–66. Winkler, J., ‘Gardens of Nymphs: Public and Private in Sappho’s Lyrics’, in E. Greene (ed.), Reading Sappho. Contemporary Approaches (Berkeley 1996) 89–109. First published in H.P. Foley (ed.), Reflections of Women in Antiquity (New York 1981) 63–89.

chapter 17

Prometheus Bound as ‘Epic’ Tragedy and Its Narratology of Emotion Anton Bierl

Irene de Jong has opened our eyes to narratological phenomena by introducing the methods of modern narratology developed by Mieke Bal and Gérard Genette to the field of classical Greek texts.1 The classicists’ hitherto usually hostile attitude towards any theory was shaken by her purely philological subtlety. Without doubt her consequent use of the narratological tools has helped to understand Homer in a decisive way.2 De Jong herself has made the transfer from epic to tragedy by studying the long and subjective messenger-speeches in Euripides (De Jong 1991). However, she initially limited her attempts to classify these internal and embedded speeches to a view of narratology in drama and vehemently defended this stance against other scholars who broadened the analysis to a comprehensive narratological approach that focused on drama in its entirety.3 The latter argues that there always is an omniscient author who must structure the plot (discours or sujet) of the story (histoire or fabula) in order to achieve the desired emotional effect among the audience. The comprehensive approach,4 which has become prevalent in recent years, regards the author as an implied narrator, so

1 Bal 1997; Genette 1980. This is an extract from a longer study to be completed in the near future; parts of the text are based on Bierl 2020, but revised for the new focus, expanded, enriched with footnotes, and in English translation, for which I thank Petra Saner. The English version of Prometheus is mostly taken from Sommerstein 2009. Moreover, I thank the editors for their advice and criticism. 2 See her dissertation (De Jong 1987) and her specifically narratological commentary on the Odyssey (De Jong 2001). Indeed, our Basel Commentary on the Iliad (Bierl and Latacz 2000– …; English translation Bierl and Latacz 2015–…), which owes so much to Irene de Jong as long-serving expert reader of our manuscripts, has been very open to embrace her tools since its foundation in 1996; see the chapter ‘Homeric Poetics in Keywords’ in the Prolegomena: Latacz 2000: 159–171; translated into English in Bierl and Latacz 2015: 164–176 (= Nünlist and De Jong 2015). 3 De Jong 2004: 6–7. 4 It was introduced by Chatman 1990 and Jahn 2001.

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to speak.5 According to this trend Irene de Jong, too, has modified her views on the narrator in drama. In all volumes of Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative drama has been an integral part. Along the same lines, Monika Fludernik’s suggestion to level the distinction between epic and drama by emphasizing the performance in both the enactment of roles in drama and the circumstance in which the aoidos sings provides the decisive input: In drama, there is a real performance involving actors; in a performance of narrative, the performer and audience ‘take over’ the role of narrator and narratee. What the model allows one to argue is that in drama, the narratorial level is optional and the performative level is constitutive, whereas in epic narrative, it is the performance level that is optional.6 To put it another way: the performance level is always there in epic, too, but can be more or less marked in the narrative itself. Moreover, cognitive narratology,7 particularly when focusing on emotions, seems to overcome the fierce opposition since tragedy must provoke the precise reaction in the overall performative play, not only in embedded speeches, while in particular epic also resorts to the level of performance to provoke emotions. Another mediating factor was proposed by Francis Dunn (2009), who suggested that metatheatrical passages and frames bear the author’s hallmark in drama, too. Likewise, in drama the narrator can very efficiently manipulate the audience’s reaction by blending in the performance frame, in the form of metanarrative allusions.8 In the following contribution, I will study the various ways in which the narrator in the case of Prometheus Bound employs (meta)theatrical means to bring across the profound emotions that are at stake. I will look more specifically at the setting of the play and the arrival and songs of the Oceanids, and at the Io-scene. But first I will briefly discuss the play as a whole and point out the various narratological means by which its emotions are conveyed.

5 On Greek drama, see Goward 1999; Lowe 2000: 157–187; Gould 2001: 319–334; Markantonatos 2002; Dunn 2009; Hopman 2009; Scodel 2009; Lamari 2010; Markantonatos 2012. On narratological concepts in drama in modern literary studies, see Jahn 2001; Schenk-Haupt 2007; Richardson 2007; Fludernik 2008; Hühn and Sommer 2009. See also Frade’s observations on focalization and catharsis in this volume. 6 Fludernik 2008: 365. 7 See Herman 2009 (with further literature). 8 On metanarration, see Neumann and Nünning 2009.

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The Relevance of Prometheus Bound for a Narratology of Emotion It has not only been recent scholarship following the performative turn that gave due weight to the tragedians’ role in evoking emotion. Ancient critics have already emphasized this aspect, too, particularly in the case of Aeschylus, the master of emotions.9 Prometheus Bound—we omit the vexing problem of its authorship and date—is a particularly promising test case for this approach.10 The play features long character speeches that highlight anger, hatred, and disgust, which can be dissected with the use of narratological methods. Other people in the play can fear for Prometheus. The emotional reactions are twofold: either single characters experience fear, pity, empathy, and compassion, or the collective of the chorus, which acts as inner audience. The paradox of the play is that Prometheus, the centre of pathos, cannot really fear for his life, since, as a god, he is immortal. Others fear for him who is a rather fearless rebel, although the cruelty and violence exerted against his body elicit pure horror and scare even him. The author exposes the god in all his theatricality.11 Prometheus excessively displays pathos. He functions as the pathos machine on stage by showing his defiance, resistance, fearlessness as a god, his disgust of Zeus, and his final rebellion against him. As the god of foreknowledge, mantis or prophêtês, Prometheus impersonates the implied author who controls and selects the plot. As a seer he resembles the divinely inspired poet.12 In his speeches he flashes forward and goes backwards in time, filling in the audience, the chorus, and the characters. Since Prometheus is one of the Titans and the play is about the very beginning of Zeus’ regime and his maturation in office over the centuries, Prometheus switches between analepses to primordial times and prolepses to the future, and the here and now of an established order of Zeus.13 9

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On the study of emotions and cognitive approaches in Classics, see Konstan 2006: esp. 3– 40; Hitzer 2011; Chaniotis 2012; Cairns and Nelis 2017; Cairns 2017a; Cairns 2017b. On emotion and tragedy, see Stanford 1983; Zierl 1994; Gödde 2016; on Aeschylus and his poetics of fear, see Romilly 1971; Schnyder 1995; Bohrer 2009; Gruber 2009; Bierl 2018a. On Prometheus Bound, see the commentaries by Conacher 1980; Griffith 1983; Podlecki 2005; for secondary literature, see i.a. Saïd 1985; Meier 1988: 156–178; Bees 1993; Des Bouvrie 1993; Davidson 1994; Mossman 1996; White 2001; Lefèvre 2003; Papadopoulou-Belmehdi 2003; Cerri 2006; Ruffell 2012; Kokkiou 2014. On authorship and date, see Griffith 1983: 31– 35; Ruffell 2012: 13–24. On doubts about the play’s authenticity, see e.g. West 1990: 51–72; Lefèvre 1993; Bees 1993; Manousakis 2020. On Aeschylus as the authentic author of Prometheus Bound, see e.g. Pattoni 1987. See Papadopoulou-Belmehdi 2003: 48–52. See Iliad 1.70, 74–75 on Calchas; see also Ford 1992: 48; Detienne 1999. On the historicising process, see Meier 1988: 168–173.

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Emotions are also conveyed through spatial categories. The scenes of primordial times of Prometheus’ punishment are located in the emotionally loaded realm of the barbaric Other. This eerie scenery of monsters enhances the emotional upheaval of the characters inside, the chorus, and the audience. As a character, Prometheus acts on the edge of being a tragic speaker and an epicrhapsodic-didactic author or performer who enlightens other characters, the chorus, and the spectators in the theatre about the past, present, and future. This pre-dramatic, to a large extent ‘epic’, narrative,14 and expository play makes the boundaries between didactic rhapsody (e.g. Hesiod’s Theogony, where Prometheus plays a big role15), Presocratic instruction (e.g. the poems of Parmenides or Empedocles), and tragedy blur. This feature can be considered a result of Prometheus’ enlightenment and his teaching of mankind in view of a development of civilization. Prometheus Bound is part of a highly metatheatrical, almost ‘epic’ trilogy in which the development from the very beginning of the reign of Zeus as tyrannical despot to the just order of the leading Olympian is shown.16 As the first play, Prometheus Bound functions as the exposition— not through narration in choral songs, such as in Agamemnon in the case of Oresteia, but in character speech—and it exhibits the process on a temporal and spatial axis, reaching back to the primordial past and the Titanomachy as well as reaching out to the barbarian realm of the Other.

The First Part of the Play: Prometheus, the Oceanids and the Traffic of Emotions Attic drama tends to exhibit its own theatricality. Its self-reflexive elements do not destroy the effect of pathos, but rather enhance its performative efficacy. At the same time, they trigger the intended reflection on the events displayed on stage.17 As mentioned above, this metatheatrical self-awareness allows the author to exercise control over the play as narrator. Despite his total eclipse he somehow becomes present. By highlighting theatrical aspects of the performance, the play demonstrates how the performance works and which emotional effects it aims at. Critics have recently elucidated this metatheatrical aspect and

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On the pre-dramatic in Aeschylus, see Bierl 2010. See Koning’s contribution to this volume. Most probably together with Prometheus Lyomenos and Prometheus Pyrphoros as a third piece. See e.g. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1914: 129–130; Conacher 1980: 100–101; Des Bouvrie 1993: 202–206. See e.g. Bierl 1991: 111–218 and the survey-article by Bierl 2021.

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revealed the implicit poetics of emotions in Prometheus Bound.18 The author puts the figure of pathos on stage in a specifically self-referential manner so that the spectacular display of passion, emotions, and affects are conveyed less in a highly dramatic action of suspense but rather in scenes of pity, lament, and narration. The plot is devised to clearly contrast statics and motion. The prologue theatrically exposes the scandalous chaining of a god aloft and results in a stage experience that is reinforced through speech acts and through the reference to vision. The criminal is crucified coram publico according to the gravity of his offence—Prometheus stole the fire. His apotympanismos is a punishment of particular theatricality.19 The horror consists less in the fear of death than it does in the enduring torture staged in front of the civic audience. The visual and acoustic impressions of a spectacle of pathos can be enjoyed and the victim can even be ridiculed, which is tantamount to the worst loss of honour. On the other hand, Prometheus can also be pitied. The dynamics of this theatricality of violence are similar to what Michel Foucault (1977) described so well in the first two chapters about torture and its effects on the body of the condemned as well as the spectacle of the scaffold in Discipline and Punish. Indeed, both the participants and the spectators view Prometheus’ binding as a spectacle, a ‘sight, hard for the eyes to look on’ (69). In a sense it encompasses the entire aesthetics of horror that distinguishes tragedy. Again and again vision is highlighted in self-reflexive language. The god is shackled in an elevated location on stage, to a stage building that represents the rock face in a wasteland at the end of the world. The theatrical act of restraint emblematizes the deactivation of the up to now overactive protagonist. The Titan is alone, out in nature, and from above, he calls upon the elements of air, water, earth, and sun as eyewitnesses of his misery. They are to look upon him (88–92). At the same time, the question of a possible end of this suffering is posed (93–100): τέρμα recurs in the text multiple times (100, 183, 257, 622, 706, 755, 823, 828, 1026). The plot of suffering that extends over the course of three tragedies has a terma with the aim, apparently, to resolve the conflict of reciprocal transgression at the very end.20 For this purpose, the criminal should in the end be freed. As indicated above, the design of the trilogy is based on the development in the

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Cerri 2006. See also Jäger 1944, ii: 336–339; Papadopoulou-Belmehdi 2003: esp. 43–48, 52– 54, on the presence of the visual in the diction of the play, which is according to Ruffell 2012: 80 ‘perhaps the most visually arresting of Greek tragedies’. On this practice, see Gernet 1976: 303–329. On the importance of closure from a literary and narratological perspective, see Dunn 1996; Roberts et al. 1997.

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extensive temporal dimension of the distant future. We are located, however, at the starting point in a double sense: Zeus has just begun his reign, which he initiates with the punishment of his former ally. Concurrently, Prometheus, the ‘forward-thinker’, resists the human emotion of despair: after all, he possesses foreknowledge of the entire course of action, much like the author and the director (101–105). The plot of the myth proceeds according to the law of ‘Necessity’ (Ἀνάγκη, 105), to which all beings, divine and human, are subject. In this position, he perceives something acoustically and olfactorily—it seems that his vision is blocked by the bondage (115–118). Someone, god or man, or both, comes to visit him as θεωρός (118) to look at him, as is the case in a ritual procession. Theôros is derived from θέα, the ‘show’. Likewise, the term is related to the theatron. It turns out that a group of people wants to observe Prometheus in his bondage, because he has incurred the hostility of Zeus and all the gods due to his border transgression to mortals (120–121). It is the beginning of a series of visitors who pass by the crucified man, look at him, and question him. His answers offer background information for the passers-by as representatives of the audience. To a certain extent, his words can be considered messenger-speeches—thus fully suitable for Irene de Jong’s early narratological analysis.21 However, these quasi-messenger-speeches come from a character who is arrested, and who unlike usual messengers does not rush onto the stage, but is permanently installed at the site while his addressees arrive, so the opposite of a normal messenger-speech, of which the addressees are usually present on stage. Due to his inability to visually identify the swarming arrivals in advance, he who sees everything else in advance becomes fearful (127); the audience on the other hand is at a slight advantage for it sees what is happening. However, who these curiously approaching creatures are, is only revealed by the visitors themselves. It is the chorus of the Oceanids. Let us recall: Prometheus has just called upon ‘river-springs, and you, countless twinkling waves of the sea’ (89–90). One of these elements now appears in the desolate scenery of nature at the edge of the world. The Oceanids are descendants of the Titan lineage; therefore, they are close to Prometheus. Together with their father they embody water, which they will shed as tears of sympathy for their friend and relative (cf. 399–402). They form a huge collective. Being girls, they are fitting mediators of lamentation. Moreover, they are the daughters of Oceanus, who arrives in their wake and who, as opposed to them, has changed sides.

21

See the analysis of the messenger-speeches of Euripides by De Jong 1991.

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The chorus functions as inner spectator in observing Prometheus’ misery and effecting the emotional response. This makes the chorus into a transmitter of emotions. Pathos on stage thus becomes sympatheia: the collusion of the audience and the actor in terms of an economy of passions with the chorus as their intermediary.22 At the same time, the girls do not forget to emphasize Prometheus’ transgression. He has spoken too freely (ἄγαν δ’ ἐλευθεροστομεῖς, 180), agitating the girls with fear for him and themselves (181–182), whereas Prometheus is almost always free from fear. Freedom of speech is the emblem of democracy, whereas it becomes a danger to everyone in a dictatorship. Above all, Prometheus has expressed his determination not to let himself be charmed ‘by the honey-tongued spells of persuasion’ (μελιγλώσσοις πειθοῦς | ἐπαοιδαῖσιν θέλξει, 172–173). This corresponds with the enrapturing effect (thelxis, 173) of singing.23 The Oceanids perceive it to be a transgression that Prometheus, obstinately determined as he is, excludes any attempt at mediation with Peitho from the outset (cf. 184–185). In doing so, they also anticipate the end (terma, 183), which Prometheus will probably only see very late (184). In conversation with the chorus, Prometheus states that Zeus can only be united with him and become his friend if Zeus’ emotionality is kept at bay (186–192). In response to the girls’ questions, Prometheus is given the opportunity to disclose the background of his suffering in the Hesiodic style of a long speech like an epic singer (though not in hexameters but in iambic trimeters, 197– 241). Just as an internal narratee asks for clarification in epic poetry—‘Tell us everything and reveal the story’ (193)—, he as rhapsode lifts the veil for the audience in the theatre through narration. Prometheus can be compared to an epic seer, for instance Calchas (Homer, Iliad 1.70), or to the Muses (Hesiod, Theogony 32)—or to the aoidos inspired by them: he understands the future, but also knows the past given that he has experienced it himself. It is only fitting that he is the one to introduce the Titanomachy. Afterwards, Prometheus is made to confess that he was wrong to help the mortals (259–266), but that it was a counter-reaction, which is why he acted on purpose and fully aware (ἑκὼν ἑκὼν ἥμαρτον, 266). Despite the slight reproach, the chorus is willing to share their friend’s suffering in song and dance.24 The chorus’ activity is only now shifted from its function as inner spectator to that of choral dance in the orchestra (277–283), where compassion is expressed through song and dance in the first stasimon 22 23 24

See Gruber 2009: 11–70; on the dramatic chorus in general, see Bierl 2009a: 1–82. See also Gorgias, Encomium of Helen 10 and 14; moreover, the expression alludes to Peitho (peithô, 172) by the new goddess Athena’s side in Eumenides. See Kokkiou 2014.

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(397–435) and is passed on to the audience. As mentioned above, the chorus functions as the inner motor of the play in a traffic of πάθη, which is directed to the audience in the theatre. Immediately after their father’s departure (393–396), the groans and sighs, the acoustic dimension of compassionate lament, are brought to the fore. Excepting the statement of Zeus’ arbitrary rule over the gods of the previous generation (402–405), there are neither further analyses nor mythical examples. Rather, nature is shown to join in the groans in a kind of ‘pathetic fallacy’ (cf. 397, 406, 413, 431, 435).25 The land in its entirety (πρόπασα … χώρα, 406– 407) is grieving as well because of the vigorous choral motion, hair-pulling, skin-scratching and beating on the chest. The mortals, virgins and youths, whom Prometheus has helped, also join in the lamentation. The sea, even the floor of the ocean, and the rivers also sing the goos (431–435). This means that apart from the heavens, where Zeus lives, the entire world including Hades, where other gods of the first generation are imprisoned, participates in the great threnody dedicated to Prometheus.26 After Prometheus’ renewed rhapsodic account of the cultural development he has achieved among the mortals (442–471, 476–506)—among others, writing is emphasized (460–461) as the memory medium of everything, ‘of combining letters into written words, the tool that enables all things to be remembered and is mother of the Muses’ (461), thus also of this particular tragedy—the chorus conveys the author’s message to the audience. Turning to topicality— posing, as it were, as Athenian citizens in the here and now after jumping the temporal divide—the chorus exhorts the audience to refrain from refusing to honour Zeus as the guarantor of order and insulting him with words (529–532). As usual, the chorus stands for confidence, joy, and festivity (536– 539).27 In contrast, the chorus as inner audience shudders at the sight of Prometheus, the inwardly tormented man, who has committed these transgressions on behalf of the mortals without fear (540–544). The deed has remained without gratitude and without reciprocal aid on the mortals’ part, who can only preconceive one day, and not a longer period of time (545–547). Did Prometheus not see the helpless, dreamlike feebleness that impedes the blind human

25 26

27

The term was coined by Ruskin 1856: part 4, 171. See the Introduction to this volume for the thematic function of space in relation to emotions. Compare in this volume also the observations of Adema on space in Dido’s Carthage, of Kirstein on the spatial arrangement of the encounter between Odysseus and Nausicaa in Odyssey 6, and of Müllner on the body-based experience of space in the Hebrew Bible. See Bierl 2009a: 66–82.

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race (547–550)? In the present, the efforts of the mortals should neither destroy nor exceed Zeus’ ‘harmony’ (550–552), which implies musical harmony, too. Dike, the justice of Zeus, brings everything into balance by ‘showing’ (δίκη related to δείκνυμι, ‘to show’) the equilibrium on the wages. Once again, the spectator’s desired reaction is formulated: insight that occurs when confronted with suffering, that is πάθει μάθος (Ag. 177), as time proceeds (553–554). The song concludes with the memory of a completely different melody, namely the joyful wedding song that the chorus of the Oceanids once sang when Prometheus married their sister Hesione (555–560).

The Io-Scene as Mise en Abyme and Its Narratology of Emotion As a direct contrast to this happy marriage, Io surprisingly enters the stage.28 The logic of the narrative continues to be symbolic and associative. She is Prometheus’ human counterpart. However, while he is relatively fearless, since he, as a god, cannot die (932–933), Io is driven solely by emotions. Thus, she enters in a rage, and her horns symbolize her partial transition to the status of an animal haunted by madness. Although different the two characters are nonetheless closely interconnected. Prometheus is a male god, bound and stationary, whereas Io is a female human being, and ultimately an exemplary representative of the species on whose behalf Prometheus has committed his transgression. Despite the previous discussion with the Oceanids, humanity has remained in the background up to this point. Now it is breaking forth in the form of a being so disfigured by its suffering that it has already taken on the guise of an animal; that means Prometheus’ laborious project of transformation and emancipation of mankind is in danger of being reversed. Whereas he is chained to the rock, she is frantically wandering and running along the borders of the world. Both of them are suffering from Zeus’ tyrannical nature; Prometheus from violence, torture, and harassment, Io from excessive sexual desire. For her, it is the pathology of love, for him, that of domination. This pathology is theatrically transferred to the audience through the tortured bodies and the tonality of their voices in lament. In Io’s case, the Dionysian musicality of the soporific reed-pipe (574–575) as well as the wild dance step additionally come into play.29 Both characters are connected by their suffering; they are victims who expose their pathos, which they experience from a tyrannical, young, and

28 29

See i.a. Griffith 1983: 188–243; White 2001; Lefèvre 2003: 22–29. See also Andrisano 2019.

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intemperate Zeus. This long scene (561–886), with which scholarship has been unable to deal for so long because it was considered to be poorly motivated and to only serve the purpose of reaching drama length,30 is at the centre of the drama. Just like the extensive shield scene at the centre of Seven against Thebes (561–652), this highly pathetic section is a mise en abyme that is set in the middle of the play, once again reflecting all the themes like a mirror and intensifying and heightening them in a new, surprising way.31 By applying this structural, narrative feature, the hidden narrator designs the Prometheus story in a most efficient manner in order to display and transmit the excess of emotions. The scene is about extreme pathology, but at the same time it is about the end of suffering that Io will initiate with her final sexual union with Zeus. From this contact Epaphus (‘Touch’) emerges (849–851), whom Io conceived through the touch of Zeus’ hand in Egypt. Epaphus will be the progenitor of a lineage from which Heracles will emerge, who will free Prometheus from the eagle that has tormented him for so long (851–873). Io is thus connected to Prometheus, since she is the one to initiate his redemption along with her own. Just as in the Hesiodic pretext (Theogony 521–616 and Works and Days 42–105), this ‘play within a play’ is about women, sexuality, the institution of marriage, and the condition humaine, about a symbolic demarcation against the wild, the beastly, and about knowledge of past and future. In front of the chorus, which acts as mediator and as internal spectator, the suffering of both characters is simultaneously made public through lamentation. The very basis of human existence that mythically defines Prometheus is linked to the dramatic rite de passage of a girl to a woman.32 Zeus’ aggressive, tyrannical love drives Io to flee to the fringes of the earth. Moreover, he puts his marriage with Hera at risk, who in turn uses the gadfly’s sting to exacerbate Io’s agony. The end (terma) of the transition myth is, however, the wedding, the now gentle sexual contact (849), and the fruit of the womb that emerges from the union. On the basis of this rite de passage of the lamenting primordial girl Io, whose name matches the inarticulate wail ‘ioh, ioh’ (576), Prometheus’ temporally extended story also becomes a transition myth.

30 31

32

See e.g. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1914: 125, 127, esp. 150. Dällenbach 1989: 43 defines a mise en abyme as ‘any internal mirror that reflects the whole of the narrative in simple, repeated, or “specious” (or paradoxical) duplication’. Taplin 1977: 267 sees the scene as ‘a kind of play within a play’ as far as its lack of motivation and integration in the entire play is concerned. See also Létoublon’s discussion of the concept in this volume. On the shield-scene in Seven against Thebes in this perspective, see Bierl 2018b. See also Katz 1999; White 2001: 136–138.

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From a narratological perspective, the mutual intertwining of the girl and the ‘fore-knower’ Prometheus, who, as observed above, not only has the ability to look into the future, but into the past, too, is also formally implemented in an order of speeches that combines ring-composition with zig-zag movements across the chronological order. To some extent, we are reminded of the passages of Nestor and Menelaus filling in the past in Books 3 and 4 of the Odyssey33 or Odysseus’ narrative style when recounting his Apologoi (Odyssey, Books 9–12). As a consequence of its alternating prolepsis and analepsis, and its focus on highly emotional scenes of pathos, the Io-scene oscillates between Io’s future (622–630, 707–751, 790–818, 846–874) and her past (640–682, 829– 843). Prometheus’ future, which is connected with Io’s descendants, is artfully positioned in the middle (757–775).34 Mainly owing to the chorus’ curiosity the transitions, especially the ones to the past, are marked as metanarrative.35 At the very beginning of the scene, there is a lyrical passage presented as an antiphony between the two protagonists (561–608). The girl arrives, observes the spectacular setting of the god bound up above and wants to know more about it (561–565). She is immediately thrust back, however, into her own misery (566–588). As someone in the know, Prometheus is familiar with Io’s name and fate (589–592), which surprises the girl, who wants to learn more about what lies in store for her on her journey (593–608). Just like Empedocles as Presocratic singer or the goddess that teaches the approaching Parmenides (DK 28 B 1.21–32), Prometheus as narrator announces Io’s future, all the while distinguishing himself from the enigmatic manner of speech of Orphic or Presocratic role models: λέξω τορῶς σοι πᾶν ὅπερ χρήιζεις μαθεῖν, | οὐκ ἐμπλέκων αἰνίγματ’, ἀλλ’ ἁπλῶι λόγωι (‘I will tell you clearly all that you wish to learn, not weaving it in riddles but in plain speech’, 609– 610).36 When he—as Odysseus did before with the Phaeacians with his famous utterance εἴμ’ Ὀδυσσεὺς Λαερτιάδης (Od. 9.19)—reveals his identity (πυρὸς βροτοῖς δοτῆρ’ ὁρᾶις Προμηθέα, ‘you see before you Prometheus, who gave fire to mankind’, 611–612), she first wants to hear more about his fate (614). But after some brief hints—the audience knows everything well enough—Prometheus downplays the issue in a self-referential manner: ‘By explaining just so much to you, I have done enough’ (τοσοῦτον ἀρκῶ σοι σαφηνίσας μόνον, 621). After this she wants to return to the terma (622) of her miserable wanderings and to the question of their extension in time and space (623). Prometheus first refers to his 33 34 35 36

On the zig-zag of Nestor’s telling, see Hölscher 1988: 94–102, esp. 98–99. On the structure, see the survey in Lefèvre 2003: 28. On metanarration, see Neumann and Nünning 2009. See also Whitmarsh in this volume. On the aoidic-rhapsodic and meta-rhapsodic dimension, see Cerri 2006: 273–274, 278–279.

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precept that it is better for mortals not to learn their destiny in advance (624), but rather to cling to hope. She keeps insisting, because she has experienced misery and, like him, she is not afraid anymore (628–629). He is just about to speak (630) when the chorus, as representative of the audience, wants to learn more about Io’s suffering from herself (631–634). Thus, she becomes a singer of her own past (640–682). As a virgin, she ran after a dream image that is common for mortals: it told her that she should show herself to Zeus, who was struck with desire (645–654). Zeus confirmed the command to Io’s father Inachus through the oracular voices of Delphi and Dodona and threatened to annihilate the whole family in case of disobedience (667–668), just as he wanted to annihilate all of humanity (151, 232). Thus, the command was followed. At the end of her report, she returns to her original question and asks Prometheus to announce the sufferings that awaits her (683–685). However, before Prometheus gets around to it, the chorus expresses its sympathy and compassion, as it did in Prometheus’ case, and in theatrical vision it expresses its horror at the same time (687–695): ‘I shudder when I see what Io is experiencing!’ (πέφρικ’ εἰσιδοῦσα πρᾶξιν Ἰοῦς, 695). Again, this is pathos-transference from the internal to the external spectator. According to Prometheus, this reaction is too soon, for the rest yet remains to become known (696–697). The goal of the chorus’ previous request is reached, and Prometheus returns to the original track to announce which sufferings still await the girl (700–704). His direct counterpart, Io, ‘may learn how [her] journey will end’, that is, its termata (θυμῶι βάλ’, ὡς ἂν τέρματ’ ἐκμάθηις ὁδοῦ, 706). Multiple times the concrete journey of Io’s wanderings is superimposed upon the ‘track’ (οἶμος) of the rhapsodic chant (λόγων ἴχνος, 845, cf. οἶμος ἀοιδῆς, h.Merc. 451). Zeus is known to be a tyrant even as a lover (735–740). According to Prometheus, however, everything about her future that Io has had to hear from him since line 707 is only a prelude (προοίμιον, cf. 740–741) when compared to what is yet to come. In view of her ongoing suffering, she expresses the typical death wish (749–750) at the end of this passage. Obviously, she is seriously considering this option, but at the same time, her wish to die reflects a topos found in love poetry from Sappho (e.g. fr. 94) onwards. And love will be central for her. This is the cue for Prometheus to compare his own suffering with hers. At the same time, a terma, end, is only reached when Zeus has fallen (752–756). The girl is surprised, just as the chorus was (519), that it is even possible for Zeus to fall from power (757). Prometheus hints at his secret, another prospective wedding, of Zeus with Thetis, and the son to be born from it. Appalled, Io asks whether Zeus does not have a remedy against it. Prometheus then announces the only possibility, which is his release. In the distant future, in

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the thirteenth generation, the hero who will free him will be born from Io’s offspring (763–774). The prophecy remains a mystery (775) for Io, contrary to Prometheus’ announcement to avoid enigmatic speech (610). Much like Parmenides (DK 28 B 6, 7, 8.1–2), Io can choose between several paths. Learning this secret, however, is barred for her. As she is about to choose between the two paths, the chorus makes the decision for Io. She ought to learn the route of her sufferings yet to come from Prometheus, although he is reluctant to tell her the whole truth all at once (776). In turn, the chorus will obtain further information about Prometheus’ liberator (776–787). Io is supposed to ‘inscribe […] on the memory-tablets of [her] mind’ (μνήμοσιν δέλτοις φρενῶν, 789) the further course of her wanderings. Prometheus calls it her theôria (802), a ritual inspection (cf. A. Ch. 450; Eu. 275). Prometheus generally stands for cultural development, especially for rhapsody, poetry, and writing. Writing is now used metaphorically in order to memorize an oral message disclosing details of a prospective route.37 This disclosure of information is similar to an initiation into the pathways of the underworld as it is found carved into the Orphic gold tablets, for instance of the Hipponion tablet (F 474 Bernabé; see also F 475–478 Bernabé). Io’s path comes close to an itinerary of death (790–818), especially since the rite de passage is associated with the death of the virgin. The mythic creatures which Io will encounter are increasingly associated with monstrous underworld scenarios. Critics have had difficulties in identifying the pathway—the route of her travels continues at the point where the description of the first part of the wanderings (707–735) ends—and have considered it an argument for the piece’s spuriousness.38 But the setting increasingly assumes mythical features39—even in the first part, for example with the unknown, albeit emblematically meaningful river Hybristes (717) or the territory of the Amazons (723). Io’s wanderings demarcate this mythical space. She thus crosses a symbolic boundary, beyond the realistic realm, the world of civilization.40 In addition to the Phorcides of the Graeae and the Gorgons (793–800), the dog-like griffins and Arimaspians (803–805), one-eyed creatures settled in the far north, attest to this. The Arimaspians fight with the griffins, beastly mythical hybrids, over the enchanted gold, just as the shaman-like epic rhapsode Aristeas of Proconnesus reported in his Arimaspea

37 38 39 40

On Mesopotamian influences, see West 1994. See also the remarks by White 2001: 115–122; Des Bouvrie 1993: 213–215 emphasizes the symbolical meaningfulness of the journey. On the Odyssey in a similar perspective, see Vidal-Naquet 1986: 15–38; Hölscher 1988: 135– 158. Des Bouvries 1993: 213–215.

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in the seventh century bce.41 In a sense, Prometheus now becomes an incarnation of Aristeas, who gave an account of his fantastic travels in this poem. In his own poetic claim, inspired by Phoebus, Aristeas had reached the Issedonians (Hdt. 4.13.1 and 4.16.1) and the utopian land of the Hyperboreans at the edge of the world. Prometheus thus becomes a similar epic singer who as mantis, in trance and under divine spell, narrates a story about the route of Io’s journey. Finally, her terma, the end of her wanderings at the Nile is indicated (812–814). Before Prometheus concludes the account with the last part of her wanderings (823, 828)—he still owes this to the chorus—by disclosing Io’s final destination (846–874), he wants to recite Io’s past (cf. 829–843), the origin of her wanderings, as proof of his truthfulness (823–828). In terms of ring composition, Prometheus directly jumps back to the events in Dodona at the beginning (829–835; cf. 658–666). Here, Io is correctly addressed as Zeus’ future glorious consort by the holy oak trees (832–835). This means that Prometheus correctly interprets the allusion of the oracle in terms of the female passage from maiden to woman, since he possesses foreknowledge of Io’s future and her sexual union with Zeus. Thereafter, Prometheus reports Io’s departure from Dodona. He narrates how she travelled to the near coast of Epirus, where the Ionian Sea took her name (840). Thus the sea has become a ‘memorial (μνῆμα, 841) of her journey’, and the Dodonean prophecy is ‘proof’ (842; cf. 826) that Prometheus’ mind can see more than what lies immediately before his eyes (841–843), because he knows about the happy ending of Io’s suffering. His epic rhapsody allows him to disclose the future to the narratees like a seer. As the narrator, Prometheus thus shifts back onto the former ‘track’ (845) when he had reached the Nile as Io’s final destination in the previous section (846–847, 852 and 812–814). By doing so, the two contents that were previously kept separate, Io’s ordeal and Prometheus’ redemption, are merged. At the Nile’s mouth, so Prometheus foretells, Zeus will finally reach Io. After the long journey, the cruel tyrant will become the lover, who will touch her gently, engendering Epaphus (‘Touch’) (849–851). And he will be the ancestor of a famous lineage. Then Prometheus continues foretelling the course of history. The myth of the fifty Danaids (853–869) about the complications concerning the institution of marriage is the decisive intermediate step in the evolutionary process. The murderous events are deeply linked to emotions: we remember that the daughters of king Danaus killed their aggressive suitors on the first night of their wedding, with the exception of Hypermestra, who spared her husband Lynceus. The couple will be the origin 41

See Meuli 1935; on shamanic origins ibid. 164–176, on the path of the song with the shamanic journey in the other world ibid. 172–173; see also Massenzio 1985 and Bierl 2009b. On Aristeas and Abaris, see Meuli 1935: 153–164; West 2004.

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of the Argive dynasty, which began with their son Abas. In the thirteenth generation (774) Heracles, Prometheus’ redeemer, will be born. Prometheus only briefly alludes to this far future (871–873). Prometheus’ own mother Themis once proclaimed this oracle to him (873–874), as he makes clear. Prometheus concludes his long speech by underlining that the foretelling of such a long period of time requires a lengthy, intricate narrative (875–876), which affirms the interconnectedness of both his and Io’s fate right until his redemption.

Conclusion This contribution has shown how the theatrical process is continually displayed in a highly self-reflexive and metatheatrical manner. The play highlights the dimension of vision and the pathos, the suffering, pity, and lament, and inscribes them in its own language and performance. This ‘total theatre’ through metatheatre has, however, a limited range of potency. Showing must be complemented by telling. It is well known that tragedy cannot do without long, embedded speeches, especially by messengers, in order to include events that cannot be shown on stage, as they happen elsewhere, or in the past or in the future, or are too violent. Yet, in Prometheus Bound narration acquires a new significance. It is almost as if the author intends to combine epic and tragedy in order to create a super-tragedy. Extended storytelling allows for complexity and creates an emotional effect, an art in which Homer has proven mastery in Greek culture. The incorporation of sophisticated storytelling techniques for the emotional effect implies a narratology of emotions in the best way, both in a mise en abyme and in the entire play. But it is not only the Homeric art that lies behind Prometheus Bound. The epic aspect, the broad disclosure of the future as well as the past conveyed by means of the mantic word and variegated narration provide the drama with the underlying themes of Hesiodic epic, the famous literary source of the myth of Prometheus, and with motifs of Presocratic didactic poetry, and mirror them in a self-referential manner. In this way, the drama reveals the political, socio-cultural, and anthropological possibilities of reflection that affect all citizens who watch it in the theatre.

Bibliography Andrisano, A.M., ‘Il maestro del Prometeo: la performance di Io, doppio psicopatologico del protagonista’, in A.M. Andrisano, V. Tammaro (eds.), Benedetto Marzullo. Il grecista che fondò il DAMS (Padua 2019) 71–108.

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Bal, M., Narratology. Introduction to the Theory of Narrative (Toronto [1985] 2nd edn. 1997). Bees, R., Zur Datierung des Prometheus Desmotes (Stuttgart 1993). Bierl, A., Dionysos und die griechische Tragödie. Politische und ‘metatheatralische’ Aspekte im Text (Tübingen 1991). Bierl, A., Ritual and Performativity. The Chorus in Old Comedy, tr. by A. Hollmann (Center for Hellenic Studies, Washington DC [2001] 2009a). Bierl, A., ‘«Schamanismus» und die Alte Komödie. Generischer Rückgriff auf einen Atavismus und Heilung (mit einer Anwendung am Beispiel von Aristophanes’ Frieden)’, in V. Lambrinoudakis, B. Jaeger (eds.), Religion. Lehre und Praxis (Athens 2009b) 13–35. Bierl, A., ‘Prädramatik auf der antiken Bühne: Das attische Drama als theatrales Spiel und ästhetischer Diskurs’, in M. Groß, P. Primavesi (eds.), Lücken sehen … Beiträge zu Theater, Literatur und Performance. Festschrift für Hans-Thies Lehmann zum 66. Geburtstag (Heidelberg 2010) 69–82. Bierl, A., ‘Fear in Choral Action: Thoughts about a Dionysian Emotion in Aeschylean Tragedy’, in M. de Poli (ed.), Il teatro delle emozioni: la paura (Padua 2018a) 17– 39. Bierl, A., ‘The mise en scène of Kingship and Power in Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes: Ritual Performativity or Goos, Cledonomancy and Catharsis’, Skenè 4.2 (2018b) 19– 54. Bierl, A., ‘Nachwort’, in Aischylos. Der gefesselte Prometheus, tr. by K. Steinmann (Stuttgart 2020) 119–165. Bierl, A., ‘New Thoughts on Metatheatre in Attic Drama: Self-Referentiality, Ritual and Performativity as Total Theatre’, in E. Paillard, S. Milanezi (eds.), Theatre and Metatheatre (Berlin / Boston 2021) 107–129. Bierl, A., Latacz, J. (eds.), Homers Ilias. Gesamtkommentar (Berlin 2000–…). Bierl, A., Latacz, J. (eds.), Homer’s Iliad. The Basel Commentary. Prolegomena (Berlin / Boston 2015). Bierl, A., Latacz, J. (eds.), Homer’s Iliad. The Basel Commentary, general editor of the English edn. S.D. Olson, tr. by B.W. Millis, S. Strack (Berlin / Boston 2015–…). Bohrer, K.H., Das Tragische. Erscheinung, Pathos, Klage (Munich 2009). Bouvrie, S. des, ‘Aiskhylos, Prometheus: An Anthropological Approach’, Métis 8 (1993) 187–216. Cairns, D., ‘Emotions’, in R.S. Bagnall et al. (eds.), The Encyclopedia of Ancient History (2017a) 1–6, Wiley online: doi.org/10.1002/9781444338386.wbeah30086 (accessed 4 Sept. 2020). Cairns, D., ‘Horror, Pity, and the Visual in Ancient Greek Aesthetics’, in D. Cairns, D. Nelis (eds.), Emotions in the Classical World. Methods, Approaches, and Directions (Heidelberg 2017b) 53–70.

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Cairns, D., Nelis, D., ‘Introduction’, in D. Cairns, D. Nelis (eds.), Emotions in the Classical World. Methods, Approaches, and Directions (Heidelberg 2017) 3–30. Cerri, G., ‘Il dio incatenato come spettacolo, il coro come pubblico: tragedia e rapsodia nella dimensione metateatrale del Prometeo’, Lexis 24 (2006) 265–281. Chaniotis, A. (ed.), Unveiling Emotions. Sources and Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World (Stuttgart 2012). Chatman, S., Coming to Terms. The Rhetoric of Narrative in Fiction and Film (Ithaca, NY 1990). Conacher, D.J., Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound. A Literary Commentary (Toronto 1980). Dällenbach, L., The Mirror in the Text, tr. by J. Whiteley with E. Hughes (Cambridge [1977] 1989). Davidson, J., ‘Prometheus Vinctus on the Athenian Stage’, GR 41 (1994) 33–40. Detienne, M., The Masters of Truth in Archaic Greece, tr. by J. Lloyd (New York [1967] 1999). Dunn, F.M., Tragedy’s End. Closure and Innovation in Euripidean Drama (Oxford 1996). Dunn, F.M., ‘Sophocles and the Narratology of Drama’, in J. Grethlein, A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation: The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature (Berlin 2009) 337–355. Fludernik, M., ‘Narrative and Drama’, in J. Pier, J.Á. García Landa (eds.), Theorizing Narrativity (Berlin 2008) 353–381. Ford, A., Homer: The Poetry of the Past (Ithaca, NY 1992). Foucault, M., Discipline and Punish. The Birth of the Prison (New York [1975] 1977). Genette, G., Narrative Discourse. An Essay in Method, tr. by J.E. Lewin (Ithaca, NY [1972] 1980). Gernet, L., Anthropologie de la Grèce antique (Paris 1976). Gödde, S., ‘Pathos in der griechischen Tragödie’, in M. Koppenfels, C. Zumbusch (eds.), Handbuch Literatur & Emotionen (Berlin / Boston 2016) 209–243. Gould, J., Myth, Ritual, Memory, and Exchange. Essays in Greek Literature and Culture (Oxford 2001). Goward, B., Telling Tragedy. Narrative Technique in Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides (London 1999). Grethlein, J., Rengakos, A. (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation. The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature (Berlin / New York 2009). Griffith, M., Aeschylus. Prometheus Bound (Cambridge 1983). Gruber, M.A., Der Chor in den Tragödien des Aischylos. Affekt und Reaktion (Tübingen 2009). Herman, D., ‘Cognitive Narratology’, in P. Hühn, J. Pier, W. Schmid, J. Schönert (eds.), Handbook of Narratology (Berlin / New York 2009) 30–43. Hitzer, B., ‘Emotionsgeschichte—ein Anfang mit Folgen’, H-Soz-Kult (23 Nov. 2011) hsozkult.de/literaturereview/id/forschungsberichte‑1221 (accessed 4 Sept. 2020).

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Hölscher, U., Die Odyssee. Epos zwischen Märchen und Roman (Munich 1988). Hopman, M., ‘Layered Stories in Aeschylus’ Persians’, in J. Grethlein, A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation: The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature (Berlin 2009) 357–376. Hühn, P., Pier, J., Schmid, W., Schönert, J. (eds.), Handbook of Narratology (Berlin / New York 2009). Hühn, P., Sommer, R., ‘Narration in Poetry and Drama’, in P. Hühn, J. Pier, W. Schmid, J. Schönert (eds.), Handbook of Narratology (Berlin / New York 2009) 228–241. Jäger, W., Paideia. Die Formung des griechischen Menschen, vol. 2 (Berlin 1944). Jahn, M., ‘Narrative Voice and Agency in Drama: Aspects of a Narratology of Drama’, New Literary History 32 (2001) 659–679. Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (Amsterdam 1987). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrative in Drama: The Art of the Euripidean Messenger-Speech (Leiden 1991). Jong, I.J.F. de, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Introduction: Narratological Theory on Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative’, in I.J.F. de Jong, A. Bowie, R. Nünlist (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 1–10. Katz, P.B., ‘Io in the Prometheus Bound: A Coming of Age Paradigm for the Athenian Community’, in M.W. Padilla (ed.), Rites of Passage in Ancient Greece. Literature, Religion, Society (Lewisburg, PA 1999) 129–147. Kokkiou, C., ‘Choral Self-Referentiality in the Prometheus Bound. Song, Dance, and the Emotions’, Logeion 4 (2014) 127–143. Konstan, D., The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks. Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto 2006). Lamari, A., Narrative, Intertext, and Space in Euripides’ Phoenissae (Berlin / New York 2010). Latacz, J. (ed.), Homers Ilias. Gesamtkommentar. Prolegomena (Munich / Leipzig 2000). Lefèvre, E., Studien zu den Quellen und zum Verständnis des Prometheus Desmotes (Göttingen 2003). Lowe, N.J., The Classical Plot and the Invention of Western Narrative (Cambridge 2000). Manousakis, N., Prometheus Bound—A Separate Authorial Trace in the Aeschylean Corpus (Berlin 2020). Markantonatos, A., Tragic Narrative. A Narratological Study of Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus (Berlin / New York 2002). Markantonatos, A., ‘A Narratology of Drama: Sophocles as Storyteller’, in A. Markantonatos (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Sophocles (Leiden / Boston 2012) 349–366. Massenzio, M., ‘Il poeta che vola. Conoscenza estatica, comunicazione orale e linguaggio dei sentimenti nello Ione di Platone’, in B. Gentili, P. Paioni (eds.), Oralità: cultura, letteratura, discorso (Rome 1985) 161–174.

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Meier, C., Die politische Kunst der griechischen Tragödie (Munich 1988). Meuli, K., ‘Scythica’, Hermes 70 (1935) 121–176. Mossman, J.M., ‘Chains of Imagery in Prometheus Bound’, CQ 46 (1996) 58–67. Neumann, B., Nünning, A., ‘Metanarration and Metafiction’, in P. Hühn, J. Pier, W. Schmid, J. Schönert (eds.), Handbook of Narratology (Berlin / New York 2009) 204–211. Nünlist, R., Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homeric Poetics in Keywords’, in A. Bierl, J. Latacz (eds.), Homer’s Iliad. The Basel Commentary. Prolegomena (Berlin / Boston 2015) 164–176 (orig. in Latacz 2000: 159–171). Papadopoulou-Belmehdi, I., ‘“Les mots qui voient”: Du tragique dans le Promethée enchaîné’, Kernos 16 (2003) 43–57. Pattoni, M.P., L’autenticità del Prometeo Incatenato di Eschilo (Pisa 1987). Podlecki, A.J., Aeschylus. Prometheus Bound, ed. with an introduction, translation and commentary (Oxford 2005). Richardson, B., ‘Drama and Narrative’, in D. Herman (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Narrative (Cambridge 2007) 142–155. Roberts, D.H., Fowler, D.P., Dunn, F.M. (eds.), Classical Closure. Reading the End in Greek and Latin Literature (Princeton 1997). Romilly, J. de, La crainte et l’angoisse dans le théâtre d’Eschyle (Paris 1971). Ruffell, I.A., Aeschylus. Prometheus Bound (London 2012). Ruskin, J., ‘Of the Pathetic Fallacy’, in Modern Painters iii part 4 (London 1856) 157–172; Library Edition, ed. by E.T. Cook, A. Wedderburn (London 1904) 201–220. Saïd, S., Sophiste et tyran, ou le problème du Prométhée Enchaîné (Paris 1985). Schenk-Haupt, S., ‘Narrativity in Dramatic Writing: Towards a General Theory of Genres’, Anglistik 18.2 (2007) 25–42. Schnyder, B., Angst in Szene gesetzt. Zur Darstellung der Emotionen auf der Bühne des Aischylos (Tübingen 1995). Scodel, R.S., ‘Ignorant Narrators in Greek Tragedy’, in J. Grethlein, A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation: The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature (Berlin 2009) 421–447. Sommerstein, A.H., Aeschylus Volume i: Persians. Seven against Thebes. Suppliants. Prometheus Bound (Cambridge, MA 2009). Stanford, W.B., Greek Tragedy and the Emotions. An Introductory Study (London 1983). Taplin, O., The Stagecraft of Aeschylus. The Dramatic Use of Exits and Entrances in Greek Tragedy (Oxford 1977). Vidal-Naquet, P., The Black Hunter. Forms of Thought and Forms of Society in the Ancient Greek World, tr. by A. Szegedy-Maszak (Baltimore [1981] 1986). West, M.L., Studies in Aeschylus (Stuttgart 1990). West, S., ‘Prometheus. Orientalized’, MH 51 (1994) 129–149. West, S., ‘Herodotus on Aristeas’, in C.J. Tuplin (ed.), Pontus and the Outside World. Studies in Black Sea History, Historiography and Archaeology (Leiden 2004) 43–67.

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White, S., ‘Io’s World: Intimations of Theodicy in Prometheus Bound’, JHS 121 (2001) 107–140. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U. von, Aischylos. Interpretationen (Berlin 1914). Zierl, A., Affekte in der Tragödie. Orestie, Oidipus Tyrannos und die Poetik des Aristoteles (Berlin 1994).

chapter 18

Self-Description of Emotions in Ancient Greek Drama: A First Exploration Gerry Wakker

Introduction Humans have emotions and are able to express them in several ways, such as through facial expressions, gestures and attitude, intonation, and language. It is therefore not at all surprising that emotions have been studied from different perspectives and that there is a vast literature on emotions in general and on emotions in antiquity, as also noted in the introduction to this volume.* In storytelling a primary narrator (whatever their precise role) may inform us about the characters’ emotions, either by explicitly naming them or by describing how they are expressed. The description of emotions, then, is an integral part of the storytelling. In drama texts the situation is different: the drama story is told more indirectly, as it were, through the character texts.1 If we focus on emotions, we see that characters may directly express the emotion they are feeling at the speech moment about a specific situation or event (the emotioneliciting state of affairs).2 See, for instance, Euripides’ Orestes, where Orestes suffers an attack of madness caused by his Furies, which makes Electra weep. Orestes asks her: ‘Sister, why do you weep?’ and adds: αἰσχύνομαί σε μεταδιδοὺς πόνων ἐμῶν. E. Or. 281

I am ashamed before you that I am making you a partner in my sufferings.3 * My thanks are due to the editors of this volume, to Annette Harder and Lourens Kraft van Ermel for their comments, and to Irene de Jong for being an inspiring colleague since our first meeting. 1 See also Bierl in this volume on the difference between drama and storytelling and its consequences for narratological analysis. Within drama, messenger speeches, as first-person narratives, have their own special characteristics: see De Jong 1991. 2 I use the term state of affairs (SoA) as an umbrella term for any type of event, action, situation etc., in accordance with its definition as ‘conception of something which can be the case in some world’, see Wakker 1994: 7 n. 14.

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Orestes directly names his emotion (shame) and thus performs it at the same time. Some studies on conversations in various (modern) languages argue that such ‘direct expressions’ (e.g. ‘I am happy’) are rare.4 These types of expression have not yet been the subject of separate study, which makes them all the more intriguing. My aim is to describe the semantics and pragmatics of the different direct expressions with their complements and to study their function or effect in the storytelling within drama. I will combine insights from narratology with linguistics and discursive psychology (in particular semantics, pragmatics and conversation analysis) in order to address the following questions: – Are these emotion expressions used rarely in Ancient Greek drama, as they are in modern languages? – In what respects do emotion expressions resemble performative verb forms such as ‘I promise’? – What is the aim of self-describing one’s emotions? Is it a matter of expressing one’s emotion through description, or does it serve to evaluate the emotioneliciting state of affairs (SoA)? – What is the (intended) effect of directly expressing one’s current emotion upon the (sequence of) events, the (other) characters on stage, and the audience? My corpus consists of representative verbs and related expressions of emotion (joy, grief, shame, regret, hate, wonder, etc.)5 in drama. The choice of this genre enables me to study differences in usage or effect in the dialogical and monological parts of drama.6 I chose this genre, first, because of the choice in drama to either perform and show or verbally express one’s emotion, and, second, because of the direct interaction that occurs between characters, especially in the dialogical parts. What responses are elicited by expressing one’s emotions?

3 All translations are based on the translations of the Loeb editions, adapted where needed to my argumentation and interpretation. In Greek I use | for verse ending. 4 See Planalp 1998: 41, 1999: 48; Sandlund 2004: 84, 231–232, who both mention further literature. 5 My corpus consists of all verbs and expressions listed in Stahl 1907: 582–583 (see also n. 20) describing the causal complement clauses of emotion verbs. See also the studies of emotions in Greek literature by Konstan 2005, 2015; Sanders 2013. 6 My corpus consists of tragedy (Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides) and comedy (Aristophanes, Menander). I used the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae to look for relevant examples. While emotions do of course play a different role in the two genres, they are fairly similar in the expressions used and the effects of these expressions.

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State of Research As with emotions in general, the display of emotions and their role in interactions have been comprehensively discussed in many fields, including narratology. Closely related but with a different focus, emotion studies are part of psychology (social and discursive), sociology, communication (conversation analysis), neuroscience, cognitive studies, and linguistics.7 These studies often focus on interactions in an experimental setting, written data (historical or theoretical), as well as on real and natural interactions. These studies agree that when we make emotions public, they do things and create a new context within which a subsequent action may be formulated (Fiehler 2002; Sandlund 2004: 5–7). Thus, despite different views on specific issues, researchers in this field all agree that the display of emotions (both verbal and non-verbal) is embedded in talk-in-interaction, with every turn a response to previous ones and a preparation for subsequent ones. Conceptualizing and formulating one’s emotion in words often has both an expressive and a descriptive function as well as a rhetorical or pragmatic function, indicating what the emotion does, not what it is about.8 Some scholars (Planalp 1998) treat the descriptive and rhetorical functions together as the (verbal) communication of emotions and suggest that the expression and communication of emotions are indistinguishable. As Hammond (2016: 304) rightly summarizes, emotions and their expressions are both the product and the determinant of social action: they have qualities of appraisal, action, activation, and expression.9 A closely related observation in modern languages is that each expressed emotion can be described from a functional perspective as an evaluating statement or an expression of propositional attitude (Werth 1998; Fiehler 2002: 84). If one applies this to Ancient Greek, one might argue that the experiencer (often the subject) of an emotional verb ‘has a certain emotional attitude to the fact that something is the case’, as is argued in CGCG 613 (see also Konstan 2005: 227).

7 Of particular relevance to my study are (in chronologic order): Edwards 1997; Foolen 1997; Athanasiadou and Tabakowska 1998; Planalp 1998; Werth 1998; Wierzbicka 1999; Harkins and Wierzbicka 2001; Fiehler 2002; Fussell 2002; Sandlund 2004; Weizman 2004; Edwards and Potter 2005; Lascaratou 2007; Pepin 2008; Wilce 2009; Edwards 2012; Peräkylä and Sorjonen 2012; Hammond 2016; Jiang and Zhang 2019. 8 Edwards 1997; Foolen 1997; Weizman 2004: 241; Edwards and Potter 2005: 243; Lascaratou 2007: 3, 5, 18–19; Wilce 2009: 2; Hammond 2016. 9 On this hybrid nature of emotions see also the Introduction and Kahane’s contribution to this volume.

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The above literature focuses on everyday language interaction. Of course, one might wonder whether we can assume that Greek drama provides us with examples of everyday conversations and interactions. I argue that we may do so to some extent. On the one hand, they are literary works and constructs, bound to the literary and theatrical conventions of their time. On the other hand, however, they imitate real-life conversations and were written for and understood by the contemporary (Athenian) public and for that reason must be a reliable reflection of what the contemporary public considered acceptable language, resembling ordinary conversation and speech. I therefore treat them as adequate (poetically stylized) imitations of ordinary language.10 The dialogic parts of Greek drama most closely resemble everyday interactions (where speakers take turns, respond to each other’s words, interrupt each other, etc.), whereas there is less direct interaction in the longer speeches in drama. A last point to consider when dealing with literary texts is of course the multi-layered texture of participants with different communicative worlds (Weizman 2004: 242–243) and the different narratological roles of primary and secondary narrator, focalizer, and addressee. As mentioned above, this is all the more true for drama, where storytelling does not take place via a primary narrator, but via the character texts, and where the addressees are both the characters on stage and the audience (largely indirectly). Let me now turn to my Greek corpus and investigate how the above (linguistic and communicative) observations are reflected in my corpus and how they may help, in combination with narratology, to shed light on my research questions.

Direct Expressions of Emotion in Greek Drama: Frequency and Possible Explanations Cross-linguistically, it has been observed that direct expressions of emotion (type: ‘I am happy/angry’, etc.) are relatively rare.11 Unfortunately, it is nowhere specified what ‘relatively rare’ means (absolute or relative numbers are lacking). For Greek, the overall picture seems to be nuanced. Let me first note that

10 11

For the challenges in using literary texts from antiquity for every day linguistic behaviour, see also Willi 2002: 149, 2003: 2–3; Clackson 2015: 103–113. See literature in n. 4. Little explanation is given, perhaps because other non-verbal expressions are regarded as more informative or, in contrast, because overtly stating one’s own emotion is felt to be too explicit and thus potentially infringing the rules of politeness and the Gricean maxims.

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it is difficult to give exact numbers. First, there are many borderline cases. These event-driven emotion expressions are bound to the actual speech moment and speaker, but it is not always easy to decide (even if the emotion verb is a firstperson present or perfect indicative) whether examples are bound only to the actual speech moment or primarily (or also) express a disposition or enduring state of mind. See, for instance, Lysistrata’s description of the suffering women’s experience in wartime: But leave for a moment our pitiful plight; it’s about the maidens growing old in their chamber that I am grieved (περὶ τῶν δὲ κορῶν … γηρασκουσῶν ἀνιῶμαι). ar. Lys. 592–593

Of course, Lysistrata is describing her general emotion, but this, by definition, holds and is also relevant at the actual speech moment.12 Second, there are ambiguous examples. In Sophocles’ Philoctetes, for instance, Odysseus and Neoptolemus try to persuade Philoctetes to give them his bow (which was essential for winning the Trojan War). Amidst threats uttered by all the speakers, Philoctetes threatens to kill Odysseus, which Neoptolemus prevents. Odysseus flees. Neoptolemus argues that there is no longer any reason for Philoctetes to be angry with him because he still has his bow. Philoctetes agrees, praising Neoptolemus and his resemblance to his father Achilles. Neoptolemus’ response— I delight at your praise of my father and of myself (ἥσθην … εὐλογοῦντά σε). But hear what I desire to gain from you. S. Ph. 1314–1316

—is the start of Neoptolemus’ monologue in which he tries to persuade Philoctetes to accompany him to Troy. In line with most translations and commentaries, the most natural interpretation would be to construe ἥσθην as a tragic aorist. In view of the words that follow, however, one could reinterpret ἥσθην as a normal aorist, presenting a SoA that is completed anterior to the request to listen. The line between both interpretations may be thin, which gives a degree of ambiguity.

12

Some comparable examples: E. Ba. 1005, E. Heracl. 485; S. OT 596, Ph. 493; Ar. Pl. 247, V. 510.

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Third, textual variants may give rise to uncertainty as to whether examples belong in the corpus. And finally, examples like the two below allow for a wide variety of expressions; I may have missed some of them in my search. Within a choral song, for instance, we have the emotion as subject, a direct object (μ’ = με) and an indirect question. This wonder seizes me, how—how in the world—how then (τόδε τοι θαῦμά μ’ ἔχει, | πῶς ποτε πῶς ποτε …/…/ πῶς ἄρα …) he kept his hold upon a life so full of grief. S. Ph. 686–690

But we also see an indirect object (or dative of possessor) ἔμοιγ’ and a conditional clause for the emotion-eliciting SoA: No, that is not at all a wonder to me, but rather if (ἀλλ’ οὔ τι τοῦτο θαῦμ’ ἔμοιγ’, ἀλλ’ εἰ … ὁρῶν ἠνείχετο) the elder Ajax, if he was there, could bear to see this. S. Ph. 410–411

An exact count of my corpus is therefore difficult, but if we accept a margin of error, my corpus consists of approximately 600 examples. A sample of several emotion verbs gives the following numbers: Although I do not know what is considered ‘rare’ in the secondary literature that I consulted, the above table seems to show a more nuanced picture, with a more or less gradient scale from low frequency (anger, χαίρω— joy) to rather high frequency (pity, being vexed or grieved), with other emotions occupying an intermediate position.13 Although these findings call for an explanation, I can only speculate at present. In drama there are of course other overt means of showing one’s emotions: gestures, body language, voice, pitch, and language use. Explicitly naming one’s emotion is just one of the options. Absent in Greek drama was the possibility of using facial expressions, since the actors wore masks. Also, most theatres were huge.14 As Table 1 seems to show, the more difficult it is to portray an emotion (by gestures, body

13

14

Remarkably, synonyms behave differently and more research is needed. Are the different percentages due to special constructions (e.g. χαίρω as a form of greeting rather than as an emotion verb) or the general number of first-person forms compared to other forms? See, for instance, De Jong 1991: 140, who rightly observes that gestures therefore also needed to be both enacted and verbalized. See also Taplin 1978: 10–11; Bowie 2017: 375– 376.

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self-description of emotions in ancient greek drama table 18.1 Number of data

Emotion

anger joy

Greek verb

ὀργίζομαι total χαίρω ἥδομαι regret μεταμέλει μοι wonder θαυμάζω shame αἰσχύνομαι disheartened ἀθυμέω hate μισέω fear total φοβέομαι δέδοικα/δείδω envy/jealousy total φθονέω ζηλόω vexed/grieved total ἀγανακτέω ἀνιῶμαι ἄχθομαι pity οἰκτίρω Total

Forms bound Total number to speaker’s of verb forms present

Percentage of forms bound to speaker’s present

2 54

5.4 9.7 4.1 31.9 16.7 17.5 18.2 22.2 28 28.4 21.2 31.6 28.4 16.4 45 29.4 10 17.6 39 35.3 19.0

18 36 1 13 16 4 44 78 18 60 27 9 18 20 1 3 16 24 285

37 556 443 113 6 74 88 18 157 275 85 190 95 55 40 68 10 17 41 68 1497

language, and exclamations on stage), the more frequently that emotion is explicitly verbalized and named.15 Another interesting factor could be the lack of stage directions in the transmitted texts, which may have facilitated these overt emotion statements. As Taplin notes, playwrights were their own directors and, more importantly, significant stage directions were incorporated

15

More research is needed, both in modern languages (notably corpus research in literary texts) and in other genres in Greek. My first impression is that oratory also yields a large number of examples. This would fit with my argument, as speeches were also performed in courts and on other official occasions.

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into the words of the play (Taplin 1978: 12–13). Our emotion expressions might be an example of such implicit stage directions.16 Whatever the explanation, Greek theatre does not seem to corroborate the findings in modern languages in all respects: self-description of emotions seems to be more frequent than ‘rare’ in Ancient Greek drama.17

Semantics: Complementation, Emotional and Performative Verbs One should realize that many of the emotional verbs and expressions have different meanings and/or interpretations when combined with different complements (participle, infinitive, indirect questions, object clauses introduced by ‘that’, ‘if’, etc.) that indicate the emotion-eliciting event or object of the emotion or emotional attitude.18 Take, for instance, the verb ‘to be ashamed’, αἰσχύνομαι, which we find in combination with: – An infinitive (dynamic) ‘to be ashamed to do something’: I feel shame to meet your eye (αἰσχύνομαί … προσβλέπειν). E. Hec. 968

– A participle ‘to be ashamed at doing something’: see my first example. – An indirect question: Plutus, after addressing the sun, the city and the country that welcomed him: I am ashamed of my wretched state, ashamed, (to think) what men (αἰσχύνομαι δὲ τὰς ἐμαυτοῦ συμφοράς | οἵοις … ἀνθρώποις) I unknowingly associated with. ar. Plut. 774–775

16 17

18

See also Chancellor 1979; Griffiths 1995; Csapo 2010. This is different in Homeric epic, where the narrator, as Bowie argues in this volume, ‘does portray characters in high emotion, but the focus is less on the personal expression of the characters’ feelings and more on generating those feelings in the narratees or audience.’ (p. 54) See Wakker 1994: 286–294, who mentions further literature. See also CGCG 522 n. 1, 613– 614, 621, 622–623. For other languages, see Werth 1998: 409–440. I note that LSJ often states that emotion verbs may be followed by a relative clause, exemplifying this with εἰ-clauses. I would prefer to label these as conditional clauses with a subject or object function—

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– A conditional clause: Electra to the chorus of women: I am ashamed, my friends, if (αἰσχύνομαι μέν, ὦ γυναῖκες, εἰ …) I give you the impression to be too vexed by my many laments. S. El. 254

A second semantic issue I would like to discuss is the resemblance between emotional and performative verbs. A performative verb is a verb with which the speaker, in saying it, performs the action (i.e. the speech act) itself, e.g. ‘I promise’, ‘we forbid’, ‘I declare’.19 A performative verb generally takes an active present form and the subject is ‘I’ (sometimes ‘we’), but other expressions may also have the same function, e.g. ‘smoking is forbidden’, ‘the committee thanks you for …’. A test of whether a verb is being used performatively is the possible insertion of ‘hereby’. If one looks at emotional verbs, at least some of them seem to do the same thing. If you say ‘I regret that you are ill’, stating ‘I regret’ implies at the same time experiencing and performing your regret. Let us turn now to Greek examples. In Euripides’ Ion, Ion makes some general remarks about childless women and the many destructions they prepare for men; he then makes an aside about the present situation: ἄλλως τε τὴν σὴν ἄλοχον οἰκτίρω, πάτερ, | ἄπαιδα γηράσκουσαν E. Ion 618

Besides, I pity your wife, father, growing old without a child. Here, the naming and performing of the act of pitying seem to overlap (Ion next explains why he pities her). The same holds for many instances of (ἐπ)αἰνέω to ‘applaud, approve, commend, praise’, such as:

19

see S. Ph. 410–411 above and S. El. 254 (below)—resembling obligatory declarative object clauses introduced by ὅτι etc., but indicating that the SoA mentioned may or may not be realized (a disjunctive situation), whereas ὅτι-clauses present them as factual. Cf. ‘Performative verbs name actions that are performed, wholly or partly, by saying something (state, promise); non-performative verbs name other types of actions, types of action which are independent of speech (walk, sleep)’ (Malmkjaer 2010: 499); see also Austin 1962; Searle 1969. For the resemblance of (some) emotional verbs to performative verbs, see Proost 2009.

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No wonder you do not know me, you never met me before. I praise that you honour (αἰνῶ δ’ ὅτι σέβεις …) modesty. E. IA 823–824

Here, Achilles meets Clytaemnestra, whom he does not recognize. Clytaemnestra praises and applauds his proper behaviour, explicitly naming her praise and performing it.20 The verb (ἐπ)αἰνέω is often used in this way.21 One might, however, wonder whether this holds for all expressions regardless of complementation. Take, for instance, the examples E. Hec. 968 and S. El. 254 above, where the emotion concerns non-factual SoAs. In these instances, the emotional verb is not performative, but rather implies the speaker’s emotional attitude to the emotion-eliciting SoA. Moreover, emotional verbs that express a ‘non-active’ feeling are not, in my opinion, performative.22 Only if emotional verbs also involve the performance of a speech act, such as αἰνέω, may they be used performatively (see above and n. 20). With some verbs one may hesitate, e.g. θαυμάζω, depending on whether the ‘wonder’ implies an explicit wondering question. In Euripides’ Electra, Electra meets two strangers, who de facto are Orestes and Pylades. The latter, who had saved Orestes many years earlier from Clytaemnestra and Aegisthus, is staring at Orestes and circling around him. Orestes wonders why and Electra responds: I too am amazed, looking at this, stranger (καὐτὴ τόδ’ εἰσορῶσα θαυμάζω, ξένε). E. El. 562

Is this mention of her amazement and wonder simply an expression of her feelings and attitude toward the situation or is it at the same time performing the speech act of amazement and wonderment? I am not sure whether there are clear criteria to make this decision.23 20

21

22 23

See Stahl 1907: 582–583, who includes in verbs of affect (Verba des Affektes) verbs that express an affect (Gefühlsstimmung), utter an affect (Äuβerung) and connect a judgment to the affect (Äuβerung der Billigung oder Miβbilligung), e.g. αἰνεῖν, μέμφεσθαι, μακαρίζειν, ψέγειν, ὀνειδίζειν. The latter appear to be a kind of borderline case between verba dicendi and emotional verbs. See e.g. A. Ch. 555, Eu. 1021, Supp. 710; S. Ph. 889; E. Alc. 1093, Ba. 944, 1193, HF 275, Hipp. 483, IA 506, 824, Ion 1608, IT 1486, Med. 884, 908, Or. 786, Ph. 614, 1683, Rh. 191, Tr. 890; Ar. Nu. 1055, Ra. 508, 696; Men. Per. 262; with tragic aorist: E. Alc. 1095, HF 1235, Ion 1614, Tr. 53. E.g. ἀθυμέω, ἄχθομαι, ἀγανακτέω, ἀνιῶμαι, δέδοικα, ζηλόω, ἥδομαι, θαρρέω, φοβέομαι. More ambivalent verbs include θαυμάζω, θυμέομαι, κλαίω, ὀργίζομαι, φθονέω, χαίρω, χαλεπαίνω. Cf. e.g. E. Alc. 1130; Ar. Nub. 1329, Pl. 55.

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All in all, I would argue that not all emotional verbs are performative in all their uses. The more the performing of an emotional verb also implies performing a (speech) act, the stronger the resemblance to performative verbs. In the ‘performative’ cases, one could argue that the distinction is blurred between describing/referring to an emotion one experiences and performing this emotion at the same time.

Pragmatic Perspective: Function and (Intended or Elicited) Responses The secondary literature (see above) often emphasizes the fact that, in pragmatic terms, (verbally) displaying emotions may have expressive, descriptive, and rhetorical functions. In my opinion it is often difficult to distinguish these functions because of the full continuum from expressions with a (purely) expressive function to those with a (purely) descriptive function. Moreover, all expressions have a rhetorical function and effect. At one end of the scale we might start with exclamations and interjections of grief, anguish, and astonishment such as φεῦ (e.g. S. Aj. 983), αἰαῖ (A. Ch. 1007–1009), whereas at the other end emotions may simply be described or mentioned without further ado, cf. A. Pers. 168, where Atossa says that despite the wealth of her house, she fears for her son (ἀμφὶ δ’ ὀφθαλμῷ φόβος, ‘my anxiety is for the eye’), as the eye of the house is the presence of its lord, her son Xerxes (A. Pers. 169). In this general description, which is highly relevant to her current situation, she simply mentions her fear as a stepping-stone to her request to the chorus for advice (‘Therefore, since things stand as they do, lend me your counsel in this concern, Persians’, A. Pers. 170–171). The fear itself is given no further attention, although of course it helps the addressee (chorus) and audience to gain a full picture of the queen’s state of mind. It is a fear that is also increasingly felt by the chorus. These signals of fear allow the audience to identify with this emotion. A next example appears to occupy a more intermediate space between performing/expressing and describing emotions: Iocaste: How do you mean? I tremble when I look at you (ὀκνῶ … ἀποσκοποῦσ’), my lord. Oedipus: I have dread fears (δεινῶς ἀθυμῶ μὴ) that the seer can see. But you will reveal the matter better if you tell me one thing more. Iocasta: Indeed, I tremble (καὶ μὴν ὀκνῶ μέν), but I will hear and answer all that you ask. S. OT 746–749

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Here, both Iocasta and Oedipus indicate their anxieties, underlined by Iocasta’s short opening question and direct address to Oedipus, by Oedipus’ use of intensifying δεινῶς, and Iocasta’s explicitly restating her anxiety. Nevertheless, this anxiety is a stepping-stone to the next action (a request for more details). The emotion of fear thus leads to action, while at the same time the speakers share their feelings with each other and with the audience. Another intermediate type consists of a fairly large number of examples in which the description of the emotion functions as a comment, rather than being part of the main storyline. After a character’s monologue or speaking turn, the chorus often expresses their emotion and attitude to the facts described, in this way implicitly influencing the perception and feelings of the character(s) on stage and the audience. Thus, in Sophocles’ Ajax, after Ajax’ speech (S. Aj. 545–582) to his son and wife, in which he offers his shield to his son and asks Tecmessa to take the boy with her into the house, the chorus comments: I am afraid (δέδοικ’ ἀκούων) when I hear this eager haste. S. Aj. 583

Tecmessa and Ajax immediately continue their conversation without responding to the chorus’ words.24 We also see this type of comment at or near the end of the play, where, for instance, the chorus expresses joy and approval at the outcome (A. Supp. 1070; E. IA 1613). This may be a means of influencing the play’s reception by both the characters and the audience. Characters may also utter such comments. Thus, in Sophocles’ Philoctetes, Neoptolemus says that he captured a man (= Philoctetes) and starts explaining what he will do now, but is interrupted by Odysseus mid-sentence: What are you going to do? Suddenly a certain fear comes over me (ὥς μ’ ὑπῆλθέ τις φόβος). S. Ph. 123125 Here, this fear receives no further attention, but Neoptolemus simply tries to finish his sentence. Though Odysseus explicitly expresses his fear, he fails to

24 25

Some comparable examples are A. Ag. 1399; Ar. Ec. 1063, Eq. 329, Pl. 288–289. I take ὑπῆλθέ as a tragic aorist, see Garvie 2009 ad loc.; KG 1.164–165; Stahl 1907: 135–136; CGCG 419. Some other examples of comment by a character: E. Or. 1583; S. El. 1112 (ὥς μ’ ὑπέρχεται φόβος), Ph. 782.

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stop Neoptolemus from returning the bow to Philoctetes. Moreover, the audience will most likely feel no empathy with Odysseus, who is portrayed here as ‘the bad guy’. We thus see that stating one’s emotions performs different functions and serves many purposes, depending on what the speaker intends to achieve. Likewise, the responses of the interlocutors and public vary depending on the particular situation. Sometimes the sharing of emotions is effective from the speaker’s perspective, but this is not always the case, as the last example shows. In prologues (and other monologic passages), emotions are often described in general (disposition) but are by definition also applicable at the speech moment. Thus, in Euripides’ Electra, the farmer, in describing his shame and grief, implies that these emotions hold at the speech moment as well: I am ashamed to treat a child of a blessed family disrespectfully (αἰσχύνομαι … ὑβρίζειν). And I groan for Orestes if … (στένω … εἰ …) E. El. 45–46

In dialogues the emotion pertains more often to the speech moment alone. Often the focus is on the emotion itself, but sometimes the emotion is used as a kind of comment; see the examples in Sophocles above (S. Aj. 583; Ph. 1231), or as a substantiation for another statement that is the main focus (e.g. in γάρclauses, Soph. Ant. 1113, Tr. 630). The number of instances in dialogue is somewhat higher than in monologue (about 55% vs 45%). In dialogue a direct verbal response of the addressee may be elicited, whereas direct responses only occur at the end of a monologue. We encounter various possible responses. The most important ones are as follows. The addressee does not overtly respond in words. Thus, Creon does not explicitly respond to Medea’s statement of grief (‘I do not care if I myself go into exile. It is their experience of misfortune I weep for (κλαίω)’, E. Med. 346–347) but grants her request, thereby in fact acknowledging her grief. This seems to be a normal pattern in conversations: if one does not explicitly deny a statement, it is taken for granted and belongs henceforth to the common ground.26 The addressee assents, as in Euripides’ Heracles Furens 1236–1237, where Theseus says: ‘While I, for kindness then received, now show my pity for you (οἰκτίρω)’, and Heracles accepts: ‘Ah yes! I am piteous (οἰκτρὸς γάρ εἰμι), a murderer of my sons’.27 26 27

For one of the first (cognitive linguistic) definitions of ‘common ground’, see Clark and Brennan 1991. See also Van Gils and Kroon in this volume. Cf. e.g. S. El. 1027–1028; E. HF 91–92, IA 16–20, Or. 98–99; Ar. Av. 1547–1548, Ec. 338–340, Lys. 10–12.

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The addressee asks for more details about the emotion and/or the emotioneliciting event (and thus the legitimacy of the emotion). In Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, for instance, after Oedipus’ statement: ‘But my fear (φόβος) is about her who lives’, the messenger asks for more specific information: ‘And who is the woman about whom you fear (ἐκφοβεῖσθ’)?’ (S. OT 988–989).28 The addressee denies, or at least partly qualifies, the (need for this) emotion and/or the emotion-eliciting event (in conversation analytic terminology, this is called the non-preferred response). We see Praxagoras fearing that the public will cling to old customs whereas she has good new ideas (‘that is what I fear (δέδοικα)’, Ar. Ec. 585). Blepyrus reassuringly denies the need for this emotion (‘have no fear about that (μὴ δείσῃς)’, 586), for in his view the public has a love of novelty and a disdain for tradition. An emotion may also be denied by replacing it with another emotion, as exemplified by a passage in Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae (Ar. Ec. 1008–1010), where the old woman’s ‘Look, by Aphrodite, I enjoy (ἥδομαι) sleeping with a lad of your years’ is rejected and replaced by the young men’s emotion: ‘And I abhor (ἄχθομαι) sleeping with those such as you’.29 Usually the primary goal of stating one’s emotion is to influence the addressee’s response in word or action. Implicitly, of course, the audience’s perception is often meant to be influenced as well so that it can (or cannot) empathize and identify with the characters and their emotions.30 This holds all the more in monologues where no direct verbal response is expected at all.

Concluding Remarks This first exploration of the research question as to why and with what purpose characters in ancient drama explicitly name the emotions they experience at the speech moment has raised some interesting issues. This exploration connects insights from linguistics with those from narratology as well as giving rise to questions for further research. I argued that the use of these expressions may be connected to the lack of stage directions in the manuscripts and, in particular, the use of masks in Greek

28 29 30

Cf. e.g. Α. Th. 203–210; S. Ph. 912–914; E. Ba. 1027–1029; Ar. Pl. 899–901. For the ambiguity ‘fear of/for’ see Kamerbeek 1967 ad loc. The emotion expression may also be interrupted (rather than denied) by the entrance of another character (Ar. Ach. 62–64) or some other urgency (E. El. 1122–1123). The only exception, of course, is the parabasis in comedy, where the audience is directly addressed by the chorus, outside the action of the play.

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theatre. There seems to be an association between the number of examples and the difficulty of showing specific emotions on stage: the more difficult it is to enact the emotion on stage, the more likely it is that a character uses emotion expressions such as ‘I am ashamed’. Many of these expressions resemble performative verbs: by stating them, the speaker at the same time performs the (speech) act stated. If you say, for instance, ‘I am annoyed that …’ or ‘I am ashamed that …’, you are at the same time performing the act of being annoyed or ashamed. These examples seem to show that the more the emotional verb is associated with performing a certain (speech) act, the stronger the resemblance is to performative verbs. Characters may use these explicit emotion expressions with various aims: to inform the addressee, to have the addressee do something, to change the addressee’s attitude, etc. In dialogue we can often conclude from the response whether this aim has been achieved. Of course, these expressions also seek to inform and influence the audience, so that it can empathize (or not) with the characters and follow the storyline. This exploration may be used as a starting point for more comparative research. How are these types of expression used in other (modern) languages and in other genres in Ancient Greek?31 How do they contribute to the characterization of the various characters? These are fascinating questions awaiting an answer.

Abbreviations CGCG KG LSJ

31

Emde Boas, E. van, Rijksbaron, A., Huitink, L., Bakker, M. de, The Cambridge Grammar of Classical Greek (Cambridge 2019). Kühner, R., Gerth, B., Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache ii: Satzlehre (Hannover: 1904 [reprinted several times]) Liddell, H.G., Scott, R. Jones, H.S., Greek-English Lexicon. Oxford ([1940] repr. several times).

Also compare, in a wider framework, research on the use of emotions in tweets about the American elections of 2020 by Martijn Blikmans (see rug.nl/sustainable‑society/​ news‑and‑events/2020/emotions‑in‑the‑american‑primary‑elections) and on the use of emoticons/emojis in social media in general.

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Bibliography Athanasiadou, A., Tabakowska, E. (eds.), Speaking of Emotions. Conceptualisation and Expression (Berlin 1998). Austin, J.L., How to Do Things with Words (Oxford 1962). Bowie, A., ‘Aristophanes’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2017) 375–390. Chancellor, G., ‘Implicit Stage Directions in Ancient Greek Drama: Critical Assumptions and the Reading Public’, Arethusa 12 (1979) 133–152. Clackson, J., Language and Society in the Greek and Roman Worlds (Cambridge 2015). Clark, H.H., Brennan, S.E., ‘Grounding in Communication’, in L.B. Resnick, J.M. Levine, S.D. Reasly (eds.), Perspectives on Socially Shared Cognition (Washington 1991) 127– 149. Csapo, E., Actors and Icons of the Ancient Theatre (Chichester / Malden, MA 2010). Edwards, D., Discourse and Cognition (London 1997). Edwards, D., ‘Discursive and Scientific Psychology’, British Journal of Social Psychology 51 (2012) 425–435. Edwards, D., Potter, J., ‘Discursive Psychology. Mental States and Descriptions’, in H. te Molder, J. Potter (eds.), Conversation and Cognition (Cambridge 2005) 241–259. Fiehler, R., ‘How to do Emotions with Words: Emotionality in Conversations’, in S.R. Fussell (ed.), The Verbal Communication of Emotions. Interdisciplinary Perspectives (Mahwah 2002) 79–106. Foolen, A., ‘The Expressive Function of Language: Towards a Cognitive Semantic Approach’, in S. Niemeier, R. Dirven (eds.). The Language of Emotions (Amsterdam 1997) 15–31. Fussell, S.R. (ed.), The Verbal Communication of Emotions. Interdisciplinary Perspectives (Mahwah 2002). Garvie, A.F. (ed.), Aeschylus. Persae (Oxford 2009). Griffiths, A. (ed.), Stage Directions (London 1995). Hammond, K., ‘“It ain’t necessarily so”: Reinterpreting some Poems of Catullus from a Discursive Psychological Point of View’, in E. Sanders, M. Johncock (eds.), Emotion and Persuasion in Classical Antiquity (Stuttgart 2016) 281–314. Harkins, J., Wierzbicka, A. (eds.), Emotions in Crosslinguistic Perspective (Berlin 2001). Jiang, J., Zhang, J., ‘Rethinking Emotion in Discursive Psychology: A systematic Function Perspective’, Culture & Psychology (2019) 1–23. Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrative in Drama. The Art of the Euripidean Messenger-speeches (Leiden / New York 1991). Kamerbeek, J.C., The Plays of Sophocles (Leiden 1953–1967). Konstan, D., ‘The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: A Cross-Cultural Perspective’, Psychologia. An International Journal of Psychology in the Orient 48 (2005) 225–240.

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Konstan, D., Affect and Emotion in Greek Literature (Oxford 2015). Lascaratou, C., The Language of Pain. Expression or Description? (Amsterdam 2007). Malmkjaer, K. (ed.), The Routledge Linguistics Encyclopedia (New York [1995] 3rd ed. 2010). Pepin, N., ‘Studies on Emotions in Social Interactions’, Bulletin Suisse de Linguistique Appliquée 88 (2008) 1–18. Peräkylä, A., Sorjonen, M.L. (eds.), Emotion in Interaction (Oxford 2012). Planalp, S., ‘Communicating Emotion in Everyday Life: Cues, Channels, and Processes’, in P.A. Andersen, L.K. Guerrero (eds.), Handbook of Communication and Emotion (San Diego 1998) 29–48. Planalp, S., Communicating Emotion. Social, Moral and Cultural Processes (Cambridge 1999). Proost, K., ‘Speech Act Verbs’, in K. Brown (ed.), Encyclopedia of Language and Linguistics. 2nd Edition (Oxford 2009) 912–917. Sanders, E., Envy and Jealousy in Classical Athens. A Socio-Psychological Approach (Oxford 2013). Sandlund, E., Feeling by Doing. The Social Organization of Everyday Emotions in Academic Talk-in-interaction (Karlstad 2004). Searle, J.R., Speech Acts (Cambridge 1969). Stahl, J.M., Kritisch-historische Syntax des griechischen Verbums der klassischen Zeit (Heidelberg 1907). Taplin, O., Greek Tragedy in Action (London 1978). Wakker, G.C., Conditions and Conditionals. An Investigation of Ancient Greek (Amsterdam 1994). Weizman, E., ‘Interpreting Emotions in Literary Dialogue’, in E. Weigand (ed.), Emotions in Dialogic Interaction, Advances in the Complex (Amsterdam 2004), 241–254. Werth, P.M., ‘TIRED and EMOTIONAL. On the Semantics and Pragmatics of Emotion Verb Complementation’, in A. Athanasiadou, E. Tabakowska (eds.), Speaking of Emotions. Conceptualisation and Expression (Berlin [1998] dig. ed. 2010) 409–440. Wierzbicka, A., Emotions Across Languages and Cultures. Diversity and Universals (Cambridge 1999). Wilce, J.M., Language and Emotion (Cambridge 2009). Willi, A., ‘Languages on stage: Aristophanic Language, Cultural History and Athenian Identity’, in A. Willi (ed.), The Language of Greek Comedy (Oxford 2002) 111–150. Willi, A., The Languages of Aristophanes. Aspects of Linguistic Variation in Classical Attic Greek (Oxford 2003).

chapter 19

Retelling the War of Troy: Tragedy, Emotions, and Catharsis Sofia Frade

Attic tragedy, catharsis, and emotions are closely intertwined. In this chapter I will argue that the framework of emotion studies can help us shed some light on Aristotle’s concept of catharsis. Furthermore, I will explore how an analysis of focalization helps us to understand how tragic micro-narratives are used (1) to communicate the emotions of the characters and (2) to create emotions in the audience. Such narratives allow the construction of an empathic relationship that, ultimately, evokes the fear and pity on which catharsis relies. Case studies are four micro-narratives of the Trojan War in Euripidean tragedy (three from the Trojan Women and one from Helen).*

Catharsis and the Theory of Emotions Catharsis is a concept of fundamental significance to Western theatre history, and indeed, much of our understanding of Greek tragedy revolves around it. However, the interpretation of this term is far from consensual. To try to understand it, one must return to Aristotle’s Poetics 1449b, where he describes catharsis as δι’ ἐλέου καὶ φόβου περαίνουσα τὴν τῶν τοιούτων παθημάτων κάθαρσιν (‘effecting, through pity and fear, the purification of such emotions’). Aristotle does not define the meaning of catharsis, leaving the concept open to much debate and discussion.1 What seems quite clear, however, is that, for Aristotle, tragedy is closely linked with emotions—notably the aforementioned pity and fear—and acts upon or depends on such emotions. Many interpretations of the word catharsis have been offered: purification, purgation, sublimation, among others; an interesting approach, though, is that proposed by Martha Nussbaum: ‘clarification’. * This paper has been funded by Portuguese national funds through FCT—Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia, I.P., in the scope of the research project UIDB/00019/2020. All translations of the Poetics are from Kenny 2013. 1 For a full discussion on the topic with bibliography, see Woodruff 2009 and Hall 2017.

© Sofia Frade, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_021

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Nussbaum suggests a reading of Aristotle that does not imply that the audience will be rid of whatever emotions are aroused by tragedy, but rather that those emotions will be clarified. That is, by focusing on certain emotions, tragedy helps the audience to clarify their feelings.2 Nussbaum sees emotions in Aristotle, and Plato, not only as related to feelings but also to the individual’s perception of the world. This is clear in Aristotle’s Rhetoric, where each emotion is a construction based on how an individual feels pleasure or pain, but also on what they believe might be the consequences of the act that induces these feelings.3 For example, in order to experience fear, a person must believe that someone has the power to inflict pain on them; if one is above pain or has suffered so much pain as to be numb, one will not be affected by fear (Arist. Rh. 1382b). Recently, studies on emotion and literature have been shedding some light on the concept of catharsis in fictional literature. A relevant study in this area is that of Oatley, which compares the performance of a play or the reading of a novel to a computer simulation program. This simulation must ‘run’ in the audience’s or readers’ minds in order to be successful. Therefore, the focus of the artistic work is on the construction of the relationship with the audience that allows the ‘program’—the ‘mimesis’ of the real world projected onto fiction— to ‘run’ in viewers’ or readers’ imaginations and affect them.4 For Oatley, ‘Aristotle makes it clear that what the play achieves is a focus on the essentials of a problem’.5 In line with this, Hogan states that, frequently, in tragedy the audience is asked to empathize with situations that are ‘emotionally aversive’.6 Despite this, human beings still find these works enjoyable. How? Hogan postulates two main reasons: on the one hand, the human brain has developed in order to enjoy negative imaginings, which, from an evolutionary perspective, allows us to learn from such imaginary experiences. And, since these experiences often imply empathy for the character, our brain’s compassion reward system is involved. On the other hand, tragedy, being a performative experience, allows for the shared experience of emotions with the other members of an audience. ‘We seem to be particularly prone to engag[ing] in simulative sharing with attachment figures. This is in keeping with other research that shows a link between empathic joy and attachment.’7 2 3 4 5 6 7

See Nussbaum 1986: 378–394, more specifically 388–391. Nussbaum 1986: 383. See the Introduction for a summary of Oatley’s position. Oatley 1994: 66. Hogan 2015: 278–279. Hogan 2015: 279.

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It seems, thus, that the framing of emotional studies could allow us a better understanding of the concept of catharsis. One of the problems cited by Woodruff is the idea that this concept is left isolated in Aristotle’s text with no further reference or relevance.8 However, thinking of the implications of the positions of Oatley and Hogan, it is possible to see this problem from another angle. As we have seen, Oatley postulates that fiction can run in the human brain like a computer simulation; for this to happen, it is fundamental for the audience to create an emotional attachment to the characters. I would argue that throughout the text of the Poetics Aristotle describes exactly how to construct a plot and characters that can arouse fear and pity in the audience, that is, how fiction can create an emotional connection with the audience in order for the ‘simulation’ to run properly. The frequent references to those emotions, in fact, can be seen as constructing a framework for the concept of catharsis. That is to say that whenever fear and pity are aroused in the context of tragic performance, catharsis can happen. One problem with this theory is how this emotional connection might happen when, as is frequently the case in tragedy, the characters are, in terms of lived experience, diametrically opposed to the audience.9 Konstan suggests that a moral identification with the characters is much more relevant than a similarity in ‘age, family, or profession’.10 Looking into Aristotle’s own definition of pity (‘Let us take pity to be a feeling of pain aroused in oneself when someone is perceived as meeting undeservedly with trouble of a life-threatening or painful kind, which one might expect oneself or people dear to one to meet with’),11 we are faced with a clear link with what Aristotle advocates in terms of the construction of the plot in Poetics 1453a, that is, to promote fear, which comes from identification between audience and character, and pity, which comes from a sense of undeserved suffering, the character cannot be too good or too bad. One cannot have a very good character passing from a good to a bad situation, which would induce outrage; nor a very bad character passing from a bad to a good situation. Neither of these circumstances can produce the emotional attachment necessary to induce pity or fear: the character, and the situation, must be relatable; in other words, the situation has to run as a simulation in the audience’s imagination. For that to happen, moral identification is fundamental, as is the mimetic character of the action.

8 9 10 11

Woodruff 2009: 619. On this opposition, compare also Van Peer’s observations in this volume. Konstan 1999: 3. Arist. Rh. 1385b. All Rhetoric translations are from Waterfield 2018.

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It is relevant to note that the perception of emotion aroused in the audience by tragedy is not an Aristotelian novelty. In fact, Aristophanes, in Frogs, had already suggested that the emotions aroused by different tragedies—in this case, specifically by different playwrights—could vary greatly. The play suggests that one can either feel compassion (pity) for those who suffer greatly, as when attending a performance of a play by Euripides, or be imbued with a martial triumph, as when attending a performance by Aeschylus.12 Thus, if we look at catharsis via the emotion studies framework, we can argue that (1) catharsis can imply the clarification of certain emotions; (2) this clarification can be achieved through fiction with an effect similar to a computer simulation; (3) for this simulation to be effective, it must create an emotional connection with the audience;13 (4) most of Aristotle’s recommendations on how to construct a good tragedy focus exactly on how to create that connection, through pity and fear.14

Catharsis and Focalization De Jong has pointed out the importance of the role of the messenger as focalizer, establishing the mediation between the action and the audience, and how this offers the playwright ‘the opportunity to manipulate the presentation

12 13

14

Ar. Ran. 1020–1064. See Konstan 1999: 16–17 on this passage. See Oatley 1999: 113–114 for a list of the different ways in which this connection can be created, namely identification, sympathy, and autobiographical memory. Oatley concludes by stating that ‘Insights of a personal kind when reading fiction are more likely to occur when the reader is moved emotionally by what he or she is reading and when the accompanying context helps the understanding of the resulting emotions. Aristotle’s statement about katharsis of the emotions of pity and fear in the Poetics was a version of this hypothesis.’ (115). See also Hogan 2015: 277 on the importance of the cultural, historical, and ideological context for the emotional effectiveness of literature, highlighting that a text is a much more reliable source for the emotional stereotypes of a certain culture than the depiction of ‘natural emotional propensities’. There are, of course, some caveats. Relating emotions and tragedy is rather difficult: many studies on performance, in particular those of Erika Fischer-Lichte, have underlined that each performance is unique and ephemeral. One cannot recreate that moment (see, e.g., Fischer-Lichte 2010 with bibliography). Therefore, it is virtually impossible to recreate the original emotions stirred by a play in the original audience. Moreover, emotions are also part of a cultural reality. This should be kept in mind when looking at the texts: the texts do not give us the whole story; context, where recuperable, is fundamental, as well as the awareness that any such reconstruction is by nature flawed and incomplete.

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of events’.15 It is important to keep in mind that this analysis is particularly relevant when characters ‘recount events of the past’, that is, whenever we find micro-narratives within tragedy. In what follows I focus on three micronarratives of the war of Troy in Euripides’ Trojan Women and one in Helen, taking into account in each case the narrator, the way the narrative focuses on certain details, and the way each narrative introduces imagery that both underlines the emotional state of the narrator and the expected response of the audience. I would like to argue that these narratives are fundamental to understanding how emotions are introduced into the text and how they can be manipulated to create a connection between characters and audience, thus leading to catharsis.

The Towers: Poseidon and Pity My first instance is Poseidon’s narration in the prologue of Trojan Women (4– 24). As usual, the prologue, the first part at least, serves to set up the scene of the play. We are in Troy, the war is over, the men have been killed, and the women await news of their destiny as slaves. I would like to argue that the emotion mostly stressed by this narrative is that of pity. Aristotle states that for someone to feel pity for someone else, the object of pity has to be in unjust pain or danger and there has to be an affective connection between the two.16 This narrative of the Trojan War given by Poseidon serves precisely to establish these two conditions: the pain of and danger for the Trojan women, and the god’s connection to and affection for Troy. The narrative is built on a temporal opposition: then (ἐξ οὗ, ‘ever since’, 4) and now (ἣ νῦν, 8). This opposition is used to highlight the contrast between the initial position of Troy and its present reality, here represented by the towers (πύργος). In the past, Poseidon built the towers of Troy with Apollo. The vocabulary used to describe the towers is clearly intended to highlight their solidity and stability (λαΐνους, ‘[made of] stone’, 5; ὀρθοῖσιν … κανόσιν, ‘with straight rule’, 6). But now Troy καπνοῦται (8), ‘burns to ashes’, an idea that is reinforced by the description of blood and desolation:

15 16

De Jong 1991: viii. See the discussion on Arist. Rh. 1385b above. Finglass in this volume gives examples of narratives from the epic cycle, lyric and tragedy in which pity leads to unexpected, negative results.

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ἔρημα δ’ ἄλση καὶ θεῶν ἀνάκτορα φόνῳ καταρρεῖ: πρὸς δὲ κρηπίδων βάθροις πέπτωκε Πρίαμος Ζηνὸς ἑρκείου θανών. The sacred groves are desolated and the gods’ shrines are running with blood. Near the steps at the base of the altar of Zeus the Protector, Priam has been fatally cut down.17 E. Tr. 15–17

The idea that a stable, solid, divinely-built city can turn to ashes is fundamental to the narrative. It not only underlines the frailty of human existence and, therefore, helps the audience relate to the scene, but it also enables the god to focus on his relationship with the city. This desolation is even more poignant because Zeus is described as ‘the Protector’: he failed to protect those who asked for protection; it is as if Zeus had already left the scene. The fact that the god helped to build the city is fundamental to our understanding of why he identifies with it, for since that founding moment, he declares, οὔποτ’ ἐκ φρενῶν | εὔνοι’ ἀπέστη τῶν ἐμῶν Φρυγῶν πόλει (6–7), ‘love for this city of Phrygians has never left my heart’. Therefore, the action of the god (building the towers) connects him to the city and then, seeing its desolation, makes him feel pity for it. This relationship is reinforced by the way the god presents the end of the war: ἐγὼ δέ (νικῶμαι γὰρ Ἀργείας θεοῦ Ἥρας Ἀθάνας θ’, αἳ συνεξεῖλον Φρύγας) λείπω τὸ κλεινὸν Ἴλιον βωμούς τ’ ἐμούς. For my own part I am leaving this famed city of Troy and my altars in it, since the Argive goddesses Hera and Athena, who together destroyed the Trojans, have got the better of me. E. Tr. 23–25

Poseidon sees himself as defeated by the same goddesses as the city. This narrative helps deepen the bond of empathy between the god and the city. The lengthy description of the Trojan horse that follows helps to establish the treacherous, and therefore unjust, way in which the Greeks won the war. This is reinforced by the idea of the desecration of the temples. This notion

17

All translations of Trojan Women are from Barlow 1986.

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of unfairness is fundamental to arousing empathy and pity in the audience towards the Trojan women. It is also very important that the narrative introduces three of the most important images of the play: the towers, the Greek ships (ναῦς Ἀχαιῶν, 19), and the fire that will play a very important role at the end of the play. Thus, this narrative sets the tone for the feelings that are to be felt by the audience. A great city is destroyed, its strength turned to ashes. According to Barlow,18 Hecuba would have been on stage at this point, unaware of the presence of the gods. In his narrative of what is happening, Poseidon tells us what to feel for her. Identification is fundamental to creating the sentiment of pity. This narrative by a powerful Greek god would help an Athenian (mostly, if not uniformly, male) audience identify with a defeated barbarian woman, as it highlights the unpredictability of human fate. The strong winners of today can be the desolate defeated of tomorrow. By presenting the image of the construction of Troy, Poseidon helps the audience to envision the past, before the birth of Paris, even before the first play of the trilogy, Troy as it was built ‘once upon a time’. Once upon a time, this city was so powerful its walls and towers were built by gods; now it has vanished in smoke, the temples abandoned by the gods and covered in blood, and amongst the desolation this woman is prostrated by her fate. If identification with a barbarian woman seems hard for a male Athenian citizen, this focus on the change of fortune allows for a moral connection, as all humans are subject to the vagaries of fate.

The Ships: Hecuba and Fear Before focusing on Hecuba’s narrative in lines 122–137, let us recall Aristotle’s definition of the emotion most relevant to this narrative—fear: Let us take fear to be a feeling of pain and disturbance accompanying a mental image of imminent evil of a life-threatening or painful kind. Arist. Rh. 1382a

At first glance, the predominant emotion in this narrative might seem to be grief, and there is, without doubt, a strong sense of grief throughout the play. But, as Konstan underlines, grief ‘involves no judgment of intentions, no reck-

18

Barlow’s commentary ad loc.

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oning of relative power’, whereas fear ‘requires a sense of whether another individual or group is hostile, and a judgment concerning their relative strength in comparison with one’s own.’19 As we shall see, in Hecuba’s mind the fear of impending doom, the awareness of her powerlessness in opposition to the Greek army, seem to make it clear that fear, more than grief, is fundamental to this character.20 The narrative of Hecuba in verses 122–137 is peculiar: it is the second narrative about the Trojan War in the prologue (a prologue that features all three actors of the play) and it is delivered in a monody in lyric anapaests that bridges the entrance of the chorus, who adopt the anapaests of Hecuba. These lyric anapaests are preceded by recitative anapaests (98–121).21 One of the significant threads of Hecuba’s narrative is its relationship with music. It is not unusual for a chorus or a character, faced with extreme situations, to be perplexed about what to sing. Hecuba alludes to the thrênos (θρηνῆσαι, 111) and songs of mourning (αἰεὶ δακρύων ἐλέγους, ‘endless tearful laments’, 119). She opts for a song without dance (ἀχορεύτους, 121); in fact, the whole sentence reads μοῦσα δὲ χαὕτη τοῖς δυστήνοις | ἄτας κελαδεῖν ἀχορεύτους (‘yet even this is music to the wretched, to sing of joyless troubles’). The phrase, and the verse, begins with the word μοῦσα: though the sense here is ‘music’, I wonder whether it could remind the audience of the Muse of epic poetry, especially when coupled with the expression ἀχορεύτους (lit. ‘without a chorus’), which Hecuba will not be for long, as the chorus will make their entrance in 30 verses or so. One of the main literary genres that does not require a chorus is, of course, epic. In this moment, moreover, Hecuba switches from recitative to lyric anapaests; but the first verse is comprised of paroemiacs with the short syllables lengthened (122: – – – – – – –), making it virtually impossible to distinguish them from dactyls for a moment. Thus, unable to choose a genre to express her pain, Hecuba seems to get close to epic only to break into a lyric monody.22 Hecuba’s narrative focuses on the ships: her first words are πρῷραι ναῶν, ‘the prows of the ships’. To understand the emotions that underlie this focalization, it is important to look back to the recitative anapaests. There, Hecuba, says to

19 20 21 22

Konstan 2006: 274. For fear in Homer, see Van Emde Boas in this volume, whereas fear in Plato is discussed by Finkelberg and Morgan, and in Herodotus by Rutherford. On the metrics of this passage, see Kovacs 2018 ad loc. It is not unusual for Euripides to give epic undertones to Homeric characters in tragedy. See, for example, Andromache’s monody in the eponymous play (103–116), composed in perfect elegiac distich. For the lyric use of dactyls in Euripides, see Lourenço (2011: 66–69).

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herself: ‘Sail according to the strait’s current, sail in accordance with destiny and do not turn life’s prow against the waves’ swell, sailing as you do on the winds of chance’ (102–104). The image of sailing is introduced, first as a metaphor. Hecuba has just stated that Troy is no more and thus she, as the queen of Troy, is no more. Her fortune has turned and she must sail its waves. She is the ship, in the middle of a tempest. From verse 155, moreover, Hecuba implies that she is rocking her body,23 as if the imagery of the ship had taken hold of her physically and her rocking motion anticipated the motion she will soon feel as she boards the Greek ships. As Barlow states, ‘the metaphorical language indicates a subconscious preoccupation’,24 but it also prompts the realization, for both the character and the audience, that the Greek ships might be outside the scene but they are very much present in the psychological space of the play and represent a real threat, both past and future, for these women. Hecuba continues the musical imagery, contrasting her painful, sorrowful choices of song with the hatefully (στυγνῷ, 126) happy choices that were presented to the Greeks as they sailed to Troy. The same adjective is repeated a few verses later to qualify Helen (στυγνὰν, 132). The metre of the narrative is marked by the near-omnipresence of the substitution of the ‘standard’ anapaestic feet (⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ –) by the variation (– – – –), meaning that most of the verses are composed, almost exclusively, of long syllables. This variation, not unusual in Euripidean monodies,25 would have given this monody a stretched, gloomy tone, perhaps echoing an epic feeling. As with Poseidon and the towers, the Hecuba narrative focuses on a particular moment, in this case the arrival of the Greek ships at Troy, which represents for Hecuba both the destruction of Troy but also her future as she, along with the other Trojan women, is to board these same ships as a slave to be taken to Greece. Thus, the ships are intrinsically connected to her grief at the pain she has already endured, and are a materialization of her fear about her impending future. If the introduction by Poseidon opened a path for the audience to empathize with Hecuba, her fear, more than grief, moves the audience not only to feel her pain but to fear what the future will bring her, reinforcing the bond between audience and character.

23 24 25

See Barlow 1986 ad loc. Barlow 1986 ad loc. See Lourenço 2011: 46: ‘This means that it is not infrequent to come across anapaestic dimeters that look remarkably like dactylic lengths […] It will be noticed that, particularly in Euripides’ later lyric, shapes consisting mostly or even entirely of long syllables predominate.’

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The Air: Helen and Shame A comparison of two narratives presented by Helen, one in Trojan Women (923– 931) and one in Helen (23–48), might help to shed some light on the use of emotions and narrative in Euripides. In both cases, the account of the war focuses on Paris’ Judgement. In Trojan Women, Helen offers her narrative as part of her debate with Menelaus. It has long been noted that this dialogue probably owes a lot to Gorgias’ Encomium of Helen. As part of a skillfully constructed argument, the narrative is presented in the most objective terms possible. There is no exploitation of emotion; in fact, there is almost no reference to emotions. Helen has a point to prove; her narrative serves a rhetorical purpose: to show that the outcome for the Greeks would have been much worse had Paris made a different choice. Emotionally, the audience is now attached to Hecuba and the Trojan women. Euripides does not seem to want to detract from that; instead, he puts into Helen’s mouth a logical discourse aimed at discussing the situation from a strictly rational point of view.26 Helen clearly does not have Menelaus’ emotional empathy; her hope is to appeal to his rational side. It is interesting to contrast this account with the one in the prologue of Helen. In the latter play, Euripides completely subverts the Homeric version of the myth: Helen was never in Troy; in fact, she spent the whole time in Egypt, faithfully awaiting her husband. Clearly, the empathy of the audience in this play is intended to be with Helen and Menelaus, the lovebirds who struggle against the power of a barbarian tyrant who wants to separate them and marry Helen himself. Contrary to what happens in Trojan Women, where Helen refuses to accept any guilt or shame, in Helen she bears the weight of shame.27 Aristotle presents shame as ‘a feeling of pain and disturbance aroused by things that were, are, or will be bad, in the sense that they are imagined to entail disrepute’ (Rh. 1383b). One of the most interesting things in this description is that shame is presented as a feeling that is always related to the perception of others: we feel shame because something has the potential to draw criticism from someone else. Helen cannot feel guilt, in that she is absolutely innocent, yet the per-

26

27

It might not be unrelated that Helen is talking to a man. Laura McClure 1999 has pointed out the way women’s speeches change depending on whether they address men or women. On Helen’s shame in Iliad Book 3, compare also the contributions of Bowie and Rijksbaron in this volume.

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ception others have of her is very different and it is her consciousness of this perception that makes Helen feel shame. Here the focus of the narrative is on Paris’ Judgement. It is not on the gifts of the goddesses—these are not even mentioned—but on how Paris was ‘tricked’: as in the Trojan Women, Paris was tricked by Aphrodite using the lure of Helen’s beauty. In fact, the idea of beauty is fundamental to this narrative: Helen describes the goddesses as approaching Paris κάλλους πέρι (‘on a question of beauty’, 23), and again in verse 27 she refers to τοὐμὸν δὲ κάλλος (‘my beauty’). However, while the Helen in Trojan Women presents Aphrodite as bewitched by her beauty (Κύπρις δὲ τοὐμὸν εἶδος ἐκπαγλουμέν, ‘Cypris, in great admiration of my appearance’, 929), here Helen rejects her beauty as she sees it as the source of her misfortune (εἰ καλὸν τὸ δυστυχές, ‘if this misfortune of mine can be called beauty’, 27). Furthermore, Helen describes the goddess’ act as treacherous: Κύπρις προτείνασ’ ὡς Ἀλέξανδρος γαμεῖ (‘Cypris held [beauty] as bait for Alexander to marry’, 28). The most important vocabulary in her narrative is that associated with air and emptiness: ἐξηνέμωσε (‘blew to the winds’, 32); εἴδωλον ἔμπνουν οὐρανοῦ ξυνθεῖσ’ ἄπο (‘living phantom fashioned out of the upper air’, 34); κενὴν δόκησιν (‘an empty belief’, 36); and, finally, λαβὼν δέ μ’ Ἑρμῆς ἐν πτυχαῖσιν αἰθέρος | νεφέλῃ καλύψας (‘Hermes caught me up in folds of aether, veiled me in a cloud’, 44– 45). This vocabulary underlines, on the one hand, the vanity, the vacuity of this entire story, from the contest between the goddesses to Helen’s beauty and, on the other, the falsity, the game of illusions that is played by the gods and that tricks the mortals into spending ten years in a useless and absurd war. This game of illusion also underlines the nature of shame as dependent on appearances, on external judgements. Helen is judged because of an illusion; her shame is real, but her guilt is not. This narrative allows the audience, contrary to what happens in Trojan Women, to sympathize with Helen: morally, she is blameless, yet she is burdened with shame by the will of Zeus and the wrong perception of society. Helen’s narratives really clarify the way narrative can be used to influence emotions and audience reactions. Focalization in micro-narratives, as they highlight particular moments or objects, can help to attract the audience’s attention to certain emotions or open them up to connect emotionally with a certain character or situation, even in situations that are ‘emotionally aversive’, as Hogan puts it. The analysis of these passages, especially the pair concerning Helen, underscores how narrative can be used to further the audience’s emotional attachment to or distance from a character, and thus how it can be a useful means of exploring the forging of relationships between audiences and fictional characters in order to achieve emotional clarification, to borrow Oatley’s and Nussbaum’s understanding of the concept of catharsis.

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This case study is, of course, very limited not only in scope but also because it focuses solely on the text: performative aspects (many irremediably lost to us) would have had an important role in the development of emotions in the audience. At the same time, a more in-depth analysis of the political context of the performances discussed here could help shed some light on this issue.28 In any case, furthering the analysis of Attic tragedy within the scope of emotion studies seems to be an avenue of research offering interesting potential.

Bibliography Barlow, S., Euripides. Trojan Women (Warminster 1986). Burian, P., Euripides. Helen (Warminster 2007). Fischer-Lichte, E., ‘Performance as Event—Reception as Transformation’, in E. Hall, S. Harrop (eds.), Theorising Performance. Greek Drama, Cultural History and Critical Practice (London 2010) 29–42. Hall, E., ‘Aristotle’s Theory of Katharsis in its Historical and Social Contexts’, in E. Fischer-Lichte, B. Wihstutz (eds.), Tranformative Aesthetics (New York 2017) 26– 47. Hogan, P.C., ‘What Literature Teaches us about Emotion: Synthesizing Affective Science and Literary Study’, in L. Zunshine (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Cognitive Literary Studies (Oxford 2015) 273–290. Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrative in Drama. The Art of the Euripidean Messenger-Speech (Leiden 1991). Kenny, A., Aristotle. Poetics (Oxford 2013). Konstan, D., ‘The Tragic Emotions’, Comparative Drama 33 (1999) 1–21. Konstan, D., Pity Transformed (London 2001). Konstan, D., ‘Pity and Politics’, in R.H. Sternberg (ed.), Pity and Power in Ancient Athens (Cambridge 2005) 48–66. Konstan, D., The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto 2006). Kovacs, D., Euripides: Troades (Oxford 2018). Lourenço, F., The Lyric Metres of Euripidean Drama (Coimbra 2011). McClure, L., Spoken like a Woman. Speech and Gender in Athenian Drama (Princeton 1999). Nussbaum, M.C., The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and Philosophy (Cambridge 1986).

28

See Konstan 2005 for a very interesting approach to pity and politics in Attic tragedy.

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Oatley, K., ‘A Taxonomy of the Emotions of Literary Response and a Theory of Identification in Fictional Narrative’, Poetics 23 (1994) 53–74. Waterfield, R., Aristotle. The Art of Rhetoric (Oxford 2018). Woodruff, P., ‘Aristotle’s Poetics: The Aim of Tragedy’, in G. Anagnostopoulos (ed.), A Companion to Aristotle (Chichester 2019) 612–627.

chapter 20

Body and Speech as the Site of Emotions in Biblical Narrative Ilse Müllner

Emotional Restraint in Biblical Narrative* The emotionality of characters in biblical texts is often insufficient for the feelings of current readers. Accustomed to gaining insights into the emotional states of the protagonists’ souls in literary works, they expect a stronger presentation of emotional states when reading biblical texts, especially when events are told that are emotionally embedded in our lives: marriage, death, conflict, births—all these occur in detail in biblical stories, and yet are told with so little emotional intensity. The irritation that many readers today experience because of the lack of emotional worlds may be due to the fact that the biblical narrative techniques are different from those we have become accustomed to in reading novels since the nineteenth century. But in relation to other ancient texts as well, the presentation of emotionality is different. Erich Auerbach, in reference to the narrative of the binding of Isaac (Gen. 22), speaks of a cryptic biblical style in comparison with a more expressive one, which he attributes to Homer:1 On the other hand, the externalization of only so much of the phenomena as is necessary for the purpose of the narrative, all else left in obscurity; the decisive points of the narrative alone are emphasized, what lies between is nonexistent; time and place are undefined and call for interpretation; thoughts and feeling remain unexpressed, are only suggested by the silence and the fragmentary speeches; the whole, permeated with

* Translation, also of German quotations: Dale Provost. Translation of Biblical texts follow the NRSV, The Holy Bible: New Revised Standard Version. (1989). Nashville: Thomas Nelson Publishers. 1 For the historical location of this juxtaposition of Homer and the biblical narrative, see De Jong 2014: 117 with reference to Porter 2008.

© Ilse Müllner, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_022

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the most unrelieved suspense and directed toward a single goal (and to that extent far more of a unity), remains mysterious and ‘fraught with background.’2 But even if we often do not recognize them at first sight, emotions are still part of biblical narratives. Only in some places, depiction of characters’ emotions occurs directly through the voice of the narrator. These include the death wish of Elijah (1Kings 19:4) or the unwillingness and anger of Jonah towards divine mercy (Jonah 4:1). Human compassion (‫רחמים‬, rachamīm) is also noted authorially (Gen. 43:30; 1Kings 3:26; Dan. 1:9). More often, however, emotions are expressed in less direct ways. There are two literary devices in particular that are used to express emotions in biblical Hebrew: body symbolism and the use of (extended) direct speech, especially discourse that is embedded in narratives.

Body Symbolism in the Hebrew Bible Since Hans Walter Wolff’s seminal Anthropology of the Old Testament of 1974 (first published in German in 1973), in biblical anthropology the body has been studied with regard to the functions of its organs and limbs.3 This corresponds to the key position that the body has in historical emotion research and in the discussion of the concepts of emotion of the last decades, especially the concept of affect.4 Bodies are the venues for the expression and representation of emotions in the narrative texts of the Hebrew Bible. It is therefore useful to briefly review the significance of the body in biblical anthropology.5 ‘In First Testament texts,6 bodies cannot be thought of separately from their feelings, actions, and relationships—there is no term for ‘body’ in Hebrew’.7 Rather, individual organs and body parts stand pars pro toto for the whole person under a certain focus, such as transience (flesh, ‫בשׂר‬, bāsār), the power to act (hand, ‫יד‬, yād) or ethical judgment (heart, ‫לב‬, lev). Biblical anthropology, which was intensively promoted at the beginning of the 2000s, has gained

2 3 4 5

Auerbach 2013: 11–12. Cf. Bester 2007; Geiger and Schäfer-Bossert 2003; Schroer und Staubli 2001; Schmidt 2015. Cf. Rosenwein and Cristiani 2018: 62–102. The role of the bodies in biblical literature is also discussed by Van Henten in this volume, in relation to 2 Maccabees. 6 For the term ‘First Testament’ instead of ‘Old Testament’ see Zenger 1991. 7 Geiger and Schäfer-Bossert 2003: 22.

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the insight to understand human existence in biblical Hebrew in a ‘constellative’ way. This means, on the one hand, understanding the person ‘as a whole composed of individual parts and organs’,8 which is of central importance for the concept of the body that is being discussed here. On the other hand, the constellative concept of the person refers to the integration of that person in social roles and contexts.9 So every person is conceived as interwoven with other persons she or he is related to, which can easily be seen in lots of character introductions in the Hebrew Bible, such as: ‘This is Bathsheba daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite.’ (2Sam. 11:3) This is neither a matter of denying individuality, nor of conceptualizing the human being exclusively in his or her social relations—as the exterior in contrast to the interior, so to speak. It is true that sometimes a rejection of the idea of ‘inner depths’ has been formulated as a reaction to a concept of character shaped by the dichotomy of outside and inside. However, in Hebrew several terms also symbolize more inner concepts.10 The heart is regarded as the seat of thought, kidneys and liver are perceived as the seat of emotionality, and the terms uterus (‫רחם‬, ræchæm) and mercy (‫רחמים‬, rachamīm) are etymologically and mentally related. The way in which emotionality is portrayed, especially in narration, also suggests that there is a relationship between inside and outside, and that self-perception and the perception of others play a role, which should be taken into account when one studies biblical anthropology. The heart is considered the central organ in the human interior. In contrast to the currently prevailing Western idea, the heart in Hebrew is initially associated with thinking, although feelings such as displeasure and joy (1 Sam. 1:8; 2:1), fear and despair (Is. 65:17), but also passion (also Is. 65:17) may reside there. The heart is also the ethical organ, that place in the individual where rational decisions are made, moral positions developed and challenges faced with courage. This is why Solomon, who has just been anointed and installed as king responsible for justice as usual in the Ancient Near East, asks God in a dream for a hearing heart to govern the people and to distinguish good from evil (1 Kings 3:9). This function of the heart is not limited to biblical Hebrew, but is also found in textual and iconographic evidence, for instance in Egyptian contexts,

8 9 10

Janowski 2015: 45. Cf. Assmann 2009; Janowski 2010. Cf. Grohmann 2013: 36–37 in discussion with Di Vito 2009: 217–218, who in turn delimits the biblical concepts from concepts of identity as described by Taylor in 1994. Also, Janowski 2015: 45 criticizes that di Vito disregards the “internal motivation” which Janowski locates above all in the heart.

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figure 20.1

müllner

Judgement of the Dead, Book of the Dead of Hunefer (Hw-nfr) frame 3 (19th Dynasty, circa 1300 b.c.) british museum

where weighing of the heart, i.e., the moral qualification of an individual after death, determines their fate in the hereafter.11 Unlike the heart, the nose plays a minor role in our western body symbolism. In biblical Hebrew, however, the nose is the seat of wrath. If the nose burns or is inflamed, then we are talking about the anger of a person (Job 32:2–3) or even of God (Jer. 21:5). Anger can also be expressed elliptically only by the word inflame, whereas envy or jealousy are also conceptualized by fire and heat.12 Talking about a long nose means being in control of wrath, a short nose, on the contrary, means quick flammability. Finally, the third example is the throat. In most Bible translations, ‫נפשׁ‬ (næfæsh) is translated as soul, because the throat can stand for the whole person. In the words of Schroer and Staubli: Thus in the biblical view of humanity the nephesh represents the center of vitality, the life force, and the lust for life. It can suffer, rejoice, be carried away, or be rescued from death; it thirsts for God’s presence and ultimately can only be utterly at rest with God (cf. Jer. 6:16; Ps. 62:1; 131:2).13

11 12 13

Assmann 1995: 132–136. Wagner 2006: 86–87. Schroer and Staubli 2001: 96–97.

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It becomes apparent that the body or its organs are seen as the home of emotions. However—and this must also be said—biblical narratives are rather reluctant to display authorial attributions of emotionally charged body states. The emotionally charged organs such as the intestines, liver, and kidneys do not appear in their symbolic meaning in the larger biblical narratives. Liver and kidneys are present in the Torah as sacrificial material (for instance, Lev. 3:4; 4:9, etc.), but the emotional quality they develop in the Psalms (Ps. 16:9; 73:21) is missing in the narrative material. More often, then, the narrative locus of emotions is self-expression through character speeches, which disclose emotions not only for the narrator and the narratee, but also communicate them within the narrated world among characters. This happens to a large extent verbally—as the psalms in the Psalter and in narrative literature will prove. But non-verbal communication through physical action is also given a place in biblical narratives.

Non-verbal Communication of Emotions in Biblical Narratives In biblical narrative, the body can be regarded as the instrument through which emotions are communicated in the social sphere. Cain’s anger over God’s injustice is expressed by the statement that his face falls (Gen. 4:5); both Elijah and Jonah, fatigued by life, become immobile (1 Kings 19:4–9; Jonah 4:5–11). Often it is ritualized physical actions that represent emotional expression. The frequently voiced suspicion that socially embedded actions are ‘mere’ rituals without emotional content is based on an anachronistic concept of individualized inwardness, and fails to recognize that bodily actions and emotions are part of a complex interrelation. This is particularly evident in the emotion of mourning, which finds both physical and visible expression in crying, recognizes conventional gestures, and is often accompanied by shorter or longer verbal lamentations. Throughout the great narratives of the Bible, especially influential men are repeatedly shown in tears. Abraham (Gen. 23:2), Esau (Gen. 27:38), Jacob (Gen. 29:11; 37:35), again and again Joseph (Gen. 45:14 and elsewhere) and many more belong to the ‘crying heroes’ of the Hebrew Bible.14 Crying occurs in public; if it causes offence, it is because its orientation appears socially inappropriate. For example, the commander Joab rebukes his king David as he cries for his son Absalom, who was killed in battle against the troops of his father (2 Sam. 18:33–19:8). It is not the 14

The term ‘crying heroes’ goes back to Naumann 2021. A comprehensive picture of crying men is given by Kessler 2006: 30.

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crying of the king that causes offence, but the political statement that he makes with it in favour of his son and enemy Absalom. David, like other kings before and after him, cries in biblical texts, and there are also comparable scenes in the literature of the Ancient Orient outside the Bible. In fact, David’s crying in the face of the death of his enemies is such a frequent topos in the Books of Samuel that some commentators ask whether this is a narrative strategy to conceal David’s involvement in the deaths of his enemies.15 In any case, royal crying goes beyond the literary depiction of the mourning of a character. It has public, political dimensions and accompanies transitional situations in which the royal power is realigned. It is also documented, both biblically (Saul, Joash, Hezekiah, Joschiah) and extra-biblically (Gilgamesh, Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey), for several kings and heroes.16 Emotions have their place in public, they are communicated to other characters through crying, through ritualized gestures and through verbalized laments. The gestures of mourning involve several physical actions and often result in a reduction in the quality of life, which re-enacts the loss suffered on a physical level and transfers it into the realm of social communication. Mourning depicted in this way often spreads to other groups of figures. There are even groups of people, mostly women, who are especially capable of public mourning, so that our eyes may run down with tears, and our eyelids flow with water (Jer. 9:18; cf. Ez. 32:18). Both emotional contagion17 and social convention are to be assumed here, especially since it is the king himself who starts mourning. On the one hand the emotions are expressed through physical orchestration, whereas on the other hand they are carried into the social space, where they evoke parallel (attuning to grief) or complementary (consolation) reactions. Tearing of clothes, fasting, sleeping on the bare ground, shearing of head hair and beard, and self-injury are among the ritual forms that have been attested many times. They transform the whole body ‘into a realm for the expression of mourning’.18

Psalms in Narratives as Places of Emotion In several narratives of the Hebrew Bible, occasionally more detailed poetic passages interrupt the flow of the plot, forcing it to pause for a moment and, 15 16 17 18

Quesada 2010. For the crying David, see also Müllner 2013; Müllner and Naumann 2016. For examples from Homer’s epics, see the contributions of Bowie and Currie to this volume. Compare also Huitink’s chapter in this volume on Cyrus’ tears in the Cyropaedia. Cf. Breithaupt 2009: 30–42. Köhlmoos 2012.

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through style, choice of words, and orientation, open up another, usually theologically founded level in the narrative. Often these poetic texts, presented as speeches of characters, not only interrupt the narrative plot, but also seem to be dislocated in the place where they are situated. Hannah sings of an anointed king who is under the special protection of God, even though no kingdom has yet been established in the narrated world (1Sam. 2:10). Jonah is in the midst of great adversity in the belly of the huge fish and formulates a psalm of thanksgiving, when the request for salvation would be the appropriate prayer gesture (Jonah 2). And David speaks in 2Sam. 23:1–7 his ‘last words’ several chapters before his death, and even before the political testament that he will give to his son Solomon in 1Kings 2:2–9. In recent years, these poetic passages have been acknowledged on several occasions as hermeneutical keys for the interpretation of the surrounding narratives.19 The embedded psalms occupy a special position in that they are not dialogical but monological; in purely quantitative terms they take the readers along over a longer stretch of the narrative via the voice and perspective of a character—the Jonah psalm takes up about a quarter of the entire Book of Jonah. Furthermore, the embedded songs resemble the psalms that are compiled in the Book of Psalms, a separate biblical book, the collection history of which begins rather early, probably in the sixth century bce. One of the narrated songs (2Sam. 22) is even repeated almost verbatim (Ps. 18). Both the psalms collected in the Book of Psalms and the psalms embedded in narratives have special functions in relation to the depiction of the characters as well as the inner guidance of the narratee, because they open up avenues of access to the emotionality of the characters and, where appropriate, allow empathic and identificatory reception.20 Depending on the reading disposition, narrative empathy can be either identificatory-parallel or complementary to the emotionality of the lyrical self in these poems.21

Psalms and the Voice of David In the Book of Psalms, too, individual psalms are connected with narration. They can be read as a first-person narrative. Most psalms represent a sequence

19 20 21

Cf. Watts 1992; Ballhorn 2007; Steins 2007. The close connection between prayer and emotions is reflected in the contributions in Egger-Wenzel and Reif 2015. On this distinction, see Eder 2018: 74 subsequent to Mellmann 2010: 115–116.

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of events, an action in which salvation arises from a threatening situation. The suspense created in the psalms by means of differentiated metaphor is a narrative one in that it refers to the saving intervention of God that has taken place or is hoped for through ‘double emotionality’ of fear and relief.22 When in Ps. 18:16 // 2Sam. 22:17 we are told that God drew the praying David out of many waters, then the many waters embodies critical, life-threatening danger, whereas the drawing out stands for salvation through God—the direct connection between these two concepts creates a tension, which is emotionally charged as a narrative of overcoming the distress of death. In addition, many psalms in the psalter are linked to biographies of biblical characters by means of headings, especially to David with the formulation ‫( לדוד‬ledāvid). In both the Jewish and Christian traditions, David was often considered the author of the psalms, so that ‫ ל‬is accordingly interpreted as lamed auctoris (‘of David’). However, the concept of the author is controversial, especially where it is applied to ancient Jewish texts. Therefore, it has become common practice to understand this relation more openly and to translate ‫לדוד‬ as ‘in relation to David’. This then means both the voice of David, which is expressed in these poems, and an affiliation in the group of David Psalms.23 Thus, David is established as a paradigmatic worshipper in the Book of Psalms; it is the voice of ‘the sweetest psalmist of Israel’ (2 Sam. 23:1) that is heard in the psalms. The 13 biographical headings are of particular interest from a narratological point of view because, on the one hand, they can be read as short stories and, on the other hand, they link the psalms to the narrative passages within the Hebrew Bible in the narrower sense, and especially to the Books of Samuel, and complementing these narratives. Two examples are mentioned here: To the choirmaster. A Psalm of David, (‫ )לדוד‬when Nathan the prophet came to him, after he had gone in to Bathsheba. Ps. 51:1–2

To the choirmaster. A Psalm of David the servant of the Lord, who addressed the words of this song to the Lord on the day when the Lord delivered him from the hand of all his enemies, and from the hand of Saul. He said: … Ps. 18:1

22 23

Eder 2018: 383–384. Cf. Erbele-Küster 2001: 54–57; Hossfeld and Zenger 2010.

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The two headings reflect the range of possibilities, in so far as the former (Ps. 51:1–2) alludes to a concrete situation in the biography of David, which can be linked to one narrative text (2Sam. 12). In the second instance (Ps. 18:1, cf. 2Sam. 22:1) there is indeed a reference to the day when …; however, this does not refer to a singular situation, because David is repeatedly assaulted by Saul and other enemies and also saved from these offences. But instead David’s entire biography is interpreted from the perspective of his threat and divine salvation. In the Jewish and Christian traditions Psalms attributed to David have been read as a window to the emotional and religious inner life of the king. 2 Sam. 11–12 (the story of David, Bathsheba and Uriah) for instance has always been interpreted alongside Ps. 51, so that David is not only the great sinner of 2 Sam., but also the paradigm of repentance.24 The ambivalent and complex picture that the Books of Samuel draw of David is supplemented by the psalms embedded in the narration (2 Sam. 1:17–27; 22; 23:1–7) and the Davidization of the emerging Psalter by an emotionality inherent in the psalms. The embedded psalms contribute significantly to the characterization of the narrative and make David one of the round characters of the Hebrew Bible. In the poetic, religiously based portrayal of events, the songs allow an emotionalization and create an inner life of David that sets him apart from the other characters. These inner movements refer to people with whom David has a more or less intense history, so that the other characters appear through David’s lens. For example, in the lament about Saul and Jonathan: I am distressed [cramped] for you, my brother Jonathan; greatly beloved were you to me; your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. 2 Sam. 1:26

The concept of love is part and parcel of the covenant terminology in the Ancient Near East and signifies the loyalty of a vassal towards his suzerain.25 But even if the terminology of love should not be romantically emotionalized and detached from its political connotations, a reduction of love solely to the concept of covenant loyalty is misleading, especially since this reduction is often done with the intention of preventing possible echoes of a homosexual

24 25

Cf. Helms and Körndle 2015; Koenig 2019. Cf. Lapsley 2003.

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relationship of David and Jonathan.26 On the other hand, it must be emphasized that the term love (‫אהבה‬, ʾahāvāh) is not only used in the Song of Songs, but also in the Books of Samuel for relationships in which sexual desire is certainly also involved, such as Michael’s love for David (1 Sam. 18:20) and the desire of Amnon, who rapes his sister (2Sam. 13:1). The location of these lines (2Sam. 1:26) addressed to the dead Jonathan in the context of the poetic lamentation gives greater space to emotionality than the authorial statement of Jonathan’s love for David (1 Sam. 18:1–3; 19:1) is able to do. The figural focus, poetic formulation, and the further descriptions of Jonathan and his father in the immediate context contribute to this. In the self-description of David’s emotions, the physical aspect already mentioned above also comes into play. ‘I am cramped for you’ (‫צר־לי עליך‬, tzar-lī ʿālæchā) primarily describes a physical state, to which emotional qualities are attributed. The physical feeling of cramp describes a range of feelings of distress and helplessness. A wide open place, on the contrary, may represent freedom, empowerment and vitality. This body-based experience of space is also expressed, for example, in the psalm that David sings at the end of the Books of Samuel: For the waves of death encompassed me, the torrents of perdition assailed me; the cords of Sheol entangled me, the snares of death encompassed me. […] He reached from on high, he took me, he drew me out of many waters. […] He brought me forth into a broad place; he delivered me, because he delighted in me. 2 Sam. 22:5–7; 17; 20

The language in the psalm is strongly influenced by images of space, in which depth and narrowness symbolize hardship, while height and width symbolize salvation. Metaphors combine basal human experience with semantic fields, 26

A differentiated consideration of the relationship of Saul and Jonathan presented in the Books of Samuel in critical comparison with the relationship of Gilgamesh and Enkidu can be found in Römer, Thomas 2018. On the reception history of the relationship between David and Jonathan, see Harding 2013.

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so the contrast between density and width is immediately comprehensible because it can be anchored in physical experience.27

Concepts of Emotion Just as there is no generic term for ‘body’ in Biblical Hebrew, there is also no word that comes close to a generic term for ‘emotion’.28 Emotions are expressed primarily through the action of the body, the symbolism of the body, and through character speech. It becomes apparent that what Erich Auerbach describes as the ‘enigma’ of biblical storytelling has to do with the social embedding of emotions. These are hardly communicated between the narrator and the narratee as an exclusive introspection, but are present on the stage of the narrated world. From a literary-historical viewpoint that looks for coherent sources of biblical texts, especially the poetic passages have not been perceived as part of the narrative for a long time, just as the titles have not been read together with the psalms. In this way, one has long been deprived of the possibility of appreciating the poetic passages in their narrative function. This function consists to a large extent in communicating the emotions of the characters involved. This happens both within the narrated world with respect to the other characters and in the communication between narrator and narratee.

Bibliography Assmann, J., Ma’at, Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten (München 1995). Assmann, J., ‘Konstellative Anthropologie. Zum Bild des Menschen im alten Ägypten’, in B. Janowski, K. Liess (eds.), Der Mensch im alten Israel. Neue Forschungen zur alttestamentlichen Anthropologie (Freiburg / Wien 2009) 95–120.

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28

Cf. on the basal orientation metaphor of height vs. depth George Lakoff and Mark Johnson 2004: 22–29. Historically oriented researchers rightly emphasize time and again that bodily experiences are historically changeable and culturally dependent. See also Wagner 2006: 54–57. However, where points of comparison arise across cultures, these should also be named. For the thematic function of space in relation to emotions, see the Introduction to this volume. Compare in this volume also the observations of Adema on space in Dido’s Carthage, and of Kirstein on the spatial arrangement of the encounter between Odysseus and Nausicaa in Odyssey 6. Cf. Schmitz 2015: 177–178.

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Auerbach, E., Mimesis. The Representation of Reality in Western Literature, FiftiethAnniversary Edition (Princeton 2013). Ballhorn, E., ‘Mose der Psalmist. Das Siegeslied am Schilfmeer (Ex 15) und seine Kontextbedeutung für das Exodusbuch’, in E. Ballhorn, G. Steins (eds.), Der Bibelkanon in der Bibelauslegung. Methodenreflexionen und Beispielexegesen (Stuttgart 2007) 130– 152. Ben-Ze‘ev, A., ‘The Thing Called Emotion’, in Peter Goldie (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Emotion (Oxford 2012) 41–62. Bester, D., Körperbilder in den Psalmen. Studien zu Psalm 22 und verwandten Texten (Tübingen 2007). Breithaupt, F., Kulturen der Empathie (Frankfurt am Main 2009). Di Vito, R.A., ‘Alttestamentliche Anthropologie und die Konstruktion personaler Identität’, in B. Janowski, K. Liess (eds.), Der Mensch im alten Israel. Neue Forschungen zur alttestamentlichen Anthropologie (Freiburg 2009) 213–241. Eder, S., Identifikationspotenziale in den Psalmen. Emotionen, Metaphern und Textdynamik in den Psalmen 30, 64, 90 und 147 (Göttingen 2018). Egger-Wenzel, R., Reif, S.C. (eds.), Ancient Jewish Prayers and Emotions. A Study of the Emotions Associated with Prayer in the Jewish and Related Literature of the Second Temple Period and Immediately Afterwards (Berlin 2015). Eisen, U.E., Müllner, I. (eds.), Gott als Figur. Narratologische Analysen biblischer Texte und ihrer Adaptionen (Freiburg im Breisgau 2016). Erbele-Küster, D., Lesen als Akt des Betens. Eine Rezeptionsästhetik der Psalmen (Neukirchen-Vluyn 2001). Geiger, M., Schäfer-Bossert, S., ‘Körperkonzepte im Ersten Testament—Aspekte einer Feministischen Anthropologie. Eine Einführung’, in Hedwig-Jahnow-Forschungsprojekt (ed.), Körperkonzepte im Ersten Testament. Aspekte einer Feministischen Anthropologie (Stuttgart 2003) 10–28. Grohmann, M., ‘Diskontinuität und Kontinuität in alttestamentlichen Identitätskonzepten’, in M. Öhler, M. Böhm (eds.), Religionsgemeinschaft und Identität. Prozesse jüdischer und christlicher Identitätsbildung im Rahmen der Antike (NeukirchenVluyn 2013) 17–42. Harding, J.E., The Love of David and Jonathan. Ideology, Text, Reception (Sheffield 2013). Helms, D., Körndle, F. (eds.), Miserere mei, Deus. Psalm 51 in Bibel und Liturgie, in Musik und Literatur (Würzburg 2015). Hossfeld, F.L., Zenger, E., ‘Überlegungen zur Davidisierung des Psalters’, in U. Dahmen (ed.), Juda und Jerusalem in der Seleukidenzeit. Herrschaft—Widerstand—Identität. Festschrift für Heinz-Josef Fabry (Göttingen 2010) 79–90. Jannidis, F., Figur und Person. Beitrag zu einer historischen Narratologie (Berlin 2004). Janowski, B., ‘Konstellative Anthropologie. Zum Begriff der Person im Alten Testa-

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ment.’, in C. Frevel (ed.), Biblische Anthropologie. Neue Einsichten aus dem Alten Testament (Freiburg 2010) 64–87. Janowski, B., ‘Das Herz—ein Beziehungsorgan. Zum Personverständnis des Alten Testaments’, in J. van Oorschot, A. Wagner (eds.), Anthropologie(n) des Alten Testaments (Leipzig 2015) 43–64. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘After Auerbach. Ancient Greek Literature as a Test Case of European Literary Historiography’, European Review 22 (2014) 116–128. Keen, S., ‘Narrative Empathy’, in P. Hühn (ed.), The Living Handbook of Narratology (2013), lhn.uni‑hamburg.de/article/narrative‑empathy (accessed 25/08/2020). Kessler, R., ‘Männertränen’, in R. Kessler, Gotteserdung. Beiträge zur Hermeneutik und Exegese der Hebräischen Bibel (Stuttgart 2006) 30–34. Koenig, S.M., Bathsheba Survives (London 2019). Köhlmoos, M., ‘Trauer (AT)’, in M. Bauks, K. Koenen (eds.), WiBiLex (2012), bibelwissen schaft.de/stichwort/36154/ (accessed 25/08/2020). Lakoff, G., Johnson, M., Metaphors we Live By (Chicago / London 1980). Lapsley, J.E., ‘Feeling Our Way: Love for God in Deuteronomy’, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 65 (2003) 350–369. Mellmann, K., ‘Gefühlsübertragung? Zur Psychologie emotionaler Textwirkungen’, in I. Kasten (ed.), Machtvolle Gefühle (Berlin 2010) 107–119. Mroczek, E., The Literary Imagination in Jewish Antiquity (Oxford 2017). Müllner, I., ‘Dargestellte Gewalt und die Gewalt der Darstellung. Narrative Figurationen in den Davidserzählungen’, in I. Fischer (ed.), Macht—Gewalt—Krieg im Alten Testament. Gesellschaftliche Problematik und das Problem ihrer Repräsentation (Freiburg im Breisgau 2013) 286–317. Müllner, I., Naumann, T., ‘Männlichkeit in Kampf und Schmerz. Aspekte einer Geschlechteranthropologie der Samuelbücher’, in Walter Dietrich (ed.), The Books of Samuel. Stories—History—Reception History (Leuven 2016) 303–315. Naumann, T., ‘„Der König weint“—Das öffentliche königliche Weinen als Mittel sozialer und politischer Kommunikation in alttestamentlichen Texten’, in S. Kipfer et al. (eds.), The Book of Samuel and Its Response to Monarchy (Stuttgart 2021). Porter, J.I., ‘Erich Auerbach and the Judaizing of Philology’, in Critical Inquiry 35 (2008) 115–147. Quesada, J.J., ‘King David and Tidings of Death: “Character Response” Criticism’, in T. Linafelt, C.V. Camp, T.K. Beal (eds.), The Fate of King David. The Past and Present of a Biblical Icon (New York 2010) 3–18. Römer, T., ‘Homosexuality in the Hebrew Bible?’, in M. Oeming (ed.), Ahavah—Die Liebe Gottes im Alten Testament. Ursprünge, Transformationen und Wirkungen (Leipzig 2018) 213–232. Rosa, H., Resonanz. Eine Soziologie der Weltbeziehung (Berlin 2016). Rosenwein, B.H., Cristiani, R., What is the History of Emotions? (Cambridge 2018).

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Schmidt, U., ‘Anthropologie, Körper und Macht in Daniel 2’, in J. van Oorschot, A. Wagner (eds.), Anthropologie(n) des Alten Testaments (Leipzig 2015) 221–238. Schmitz, B., ‘Judith and Holofernes: An Analysis of the Emotions in the Killing Scene (Jdt 12:10–13:9)’, in R. Egger-Wenzel, S.C. Reif (eds.), Ancient Jewish Prayers and Emotions. A Study of the Emotions Associated with Prayer in the Jewish and Related Literature of the Second Temple Period and Immediately Afterwards (Berlin 2015) 177–191. Schroer, S., Staubli, T., Body Symbolism in the Bible (Collegeville, MN 2001). Steins, G., ‘Geschichte, die im Rahmen bleibt. Kanonische Beobachtungen an 1Sam 2 und 2Sam 22f’, in E. Ballhorn, G. Steins (eds.), Der Bibelkanon in der Bibelauslegung. Methodenreflexionen und Beispielexegesen (Stuttgart 2007) 198–211. Taylor, C., Quellen des Selbst. Die Entstehung der neuzeitlichen Identität (Frankfurt am Main 1994). Wagner, A., Emotionen, Gefühle und Sprache im Alten Testament. Vier Studien (Waltrop 2006). Watts, J.W., Psalm and Story. Inset Hymns in Hebrew Narrative (Sheffield 1992). Wolff, H.W., Anthropology of the Old Testament (London 1974). Zenger, E., Das Erste Testament. Die jüdische Bibel und die Christen (Düsseldorf 1991).

part 4 Greek Prose of the Classical Period

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chapter 21

Herodotean Emotions: Some Aspects Richard Rutherford

The study of the emotional aspects of Herodotus might be conducted from three points of view: the emotions of the narrator, reflected in the text chiefly by first-person comments; the emotions of the characters of the narrative; and the emotional impact on the ideal reader (in some passages it may be appropriate to distinguish particular categories of reader, as Herodotus occasionally does himself).* 1 Clearly the material is most abundant for the second category, and that will form the focus of this paper, although some observations will be made on the first, too. It seems likely that somewhere in the stacks or microfilms of the major classical libraries there exists a century-old dissertation with a title something like Quibus locis et quibus vocabulis motus animi Herodotus descripserit, but thus far I have not discovered it. Accordingly, I prepared a fairly simple database of my own, noting the person or collective group whose emotion is being referred to, the Greek terms used, and the approximate English equivalent. The resulting document was too long to be included here, but I have drawn on it in an attempt to outline some general tendencies; at the end of the paper I shall consider one famous scene in more detail.2 Previous treatments of the emotions in Herodotus’ text have normally focused on one specific type: anger, hope, envy, sorrow are among them.3 More general discussions have made clear some of the difficulties facing anyone who seeks to analyse emotion in an ancient text. One is the basic issue that we may not be able to agree whether a mental state does actually count as

* In the days when I was reviewing books for Greece and Rome, Irene’s Narrators and Focalizers was immediately recognizable as one of the best and most important books I was sent. Ever since that memorable debut, her work has been a powerful and beneficial influence on classical studies. It is a pleasure to join in celebrating her distinguished career. In writing this paper I have been greatly helped and encouraged by comments from Gregory Hutchinson. 1 Esp. those hostile to his account of the Athenians, as envisaged at 7.139. 2 I hope that in due course, when this essay is published, it will be possible to make the database available online for wider consultation. 3 Harris 2001 on anger; Lateiner 2005 on pity, 2009 on tears, 2018 on hope; Harrison 2003 on envy. Other papers by Lateiner are relevant, esp. 1977 (laughter) and 1987 (‘non-verbal communication’). See also Flory 1978.

© Richard Rutherford, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_023

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an emotion. Is pleasure an emotion? Grief clearly qualifies, but if we are told of lamentation or breast-beating, does that imply grief is present? Or again, hatred shades into contempt and disgust, which may have a rational basis or aspect (disapproval, lack of respect), but it would seem strange to designate disapproval as an emotion. Laughter, the focus of much important work, is another psycho-physiological response which is clearly associated with widely varying emotions, positive and negative.4 Further, the area covered by a Greek term may not correspond precisely with the usage of any single English word, and the same Greek term may vary in nuances, even in sense, in different passages.5 Some words have emotional weight in some cases but not in others (a case in point is ἐλπίζω, shading as it does between hope and expectation).6 In some genres emotion is foregrounded, so prominent it can hardly be ignored (tragedy comes to mind); but in Herodotus, although many passages do highlight emotional responses, we quite frequently find that the author refers to actions of those concerned but makes no comment on the state of mind that accompanies or motivates the actions. When an army takes flight, we may safely assume that fear or panic is in play, but in other cases supplementation might be unsafe. In what follows I confine myself to passages where there is explicit reference to a mental state that we would generally count as emotional.

The Emotions of the Herodotean Narrator The complex questions surrounding the Herodotean narratorial voice have been addressed in a number of papers by Carolyn Dewald, and a full treatment by her is eagerly awaited.7 Here we need only mention a few specific areas in which the narrator’s emotional reaction is foregrounded. He finds it laughable when map-makers assume that the inhabited world is surrounded by ocean (4.36.2, cf. 42); he expresses approval of certain customs (1.196–197) and strong dissent from others (1.199 ‘the most shameless custom’, 1.199; 2.64); he makes clear his irritation at the sceptical audiences who do not accept that the constitutional debate is factual (3.80.1; 6.43), and is reluctant to give figures which may provoke disbelief (1.193.4). He evinces a strong disinclination to go into

4 5 6 7

See esp. Halliwell 2008. On these and other problems see e.g. Konstan 2006, ch. 1 (cf. Cairns 2007). Powell s.v. never admits the word ‘hope’ as a suitable translation for ἐλπίς or its cognates. Esp. Dewald 1987, 2002.

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details of τὰ θεῖα πρήγματα, ‘matters relating to the gods’, whatever that covers (2.65.2)—rather than simple piety, this seems to express a consciousness that much is unknown and unknowable by mankind (cf. 2.3.2).8 But much the most prominent response is ‘wonder’ or astonishment: as has long been seen, θῶμα, θωμάζω and cognates are key terms in the work—the adjective indeed figures in the statement of his subject matter in the proem. The length of his account of Egypt is justified by the undeniable claim that this country contains πλεῖστα θωμάσια (2.35.1); of Lydia, by contrast, he remarks that it does not contain many θώματα (1.93.1). It would be pointless to list the many cases where the historian expresses wonder or describes a building or a natural phenomenon in these terms.9 The frequency with which he expresses interest in the extraordinary and amazing forms an important part of his narrative persona: we have a sense of a personality, one who is receptive to impressions and excited by novelties—sometimes almost at random, take 3.111.1: ‘The way they obtain cinnamon is even more extraordinary … (θωμαστότερον)’. On occasion he says that something is surprising and that he does not believe it—as with the allegation of Alcmeonid treachery (6.121.1, cf. 123.1): here θῶμα denotes a bizarre or implausible claim (cf. 8.8.2). It is in the area of marvels that Herodotus, his characters and his audience come closest together. He clearly expects his readers to share his amazement at great and extraordinary phenomena (proem); and notable deeds are held up for admiration. Occasionally we find characters sharing the surprise that the narrator has already expressed: thus in 8.135.1 Herodotus speaks of a ‘very great marvel’ (θῶμά μοι μέγιστον …) described by the Thebans and goes on to explain how the oracle responded to an enquirer in the tongue (Carian) which he could understand: the Thebans present at the consultation were amazed (ἐν θώματι, 8.135.3). But the narrator and his characters need not have the same reaction. Herodotus wonders at the Halicarnassian queen Artemisia’s participation in the expedition (7.99); but the Athenians’ response is more aggressive: they were indignant (δεινὸν … ἐποιεῦντο) that a woman should be attacking their city, and would have taken retribution if they could (8.93.2). The historian either has more detachment, or allows himself some patriotic satisfaction.

8 For varying views on this see Gould 1994; Harrison 2000. De Bakker observes in this volume that Herodotus’ own expressions of emotion are mostly found in non-narrative passages (n. 2). 9 It is enough to cite 1.185.3; 2.148.6, 149.1, 155.3; 3.113.1. See Munson 2001.

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Fear and Anger From this point on I concern myself solely with the emotions ascribed to the characters in the Herodotean text. It may safely be asserted that the most frequent emotional state in the History is fear.10 Combining instances of the chief verbs covering this area—φοβέω (21),11 δείδω (38), δειμαίνω (17, plus ὑπερ- 1, προ2), ἀρρωδέω (16) and καταρρωδέω (22) produces a total of 117 cases, to which the associated nouns add about a dozen more (and the adjective περιδεής two). The great majority of these refer to fear of a powerful ruler, in most cases the Persian king. Many cases in the second half of the work refer to the Greek states or armies and their fear of the invaders, though there are also references to the fear felt by the Persian commanders and troops, who dread the displeasure of their monarch (8.15, 86). Xerxes’ dialogue with Demaratus comes to mind: a mob-like army with no proper discipline will be inferior to one in which the fighting men live in fear of their ruler and the whips his generals wield (7.103). Demaratus’ famous response includes the claim that the Spartans too have a master, namely nomos, which they fear as much as Xerxes’ men fear him (7.104). Emotion becomes an indicator of ideology. Special interest naturally attaches to passages where the absolute rulers themselves are stricken with fear. The following are the main examples: 1.34.3 (Croesus fearful because of the dream foretelling his son’s death); 1.80.2 (Cyrus concerned about the Lydian cavalry); 1.86.6 δείσαντα τὴν τίσιν (Cyrus’ sense of mortality as Croesus lies on the pyre); 1.107 (Astyages’ fear after the dream portending usurpation); 3.25 (Cambyses falters when his men have recourse to cannibalism); 3.30 (Cambyses’ jealousy and fear of Smerdis); 3.65 (Cambyses’ fear after self-wounding); 3.119 (Darius fears Intaphernes may revolt); 4.140 (Darius and his army alarmed that the Ionians may destroy the bridge and deny them their route home); 7.15 (Xerxes terrified by the supernatural dream); 7.212 (Xerxes leaps up more than once from his seat in fear for his troops at Thermopylae); 8.97 (Xerxes fears the safety of his route home and resolves to return at once); 8.103 (Xerxes’ pleasure at Artemisia’s advice connected with his fear); 8.118 (Xerxes’ fear in a storm at sea); 9.109.2 (Xerxes fears Amestris’ revenge against Artyante). There are patterns here which reflect common Herodotean themes: the importance of dreams and portents; the ever-present fear of usurp-

10 11

For fear in Homer, see Van Emde Boas in this volume, whereas fear in Plato is discussed by Finkelberg and Morgan. Where my figures differ from those in Powell’s indispensable Lexicon, this is because I am restricting examples to those which use the term in the required sense. Thus φόβος can mean ‘flight, rout’ as well as actual fear.

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ation; the danger of over-reaching. Cyrus comes best out of the comparison, as the only monarch who demonstrates a brief but crucial insight into the frailty of his own situation (1.86). Xerxes has the most examples, which reflects his major role in the structure of the work; his poor showing in Books 8 and 9 includes terror-stricken flight from Greece and culminates in the debacle of his erotic misadventure, which exemplifies the decadence of the royal court. Though in the last example (9.109) his fear is for another, it is ineffectual, and his attempts to protect his brother from misfortune are clumsy in themselves and swiftly succeeded by anger and violent action. A good deal has been written about the presentation of the Persian court in Herodotus, and about the ways in which absolute monarchy constrains free debate or open expression of opinion.12 The early scenes of Book 7 are paradigmatic, with Xerxes expressing his own view emphatically and at length, and inviting comment only at the end of his exposition (7.8δ). One pattern which deserves note is the sequence in which the king hears a contribution and reacts with pleasure. ἥδομαι, the customary verb in such contexts, is used 29 times (+ ὑπερ- three times), almost exclusively by eastern rulers.13 Given this context, the way in which Solon declines to respond with flattery, and Croesus’ dissatisfaction with his visitor’s replies, are, from hindsight, all the more telling (1.30.3, 32.1, 33 οὔτε ἐχαρίζετο). The other common response of the king to advice or spontaneous contributions is anger, and often it is touch and go which way his reaction will go. Cambyses’ repeated reflex reaction to warnings, disagreement or obstacles is to fly into a frenzy. After the battle of Salamis Xerxes seeks advice from Artemisia in open counsel, and we are told that different groups of Persian leaders reacted differently: those well-disposed to her were distressed, fearing that her frankness would bring her suffering, but those who were jealous of her were delighted at the prospect of her coming to grief (8.69). A particularly powerful sequence is the story of the unfortunate Pytheas, whose wealth is second only to Xerxes’ own. His offer to contribute a huge portion of that wealth to the king’s great expedition meets with a delighted response from Xerxes, who promises him he will not regret his generosity (7.29). But later when Pytheas is unnerved by an omen and asks that one of his five sons may be left behind to take care of him and his property, Xerxes is incandescent with rage (7.39) and exacts a horrific punishment.14 12 13 14

E.g. Pelling 1997. Exceptions: 1.69 the Lacedaemonians pleased at the alliance-proposal by Croesus; 3.42 and 123 Polycrates; 5.51 Cleomenes amused by Gorgo’s precocious warning. The case of Oeobazus and Darius in 4.84 provides a simpler precedent, without the initial

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The vocabulary of anger in Herodotus is variegated. More striking is the fact that these words when used of individuals are applied overwhelmingly to nonGreeks. In the Greek world anger-terms are normally used of groups (e.g. the Thessalians in their hostility to the Phocians, 8.27 and 31). Occasional exceptions (such as Cleomenes, 6.73 or Dorieus, 5.42) tend to be figures possessing or aspiring to royal or tyrannical status. Themistocles has several altercations with other Greek leaders, but these are not described in the typical anger vocabulary used of the Persian kings (see 8.58–59, 61, 62; cf. Polycritus, 8.92). It seems that the historian is not inclined to see these disputes as rising to the same emotional heights as at the royal debates—presumably because the potential for retribution and personal revenge is more limited. In the Greek world it is commoner for disputes to be described in terms of resentment or grudges, hatred or malice (δεινὸν ποιεέσθαι, συμφορὴν ποιεέσθαι).15

Other Emotions I turn to some less frequent emotional conditions. Readers of Herodotus encounter shame at an early stage, when Io agrees to sail away with the Phoenicians (she is ashamed of her pregnancy, 1.5.2), and especially in the reaction of Candaules’ wife to her husband’s exposure of her to Gyges’ scrutiny (1.10, cf. 1.8.2). But in fact shame makes little showing after these initial episodes.16 Atossa is initially ashamed to tell anyone about the growth she detects on her breast, but when she does decide to do so and receives attention from Democedes, he requests a favour in return for treatment, assuring her that he will ask nothing shameful (3.133). This makes it look as if there is a gendered aspect to shame, but other examples count against this: the Spartan Othryades commits suicide out of survivor-guilt after the Battle of the Champions (1.82), and Croesus asks if the god Apollo is not ashamed to have encouraged him in his disastrous campaign (1.90.4).17 A different nuance is found in the Athenians’ angry speech to the dilatory Spartans early in the ninth Book: ‘in our reverence

15

16 17

pleasure and assurances. For anger, see in this volume the contributions of Bowie, Van Emde Boas, Kahane, Koning, Van der Mije (archaic epic poetry), Pelling (epic and beyond), Heerink (Latin epic), Boter (Epictetus), and Demoen (Philostratus). The standard work on the subject, Cairns 1993, has only three references to Herodotus in its index locorum. See also 1.143.2; 9.85.2. In 3.72 and 75 καταιδέομαι concerns rather the respect of subordinates for their superiors.

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(αἰδεσθέντες) for Zeus Hellenios and thinking it a dreadful act to betray Hellas, we did not assent but repudiated them [the Persians’ overtures]’ (9.7.2). It is a bad look-out for people in Herodotus who are filled with joy (περιχαρής). This adjective describes Harpagus when he supposes that Astyages has forgiven him—has not the king just invited him to dinner (1.119)? In Book 3 the Babylonians are delighted by Zopyrus’ feigned successes, unaware that they have a double agent in their midst, who will swiftly turn the tables on them (3.157.3). Oeobazus is gratified when Darius promises to grant his wish—that his son should be left behind (4.84.3); Darius did not spell out the detail that the lad would be dead and therefore unable to accompany him. Aristagoras is full of optimism as he plans his revolt (5.32), Xerxes is cheerful after the Magi’s misguided assurances of the ‘true’ meaning of an omen (7.37.3), and Mardonius is delighted that nobody responds to his proposal for a battle of champions, supposing that this indicates general Greek cowardice (9.49.1). Perhaps the darkest of all cases is in the erotic novella of Xerxes’ passion: Artyante’s pure delight at wearing the robe which Amestris had given to Xerxes. Her foolish vanity precedes the horrific revenge that the queen inflicts on her mother (9.109.3). The one more positive case18 comes in Solon’s moral tale to Croesus. The paradigm of Cleobis and Biton ends with the joy and pride of their mother, who prays that her sons may be granted the greatest blessing a man can possess: after the festival they both fall asleep in the temple and never re-awaken (1.31.4–5). The outcome does not negate their piety and her delight, but the story has at least a bitter-sweet conclusion.19 Uses of the simple verb χαίρω do not fall so readily into a pattern, but here too there is generally an ironic nuance if we consider how the story eventually turns out (following the key Herodotean principle ‘look to the end’). Thus Polycrates is delighted at the fisherman’s presentation of his prize catch (3.42.4), the Persian courtiers rejoice that the king has changed his mind and cancelled the invasion plans (7.13.3), and Xerxes is pleased and cheered up by Mardonius’ suggestion that the king should return to Persia and leave the mopping-up of the war to Mardonius (8.101.1). We have already touched on erotic passion in connection with Xerxes’ involvement first with the mother of Artyante and then with the daughter herself. The indifference with which he alters the object of desire shocks the reader, and presumably suggests the king’s sensual nature. Eros frames the History: 18

19

Different is the delight of Cambyses at his own perfect marksmanship in shooting Prexaspes’ son through the heart (3.35.3): this illustrates his maverick emotional instability, highlighted throughout the early part of Book 3. See further Chiasson 2005 on this passage.

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the first episode of the main narrative began with the declaration that Candaules was in love with his wife, an infatuation which extended to a disastrous attempt to share his pleasure. Candaules’ passion was self-destructive, Xerxes’ lust ruins one of his women and ends up destroying his own brother as well (and the audience may well be aware of future family conflict which will result in Xerxes’ own death). Other episodes highlighting this emotion are hardly more positive. Ariston of Sparta fell in love with the beautiful wife of Agetus and tricked him into surrendering her (6.62); the unsavoury episode leads to the dispute over Demaratus’ legitimacy and to his deposition. In Book 2 Herodotus relates a story that the Egyptian king Mycerinus lusted for his daughter and violated her, causing her to take her own life (131). Unnatural passion continues to be typical of kings with Cambyses, who insists on marrying his sister (3.31.2 and 6).20 It is a relief to note one case of a marriage in which initial difficulties are resolved and the husband comes to love his wife dearly (Amasis and Ladice, 2.181): the verb there, however, is not ἐρῶ but the gentler στέργω. Another term for desire is ἵμερος. The noun occurs six times and the verb three. It is never directed at a person. In one case the term refers to Polycrates’ greed for money; in three others to desire to expand or recover territory; Mardonius conceives a desire to capture Athens a second time (9.3). Other instances refer to a king’s wishes or whim: Croesus wishes to question Solon (1.30), Darius and Xerxes to survey or visit some remarkable sight (7.43 and 44). (So also of the Spartans at 6.120.) Readers will see that all the cases of erôs mentioned involve male-female relationships and that in all cases the male is the initiating party. A striking absence from the work is homoerotic relations: although the Persians are said to have learned pederasty from the Greeks (1.135), we hear of no examples in Persia or elsewhere. Yet it is hard to believe that the historian never encountered them. Especially noteworthy is the way he ignores any erotic motivation in his account of Harmodius and Aristogeiton.21 Perhaps other cases are submerged elsewhere. Given Spartan mores, we might suspect that the friendship between Ariston and Agetus had its origins in youthful flirtation (6.61–63, esp. 61.2).22

20 21 22

A recent volume (Sanders et al. 2013) surveys Greek erôs from a number of perspectives, but Herodotus is curiously absent (apart from a reference to Darius’ amorous horse!). As noted by Hornblower 2008: 436–438, 441–442, commenting on the difference between Herodotus’ account and that of Thucydides (6.54–59). Cartledge 1981 = 2001: 91–105 is generally relevant on mores but he does not make this suggestion.

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Desire for revenge is still more commonly highlighted (revenge and reciprocity, as is well-established, are red threads in the design of Herodotus’ tapestry).23 Harpagus wants revenge on Astyages (1.123), Periander wants to punish the Corcycreans for the murder of his son (3.53.7), Oroetes wants revenge on Polycrates and Darius seeks to punish Oroetes in turn (3.120, 127). Darius wants revenge on the Scythians (4.1 and 4.4), Cleomenes on Athens and on Aegina (5.74, 6.65), and so forth. The verb is usually ἐπιθυμέω, but ἐθέλω and βούλομαι are also found. The frequency of the usage, seldom intensified, is perhaps an indication that this is a generally accepted principle to explain historical events. By contrast love of freedom is seldom mentioned, despite its prominence in many accounts deriving from and improving on Herodotus.24 Pisistratus in earlier times gained support from ‘those Athenians to whom a tyrant’s rule was more welcome than liberation’ (1.62.1), a striking formulation. The Samians, as the historian comments in a notorious phrase, ‘did not, it seems, wish to be free’ (3.143.2). From the expulsion of the Pisistratids the mood changes somewhat: Cleomenes in obedience to the oracle lays siege to the Pisistratids along with ‘those Athenians who wanted to be free’ (5.64.2), and especially striking is the tribute paid in direct speech to the freedom principle in the last three Books, by Athenians and Spartans alike (see esp. 8.143, 7.135.3). But it is clear that personal ambitions and inter-state enmities play a major role as well, and that these outlive the war. Pausanias at an early stage is referred to as subsequently marrying a Persian princess, ‘having a passion (ἔρωτα σχών) to be ruler over Greece’.25 ‘Regrets … I’ve had a few’, sang Frank Sinatra. In Herodotus there are many characters who have good reason to regret their action, but rather few who are said actually to do so. The Medes regret becoming subject to the Persians and rebel in Darius’ reign (1.130); the Persian forces regret not having taken Cyrene (4.203). That Xerxes might have made offerings at the Hellespont as a result of regretting his outrageous flogging of the waters is mentioned only as a possibility (7.54.2). Cambyses’ change of heart over Croesus is a kind of horrific parody of Cyrus’ magnanimity (3.36.5 compared with 1.86). More than one person is assured by a ruler that he will not regret giving his support, and with characteristic irony that promise is not altogether borne out (Darius to Syloson, 3.140.4; Xerxes to Pytheas, 7.29.3; cf. 9.89.3, false promises of Artabazus). Other terms

23 24 25

See e.g. Immerwahr 1956; De Romilly 1971; Gould 1989: 63–85, and many others. Hornblower and Pelling 2017, see index; Pelling 2019, ch. 12, a nuanced discussion. 5.32. It should be allowed that Herodotus does cautiously say ‘if the story is true.’ The anticipatory hints at Pausanias’ downfall have often been discussed: see e.g. Pelling 2019: 209–210.

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such as μεταγινώσκω and μεταβουλεύομαι have more of an intellectual element and admit the notion of repentance at most by implication.26 (These terms are hard-worked in the episode of Xerxes’ dream (7.12, 15), but the final decision is, of course, the one which the historian views as misguided.) Closely related to regret is πόθος, ‘longing’, which is rather rare. The link with regret is clearest in the case of the Phocaeans, who have taken oaths to abandon their home and seek better fortune elsewhere, but over half of whom are overcome by homesickness and break their promises (1.165). Here we probably sympathize, but Cambyses offers a more grotesque version of the emotion in his desire for the presence of Croesus, whose execution he had recently ordered (3.36.3). Again we see how matters of life and death are subject to the arbitrary whims of an absolute ruler. An isolated reaction that clearly has supernatural overtones deserves mention. When Miltiades attempts to extract money from Paros, his initial attempt to use conventional siege methods proves futile. According to the Parian version, he is encouraged by the enigmatic figure of Timo to trespass on the sanctuary of Demeter (how this might assist him in taking the town is unclear to Herodotus). When he reaches the entrance to the shrine he is afflicted by a sudden unexplained terror, designated as φρίκη, a term Herodotus uses only here (6.134.2). A poetic word (lit. ‘shivering’), it suggests the uncanny effect of unseen forces.27 Aristotle used the related verb to describe the way that any listener is bound to respond to the tale of Oedipus (Po. 14.1453b5), and we are certainly close to tragic territory in this Herodotean episode.28 The importance of pity in Homer might lead us to expect this emotion to have similar prominence in the ‘most Homeric’ Herodotus. But in fact instances are relatively few (οἶκτος 3, οἰκτείρω 4, κατοικτείρω 4, οἰκτρότερα 1).29 Croesus’ reception οf the suppliant Adrastus is very much in the Homeric vein (as indeed is the way in which Adrastus has fled to his court as a consequence of manslaughter). But after the disastrous hunt in which Adrastus has inadvertently killed Croesus’ son, the suppliant begs for death and calls upon Croesus to punish him ‘over the corpse’. Croesus’ pity here arouses our admiration (1.45.2), but

26 27 28

29

Fulkerson 2013 is explicitly a selective treatment of her subject: she refers to Cyrus’ change of mind (or heart) over Croesus (1.86, p. 34), but does not deal with Herodotus elsewhere. On poeticisms in Herodotus see Chiasson 1982. Compare for φρίκη in this meaning also Gorgias, Encomium of Helen 9 (quoted in the Introduction). Contrast Hdt. 4.203 where a Persian army is struck by irrational panic, but there the more usual term φόβος is used, and there is no sacred setting, no sense of supernatural forces. The other obvious terms, ἔλεος and ἐλεέω, do not occur in Herodotus.

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proves fruitless; once the young man is buried and the graveside is deserted, Adrastus performs the execution himself. Later episodes are rather different in tone and outcome. The degradation of Psammenitus prompts sympathy and compassion from the Persian courtiers, and we are told that even Cambyses feels ‘a certain amount of pity’ for the dethroned king; but his order to spare the Egyptian’s son is not delivered quickly enough to be fulfilled (3.14–15). Elsewhere Periander’s pity for his son Lycophron prompts him to make a manly appeal to him to make peace, but this is an example of futile rhetoric (3.52), and the estrangement continues, extended by geographical distance. The Babylonians’ pity for the self-mutilated Zopyrus is their undoing (3.119); Aryandes’ sympathy for Pheretime leads to the atrocities which she inflicts on her enemies and which bring down on her what Herodotus sternly declares to be divine retribution (4.167.1, 202, 205); the Bacchiads’ natural softening at the sight of Labda’s baby leads them to falter in their infanticidal plans, but the child grows up to become the ruthless tyrant Cypselus (5.92). Pity seems to be a consistently pointless or even self-harming exercise.30

Xerxes and Artabanus at Abydus One major passage which employs the vocabulary of pity remains to be considered. At Abydus, seated on a throne and dais specially prepared for him, at a viewing point high above the Hellespont, Xerxes surveys the whole of his vast army as it prepares to make the crossing into Europe. Admiring the forces assembled to do his bidding, he congratulates himself, then begins to weep. Artabanus’ enquiry elicits the famous response (7.44–52, esp. 45–47.1). Only a few aspects of this splendid scene can be mentioned. The parallel with the wise-adviser scenes involving Solon–Croesus and Amasis–Polycrates is obvious, but the present example is different in several important ways. (a) Artabanus’ relations with Xerxes are closer (he is a blood-relative) and that closeness has been demonstrated by the earlier sequence of councilscene and dream-warnings involving both. Solon is a traveller who spends only a few days at the court of Croesus, and is not involved at all in his 30

As also demonstrated in Pytheas’ misconceived appeal to Xerxes’ pity at 7.38. See further Lateiner 2005. Finglass in this volume gives examples from the epic cycle, lyric and tragedy in which pity leads to unexpected, negative results. On pity in Plato, see Finkelberg in this volume.

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future misfortunes; Amasis communicates with Polycrates from a distance by letter, and deliberately breaks off their friendship to minimize the pain he may experience if and when Polycrates comes to grief. But Artabanus is bound up with Xerxes’ fate, and their conversation brings out how he dreads the potential danger to king and expedition. Although he is sent home after this dialogue, his name reappears later (three of his sons are on the expedition), the last time in an ironic context (8.54, where Xerxes prematurely sends him good news). (b) The other wise-adviser episodes involve one-way counsel: Croesus has nothing to offer in reply to Solon but dissatisfied expostulation, while Polycrates simply acknowledges that Amasis has given good advice and endeavours ineffectively to follow it. Here the dialogue is two-sided, since Xerxes attempts to answer Artabanus’ points, both on the condition of man and on the practical efforts that can be made to improve one’s chance of success. Although we know that the Persian expedition will not be the triumphant campaign which Xerxes hopes for, it is by no means clear that he has the worst of the argument on principle (see esp. his effective points at 50.1–2, 52.1). This brings out how Xerxes is not simply a puppet of destiny or a stock figure of human folly: as the climactic monarch of the work, he is made a more interesting character than that.31 (c) The initial exchange does not concentrate on Xerxes himself (whereas both the earlier episodes are very much focused on the individual being advised). It would have been possible to make Xerxes lament because although he is supreme ruler of all these men, he will not outlive them all and is mortal like them. Instead he generalizes about the entire host, and this is not a point about vulnerability in war but about the brevity of human life. (d) It goes with this that Artabanus does not in fact have any advice to give, for there is nothing he or Xerxes can do to alter the conditions of human mortality. Although I used the conventional term ‘wise adviser’ above, this is not an appropriate label here. All that he can do is deepen Xerxes’ perception of the tragedy of the human lot and twist the knife with his final metaphor (‘god in giving us a flavour (γεύσας) of life’s sweetness is found to be mean in the giving’, 46.4).32 Here too Xerxes’ response is a reasonable

31 32

On strong and weak points in Artabanus’ case see Pelling 1991, and on Xerxes in Herodotus Bowie 2007: 8–11, Baragwanath 2008: ch. 8. I have been struck by how strongly metaphor figures in the scenes involving Artabanus and Xerxes. Besides the present case see e.g. Ξέρξην ἔκνιζε ἡ Ἀρταβάνου γνώμη, 7.12.1; ἡ νεό-

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one: ‘Artabanus, human life is indeed just as you say, but let us leave that aside, and not go on thinking of evils when we have good things in hand’ (47.1).33

Conclusion A full account of emotions in Herodotus would need to be fuller and more systematic than this. Nevertheless, my conclusions are not negligible. Negative and destructive emotions seem more prominent than positive, aggression and hostility are more frequent than trust and genuine affection. The historian focuses above all on fear and anger. What is especially striking is the way that powerful figures, above all Persian kings, not only express their emotions with particularly violent force but carry them into action. Rage and passion are drivers of historical consequences. Lesser powers, including the Greek states, are generally not in a position to indulge their emotional impulses on such a scale, though individuals may still harbour resentments and seek revenge. Royal power and emotion are dangerous allies.

Bibliography Baragwanath, E., Motivation and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford 2008). Blümner, H., ‘Metapher bei Herodot’, Jahrbuch für klassische Philologie 143 (1891) 9–52. Bowie, A.M., Herodotus. Histories Book viii (Cambridge 2007). Cairns, D., Aidōs. The Psychology and Ethics of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greek Literature (Oxford 1993). Cairns, D., Review of Konstan 2006, in JHS 127 (2007) 248–249. Cartledge, P.A., ‘The Politics of Pederasty’, PCPS 27 (1981) 17–36 = P.A. Cartledge, Spartan Reflections (London 2001) 91–105. Chiasson, C.C., ‘Tragic Diction in Herodotus’, Phoenix 36 (1982) 156–161. Chiasson, C.C., ‘Myth, Ritual and Authorial Control in Herodotus’ Story of Cleobis and Biton’, AJPh 126 (2005) 41–64.

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της ἐπέζεσε, 13.1, ἔδακε λύπη, 16α2. In general metaphor in Herodotus could do with a fresh study: Blümner 1891: 9–52 is no more than a collection of material. See further Baragwanath 2008: 266–269; Lateiner 2009; Vannicelli and Corcella 2017: 356– 357 ad loc.

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De Romilly, J., ‘La vengeance comme explication historique dans l’oeuvre d’Hérodote’, REG 84 (1971) 314–357. Dewald, C., ‘Narrative Surface and Authorial Voice in Herodotus’Histories’, Arethusa 20 (1987) 147–170. Dewald, C., ‘“I didn’t give my own genealogy”: Herodotus and the Authorial Persona’, in E.J. Bakker, H. van Wees, I.J.F. de Jong (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Herodotus (Leiden 2002) 267–289. Flory, S., ‘Laughter, Tears and Wisdom in Herodotus’, AJPh 99 (1978) 145–153. Fulkerson, L., No Regrets. Remorse in Classical Antiquity (Oxford 2013). Gould, J., Herodotus (London 1989). Gould, J., ‘Herodotus and Religion’, in S. Hornblower (ed.), Greek Historiography (Oxford 1994) 91–106, repr. in J. Gould, Myth, Ritual, Memory and Exchange (Oxford 2001) 283–303. Halliwell, S., Greek Laughter. A Study of Cultural Psychology from Homer to Early Christianity (Cambridge 2008). Harris, W.V., Restraining Rage. The Ideology of Anger Control in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge, MA 2001). Harrison, T., Divinity in Herodotus (Oxford 2000). Harrison, T., ‘The Cause of Things: Envy and the Emotions in Herodotus’ Histories’, in D. Konstan, N.K. Rutter (eds.), Envy, Spite and Jealousy. The Rivalrous Emotions in Ancient Greece (Edinburgh 2003) 143–164. Hornblower, S., A Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 3 (Oxford 2008). Hornblower, S., Pelling, C., Herodotus. Histories Book vi (Cambridge 2017). Immerwahr, H.R., ‘Aspects of Historical Causation in Herodotus’, TAPhA 87 (1956) 241– 280, repr. in R.V. Munson (ed.), Oxford Readings in Classical Studies. Herodotus: Volume 1. Herodotus and the Narrative of the Past (Oxford 2013) 157–193. Konstan, D., The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks (Toronto 2006). Lateiner, D., ‘No Laughing Matter: A Literary Tactic in Herodotus’, TAPhA 107 (1977) 173– 182. Lateiner, D., ‘Non-Verbal Communications in the Histories of Herodotus’, Arethusa 20 (1987) 88–120. Lateiner, D., ‘The Pitiers and the Pitied in Herodotus and Thucydides’, in R.H. Sternberg (ed.), Pity and Power in Classical Athens (Cambridge 2005) 67–97. Lateiner, D., ‘Tears and Crying in Hellenic Historiography: Dacryology from Herodotus to Polybius’, in T. Fögen (ed.), Tears in the Graeco-Roman World (Berlin 2009) 105– 134. Lateiner, D., ‘Elpis as Emotion and Reason (Hope and Expectation) in Fifth-Century Greek Historians’, in G. Kazantzidis, D. Spantharas (eds.), Hope in Ancient Literature, History and Art. Ancient Emotions i (Berlin 2018) 131–149. Munson, R.V., Telling Wonders. Ethnography and Political Discourse in the Work of Herodotus (Ann Arbor 2001).

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Pelling, C. ‘Thucydides’ Archidamus and Herodotus’ Artabanus’, in M.A. Flower, M. Toher (eds.), Georgica. Greek Studies in Honour of George Cawkwell (London 1991) 120– 142. Pelling, C., ‘East is East and West is West—Or Are They? National Stereotypes in Herodotus’, Histos 1 (1997) 51–66, repr. in R.V. Munson (ed.), Oxford Readings in Classical Studies. Herodotus: Volume 2. Herodotus and the World (Oxford 2013) ch. 15. Pelling, C., Herodotus and the Question Why (Austin 2019). Powell, J.E., A Lexicon to Herodotus (Cambridge 1938). Sanders, E., Thumiger, C., Carey, C., Lowe, N.J. (eds.), Erôs in Ancient Greece (Oxford 2013). Vannicelli, P., Corcella, A., Erodoto. Le Storie Libro vii (Mondadori 2017).

chapter 22

Herodotus, Historian of Emotions Mathieu de Bakker

σε̄μ͂ α πατε̄ρ̀ Κλέoβολος ἀποφθιμένο̄ι Χσενοφάντο̄ι | θε̄κ͂ ε τόδ’ ἀντ’ ἀρετε̄ς͂ ε̄δ̓ ὲ σαοφροσύνε̄ς IG i3 1211

∵ Herodotus wrote his work about ‘the events that came about by men’ and set himself the task of looking for their origins and causes. In this respect, it is no surprise that emotions belong to the core of his work and feature widely throughout the narrative as driving forces behind these events.1 In this contribution I will argue that it is in the description of emotions and their effects that the moral purpose of Herodotus’ project becomes clear, and that Herodotus advocates self-restraint and moderation, virtues typically associated with σωφροσύνη, to an audience that lived through a tumultuous period of the Greek past. To demonstrate Herodotus’ alertness to this extratextual world, I will analyse a salient example from the story of king Croesus. But first I will discuss the general ways in which Herodotus as a narrator presents the emotions of his characters, and in particular those of kings and tyrants, the most prominent characters of his narrative.

Emotions in the Histories In Herodotus’ Histories, emotions are never far away.2 In the opening stories that Herodotus ascribes to the Persian ‘storytellers’, it is a ‘desire’ (θυμός, 1 For an overview of emotions in the Histories, see Rutherford in this volume. 2 Observe, however, the limited display of emotions by the narrator himself. In contrast to Thucydides, who laments, for instance, the defeated Athenians in Syracuse (Thuc. 7.87) or the © Mathieu de Bakker, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_024

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1.1.4)3 to buy whatever they like that makes the Argive princess Io and her friends visit the Phoenician merchants, who attack and abduct them, presumably driven by a similar urge. Later on, Herodotus inserts a variant version to qualify this tradition. This time it is the mutual desire of Io and the Phoenician captain and its consequences that makes her feel so ashamed (αἰδεομένη, 1.5.2) that she runs off. Io’s abduction—whatever its exact ‘emotional’ background— causes the kidnapping of Europa, and later Medea—acts that were driven, as we may derive from the way in which the story is summarized, by anger and a desire to take revenge. Further escalation occurs when Alexander steals Helen and thereby triggers the Trojan War (1.4). Emotions, then, are not good to live with, a theme that continues in the Gyges and Candaules story, in which it is again a desire (ἠράσθη … ἐρασθεὶς, 1.8.1, observe its repetition), that triggers a chain of emotions which ultimately lead to a major change in the course of history. Broadly speaking, we can observe two kinds of emotions in the Histories. First, there are ‘Ur-emotions’ like love, lust or greed, that arise, usually in individuals, when they coincidentally experience stimuli. The objects of such desires may just happen to cross the path of the experiencer, for instance when Xerxes lusts after the wife, and subsequently, the daughter of his brother Masistes (9.108), or Themistocles seizes the opportunity to extort the Carystians and Parians to quell his greed (8.112). Occasionally, clever individuals manipulate the emotions of others, as in the case of the Paeonians Pigres and Mastyas, who steer Darius’ attention towards their industrious sister and, by evoking his greed, hope to garner his support (5.12). Second, there are emotions that are not coincidental, but triggered by (aggressive) actions or words of others. When these threaten the integrity of a character or a group, they normally result in anger, fear or grief. Anger is the

victims of the Mycalessus massacre (7.30.3), Herodotus often abstains from comments in his narrative, even when reporting atrocities (the contrast was observed already by ancient critics, see Rood in this volume). He reports, for instance, without any emotional comments the story of Astyages’ revenge on Harpagus by making him eat his own son (Hdt. 1.119). Thucydides is considered the more engaging narrator, at times ‘immersing’ his narratees in absorbing narratives and almost making them experience the events by themselves, including the emotions that they evoke (Grethlein 2013: 19–52, 185–223; Allan 2019; cf. Allan et al. 2017; Allan 2020 and in this volume). Herodotus, on the other hand, shows himself more emotional in his argumentative passages, for instance in the discussion of the Nile (a rhetorical question suggestive of bewilderment at 2.22.2) or when ridiculing those who attempt to make maps of the world (4.36.2). For more examples, see Rutherford in this volume. 3 Unless otherwise indicated I refer in this chapter to Hude’s edition of Herodotus (OCT 19273).

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catalyst of the widespread pattern of retributive justice that underlies many events in the Histories.4 Fear may feature as a motive, too, as we can see in the case of Croesus, whose decision to confront the Persians is at least partially motivated by his worry that they will grow into a direct threat to his empire (1.46.1). Grief also acts as a force of reckoning, as exemplified by Harpagus, whose pain at the cruel fate of his son motivates the betrayal of his master Astyages, king of the Medes, and his desertion to the Persian Cyrus (1.123.1).5 Herodotus often registers the visible or audible aspects of emotions. In the case of speeches, he uses attributive discourse, for instance when he indicates that words are accompanied by a ‘loud scream’ (μέγα ἀμβώσας, 1.8.3; cf. 3.38.4) or spoken ‘in tears’ (δακρύων, 1.87.2; 1.112.1) or ‘in earnest’ (ἐπεστραμμένα, 8.62.1).6 Furthermore, laughing, enjoyment, and astonishment are recorded in the case of characters when they respond to unfolding events or to words that trigger emotions.7 Exceptions can be found, too, for instance when Herodotus records the laconic manner in which Dieneces shrugs off the Persian cloud of arrows at Thermopylae with the observation that it will provide some shade against the sun during the battle (7.226). In a case like this, the counterintuitive suppression of emotion by Dieneces underlines Spartan resilience. Turning to the inner world of his characters, Herodotus often refers to their desires or fears, thereby underlining that subsequent acts result from an intricate interplay of rational and emotional motives.8 This happens typically in the case of imperialist undertakings, where fear of, or anger with, the opponents, next to greed and ambition, may give rise to a decision to levy armies and prepare for war. This is exemplified by the Persian expeditions, where we find a combination of revenge for wrongs done in the past and desire to occupy more land as ulterior motives (e.g. 6.43.4–44.1, 94.1; 7.5, 8). Finally, emotions may be expressed in the words ascribed to characters. Sometimes, such words are accompanied by contextual information. When Xerxes addresses Artabanus in anger (θυμωθείς, 7.11.1), his words reflect his mood in their powerful, colourful language (‘May I not be the son of Darius, son of Hystaspes, son of …, if I fail to take revenge upon the Athenians’, 7.11.2), 4 De Romilly 1971; Gould 1989: 63–85. 5 An interesting, and not entirely clear instance of unprovoked emotion is Xerxes’ tears at the Hellespont (7.45), which are explained as caused by his pity for the human race and its mortality. See also Rutherford in this volume. 6 On this ‘attributive discourse’ (see Glossary) with Herodotus’ speeches, see De Bakker 2021: 204–207. 7 Laughing, e.g. 1.90.3; 7.103.1; enjoyment, e.g. 1.156.2; 3.119.7; 8.69.2; astonishment, e.g. 3.140.2; 9.16.4. 8 See Baragwanath 2008 for instructive examples.

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and in their directive and insulting tone (‘you should remain here with the women’, 7.11.1). In other instances, emotional pointers are absent from the narrative, but the narratees can easily surmise that emotion is involved by looking at the character’s speech. When Hermotimus takes revenge on Panionius, his address (‘O you who has of all men acquired your possessions in the most unholy manner’, 8.106.3) leaves no doubt about his emotions at the moment that he is exacting his cruel retribution. Emotions are often recorded in the context of characters who fail to attain their goals. This also holds for positive emotions such as joy. Typically, such emotions surface in dialogues, when a king ‘enjoys’ the advice of a clever counsellor (e.g. Croesus, 1.27.5, see below) or ‘laughs’ away someone’s anxiety (e.g. Xerxes, 7.105). It has been argued that the display of such emotional reactions anticipates the king’s downfall or a defeat that, if he is not killed, will replace temporary happiness with sincere grief.9 Such emotions, then, serve as narrative pointers. They create an awareness, on the part of the narratee, that those who display them may come to harm.

The Emotions of Tyrants and Kings In the Histories, kings and tyrants do not monopolize emotions, but are certainly attributed their largest share.10 Control of emotions is thematized in the narratives of the four Persian kings. Cambyses and Xerxes are portrayed as more volatile, impulsive characters, whose outbursts of anger have devastating consequences upon the course of their reigns. Cambyses clearly comes off worse in this respect, although his erratic behaviour is also explained as resulting from madness (3.29.1, 33). Ultimately, his impulsive character costs him his life, as he wounds himself unintentionally when he jumps on his horse upon hearing about the revolt of the Magi against his reign (3.64.3). In Xerxes’ case, we witness bouts of anger, for instance against Artabanus (7.11, see above), and against Pytheas (3.39.1), whose son is killed to pay for his father’s fearful request to dismiss him from the army. However, Herodotus is keen to avoid a one-sided, one-dimensional portrait of these two kings. He also shows them being capable of remorse and pity, and they respond to others with laughter and tears. Ultimately, it is their emotional instability that appears to be most 9 10

Lateiner 1977; 1982; Flory 1978; Avery 1979; Chiasson 1983. See also Rutherford in this volume. Compare also Rutherford’s overview in the previous chapter. For emotions of kings and tyrants, see also Van Henten in this volume.

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detrimental to their reigns. In Cambyses’ case, for instance, his entourage has become so distrustful of him that his assessment of the Magi’s revolt on his deathbed is met with disbelief (3.66.3). In Xerxes’ case, we witness how Mardonius subtly manipulates the king on behalf of his own agenda, initially by steering his attention to Greece (7.5), and, when the expedition encounters major setbacks, by taking over the reins from his desperate superior (8.100). Cyrus and Darius, on the contrary, are capable of managing their emotions to such extent that they know how to use them to further their interests. When the Lydians revolt under Pactyas, it is Cyrus’ ability to control his anger and decision to consult their former king Croesus (1.155) that leads to a measured response, which focuses upon the instigators of the revolt and guarantees enduring Lydian loyalty to the Persian cause.11 Darius, when confronted with the news of the sack of Sardis, postpones his revenge, asking one of his slaves to keep reminding him of the Athenians (5.105). In restraining their impulses these kings show how emotions can be used, but to better ends. Incidentally, such controlled management of emotions is not reserved for these two kings. It is in fact a trait that Herodotus highlights in characters of various backgrounds, and in women in particular. The most dramatic example of the latter is Cyno, the wife of cowherd Mitradates—in terms of social position the exact opposite of a king—who is able to devise a plan that allows the infant Cyrus to survive, although she has just delivered a stillborn child in the uncanny absence of her husband, who had been called to the city for an as yet unknown reason (1.112).12 Unrestrained and uneven emotional behaviour is also found in the case of the Greek rulers, most notably in the cases of Cleomenes of Sparta and Periander of Corinth. Cleomenes’ case is akin to that of Cambyses, as part of his odd behaviour—he perishes from self-harming—is explained as resulting from madness caused by drinking undiluted wine (6.84.3). Periander, meanwhile, is one of the most fascinating characters of the Histories, not least because he was also named among the canonical seven sages of antiquity. His entry into the Histories appears to be in harmony with this, as he diligently and soberly discloses the lies of the pirates who have thrown Arion overboard at high sea (1.24.7). Complications arise, however, in the story of the conflict with his son Lycophron, who refuses to talk to his father when he gathers that the latter has killed his mother Melissa. Boiling with rage (περιθύμως ἔχων, 3.50.3),

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Cyrus’ control of his emotions in the Histories may have inspired his characterization by Xenophon in Cyropaedia. See Huitink in this volume. Other women who keep their heads cool in the most distressing circumstances are Candaules’ wife (1.11), Gorgo (5.51), Artemisia (8.87), and, to less honourable ends, Amestris, in her revenge upon the wife of Masistes (9.111–112).

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Periander throws him out of the house and treats him as an exile. By the time he takes pity on Lycophron (οἴκτιρε, 3.52.3), the situation has escalated so badly that reconciliation is no longer possible. Periander vents his rage on his brother-in-law Procles (3.52.7), who had hinted at the family secret of his sister’s death, whilst Lycophron moves away to Corcyra, where he will eventually be murdered (3.53.3). Downright negative is the portrait of Periander in the speech of the Corinthian Socles (5.92ζ-η), who qualifies him—with a Herodotean hapax—as ‘more bloodthirsty’ (μιαιφονώτερος, 5.92ζ1) than his father Cypselus. His subsequent deeds, which include the murder of fellow-citizens and the forced undressing of the women of Corinth in an attempt to placate the spirit of Melissa are motivated by greed—Melissa’s spirit is supposed to point out the forgotten location of a hidden treasure—and also, perhaps, by fear and paranoia.13 Socles also reports Periander’s lack of control in having intercourse with Melissa’s corpse, and thereby evokes an image of the Corinthian tyrantsage that sits in oddly with his authoritative interference on behalf of Arion in Book 1.

Solon, Croesus, and the Restraint of Emotions Against the backdrop of rulers who are sometimes able, but more often unable, to restrain their emotions, I turn to the beginning of the Histories and will take a closer look at the role of emotions in the Croesus logos, which features Solon, another canonical sage. In fact, I return to the Croesus logos, as this is the part of the Histories that I studied for an MA thesis in 1999 under Irene de Jong’s supervision. I have benefited much from her narratological studies on Herodotus and historiographical narrative, of which the fabula is not a construct based upon a fictional story,14 but informed by historical events and the traditions about them.15 Narratological explorations of the Histories inevitably involve taking at least some of these events—or whatever is known about them—into account. Could the historical background enrich a narratological reading?16

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Observe ἰθέως at 5.92η3, which implies that the forced undressing was a spur-of-themoment decision. See the discussion of the fabula in Van Emde Boas’ contribution to this volume. De Jong 2004: 8–9. See also below. Recent studies argue that narratology should pay attention to the historical contexts in which the texts that are objects of analysis have been written. See Bleumer 2015; Von Contzen and Tilg 2019.

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In what follows I will explore this question in the case of Herodotus’ Solon, whose role in the Histories is to be analysed in relation to his fifth-century reputation as a politician, sage and poet, elements of which recur in the Croesus logos, and—more general—in the Histories as a whole.17 Some of these are well established, such as the allusions to Solon’s poetry in the speeches ascribed to him at Croesus’ court.18 These alert the narratee to the Athenian cityscape that emerges behind the Lydian logos, which, as Moles and Irwin have argued, includes references to empire-building and the taxing of subject states (1.26– 28), Sardes as a hub for sophists (1.29), the Athens-based story of Tellus (1.30.4– 5), and Herodotus’ reference to the Periclean notion of the ‘independent body’ (σῶμα … αὔταρκες) as voiced by Solon in his advice to Croesus (1.32.8).19 Croesus’ vexed response to Solon’s rejection of his wealth and happiness (ἐπιστρεφέως, 1.30.4, σπερχθείς, 1.32.1, cf. 1.33) befits Herodotus’ habit of making emotions explicit in the case of his kings and tyrants (see above). Elsewhere, Croesus is found to ‘enjoy’ the advice of Bias or Pittacus (1.27.5) as well as the oracles of Delphi that give him a false sense of trust in his undertakings against Cyrus (1.54.1; 56.1). He is fearful of the dream that predicts his son’s premature death (1.34.3) and takes pity on Adrastus despite his role in the death of prince Atys (1.45.2). In the story of his downfall, Croesus is initially so dejected that he does not care anymore about his life (1.85.3). Later, on the pyre, he shouts at Apollo ‘in tears’ (δακρύοντα, 1.87.2) to save him, but falls silent moments later when rescued and sitting down in the company of Cyrus (1.88.1).20 Croesus’ most extreme emotions are, however, recorded when he receives the news of the accidental death of his son Atys at the hands of Adrastus during a boar hunt. Herodotus portrays his grief with expressive verb forms. Upon hearing the news, he is ‘utterly shaken’ (συντεταραγμένος, 1.44.1), ‘complains indignantly’ (ἐδεινολογέετο) about perceived injustice, and is ‘deeply frustrated’ (περιημεκτέων, 1.44.2) by the course of events. He directs his anger at Zeus, whom he calls upon thrice in various protective capacities in what appears to

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See e.g. Branscome 2015 for the programmatic function of the Solon and Croesus episode in the Histories. Chiasson 1987; 2016; Harrison 2000: 31–63; De Bakker 2018: 146–147. Compare Thuc. 2.41.1, cf. 2.51.3. For the Athenian backdrop in Herodotus’ story of Croesus, see Moles 1996; Irwin 2013. A scene that evokes the silence and mutual admiration between Achilles and Priam in the Iliad (Hom. Il. 24.629–633), but lacks its emotional intensity. See Huber 1965: 34–35, and compare Stahl 1975 and Pelling 2006.

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be a dirge (thrênos). This type of speech act is only repeated once in the Histories, and significantly so, when Croesus thrice invokes Solon on the pyre (1.86.3). After the funeral, the king sits down ‘in a two-year period of grave grief’ (ἐπὶ δύο ἔτεα ἐν πένθεϊ μεγάλῳ κατῆστο, 1.46.1), which is eventually terminated by growing concerns about Cyrus’ empire-building. For these two years, however, Herodotus records no further noteworthy events. Apparently, Croesus’ bereavement and extensive period of mourning makes him, as well as his empire, come to a standstill.21 Within the Histories, Croesus is not the only parent to mourn the loss of a child. The motif recurs, for instance, in the cases of Harpagus, whom Astyages tricks into eating his son’s remains (1.119, see above), of Tomyris, queen of the Massagetae, whose son Spargapises kills himself out of shame during the war against Cyrus (1.213), of the traitor Phanes, whose children are butchered by Greek mercenaries (3.11), of Psammenitus, whose children are killed on the order of Cambyses (3.14), of Periander, whose son Lycophron is killed by the Corcyreans (3.53.3, see above), and of Ameinocles (7.190), a Magnesian who profits from the naval disaster that strikes the Persians at Cape Sepias, but also accidentally kills his own child.22 What all these premature deaths have in common is that they defy the standard—attested in funerary epigraphy23—of the καλὸς θάνατος, the glorious death of the young warrior at the battlefield, which forces a parent to bury a son (cf. 1.87.4). In such cases, there is ample reason to grieve, but comfort can still be found in the recollection of the son’s services for the common good, as Thucydides makes Pericles point out in his funeral oration (Thuc. 2.44) and Herodotus makes Solon say to Croesus himself in the story of Cleobis and Biton (1.31).24 Most dying sons in the Histories are, however, defenceless victims of cruelty on the part of a superior enemy, and there is nothing glorious in their deaths. Atys, the proud prince of the Lydian Empire, does not die a warrior’s death either, but is killed by friendly fire in a boar hunt, and thereby fulfils the prophetic dream of his father, who considered him his only worthy successor and is utterly devastated by his loss.

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For the intensity of Croesus’ grief, compare Ceres’ grief at the disappearance of Proserpine as described by Claudian in his De raptu Proserpinae, discussed by Gerbrandy in this volume. For the motif in reverse, see the Thermopylae narrative, in which Herodotus mentions fathers who die in battle, but leave surviving sons behind (7.205.2, 221). Cf. De Bakker 2019: 78–79. E.g. IG i3 850; 1162; 1240 (all from Athens). I thank Jacqueline Klooster for pointing out this example.

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A striking aspect of Croesus’ extreme grief about the death of his son is that it remains without consequences for the course of events as described in the narrative of the Histories. Croesus does not take revenge upon Adrastus, he does not kill himself, and the death of his son does not lead to regime change in Lydia. As we have seen above, this is different in the cases of Candaules, Cambyses, and Periander, whose unrestrained emotions change the course of history and endanger their dynasties. In Croesus’ case, however, his extreme grief does not lead to any substantial changes. His two-year long incapacity because of the pain of his loss seems to leave his empire unaffected, and he wakes up—seemingly in time—when the Persians emerge as a regional power. This contrast between Herodotus’ unusual attention to the span (two years) and details (the dirge) of Croesus’ grief and its lacking effects upon further events can be explained by reflecting upon the sources that may have informed Herodotus when he drafted the story of Croesus, and by looking at the historical context for suggestions. Attractive, in this respect, is to assume a connection between Croesus’ grief and the emergence of laws and regulations across Greece that prescribe the proper order of funerary rituals. In the case of Athens, these reforms are commonly ascribed to Solon, who, if my suggestion makes sense, would be present in the story of Croesus’ reign in yet another way. A look at the source material about the funerary reforms ascribed to Solon yields a diffuse picture, with debate about the question of whether these reforms should be interpreted as encouraging changes in social or in religious behaviour, or, perhaps, in both.25 Most sources, however, restrict openly conducted grief, as they prescribe a fixed set of clothes to women, limit their presence during the ceremony as well as their forms of lament. No dirges are supposed to be sung, according to Plutarch’s Solon (21.4–7), and no wailing is allowed, neither at the ceremony itself, nor at services of remembrance (CID i 9.19), if these are allowed at all (cf. IG xii 5.593).26 Elsewhere in the ancient world, we know of laws that curtail the length of the period of mourning.27 In general, the pain of loss is allowed to be felt, and the deceased is not to be forgotten, but it is recommended, and even prescribed, that, after a restricted period of mourning, the bereaved next of kin move on.

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See Blok 2006: 197–199 for an overview. In this respect there is irony in Plutarch’s report of Solon’s uncontrolled emotions upon hearing the false news about the death of his son (Plu. Sol. 6–7), as Jacqueline Klooster points out. The story is not found in Herodotus’ Histories. Konstan 2016: 15.

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Though problematic, these sources (both epigraphical and literary) prescribe emotionally restrained, ceremonial public behaviour in relation to the loss of a close relative that starkly contrasts with Croesus’ profuse grief and his dirge-like complaint to Zeus, as well as the two-year length of his period of mourning. As with other instances of emotions of kings and tyrants, it is not their presence itself, but the intensity with which they are felt that seems to have moved Herodotus to include them in his work. Apparently, even when such emotions remain without direct historical consequences, as in the case of Croesus’ grief, he considers them important enough to bring them under the attention of his audience, thus making it attractive to interpret them as a moral message. As has been argued by others (see above), the Croesus logos can be seen to reflect upon contemporary political developments in Greece, and in particular Athens, with Herodotus shaping the story in such a way that it may give his audience a pause for thought, and perhaps send them a warning sign. Fifth-century bce Greece was a period of legislative reforms and debates, and Herodotus may have witnessed these taking place during his life. Usually, such reforms were tied to legendary lawgivers, and this seems to have happened in the case of Solon and Athens, too.28 These reforms point at a need that communities felt to codify behaviour at funerary ceremonies. Such legal action can only be understood in a context of debate, and perhaps even tensions, about habits in use for the burial and remembrance of the deceased. In this sense, it is instructive to compare Solon’s lesson to Croesus about the limited value of his wealth and happiness. This is not so much a matter of teaching a typical ‘Greek’ lesson to barbarians,29 but instead a message that Herodotus wishes to direct to his Greek, and in particular Athenian, audience, whom he subtly encourages to restrain arrogance.30 In the same manner, Herodotus’ focus on Croesus’ profuse grief can be understood as an implicit encouragement to observe—even in the case of a life-changing event such as the death of one’s child—a restraint in emotions, so as to avoid individual, and, perhaps as a consequence, collective collapse. Emotional restraint belongs to the virtue of σωφροσύνη (‘prudence’) which is sometimes made explicit in the funerary inscriptions on behalf of the deceased.31 Often, in such epigrams, the passer-by is encouraged to reflect upon the dead and admire their qualities. Implicit is the admonition to behave 28 29 30 31

Blok 2006. The traditional view on the Solon and Croesus episode as expressed by Regenbogen 1962: 402. Duplouy 1999. See for an instructive example IG i3 1211 at the beginning of this chapter; compare IG i3

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likewise—funerary discourse is, after all, not only commemorative but also protreptic. Seen in this light, Croesus’ unrestrained grief for his son can be considered a negative example, which Herodotus fleshes out to warn his audience about the danger of unrestricted emotions. In Herodotus’ portrait of Athens, we find instances, too, of the heart defeating the Athenian mind (encouraged by Aristagoras, 5.97.2; compare Megabyxus in the Debate on Constitutions, 3.81.2). Just as kings may harm their own position by allowing themselves to be overcome by emotions, so the Greeks, and in particular the Athenians, are implicitly warned, and thereby encouraged to restrain their emotions, which must have been no easy task given the grave tensions that had arisen among the Greeks in the course of Herodotus’ life.

Conclusion My discussion of emotions in the Histories hints at Herodotus’ engagement with the events that took place in Greece in the second half of the fifth century bce. Grief must have been an emotion felt widely in this unruly period of conflicts and internecine wars, and, by focusing on Croesus’ excessive emotions, Herodotus may relate to contemporary legislative debates about the ways in which communities could manage such grief. From a narratological viewpoint, I hope to have shown that, in Herodotus’ case, crossing the boundaries between the fabula and the historical background may enrich the interpretation, for instance when we encounter references to events that remain without direct consequences in the text. Quintilian described historiography as close to poetry and as a ‘prose poem’ (carmen solutum) meant to narrate rather than persuade.32 For Herodotus, however, narrative was more than that. It was embedded in contemporary debates among the Greeks and functioned in a context of their exploration of the past, of the surrounding world, and of ways to solve problems and challenges in their society.

Bibliography Allan, R.J., ‘Herodotus and Thucydides: Distance and Immersion’, in I.J.F. de Jong, L. van Gils, C.H.M. Kroon (eds.), Textual Strategies in Greek and Latin War Narrative. Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2019) 131–154.

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1208; 1258; 1349bis. Herodotus does not single out specific individuals in his work for being σώφρων. De Jong 2004: 9.

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Allan, R.J., ‘Narrative Immersion. Some Linguistic and Narratological Aspects’, in J. Grethlein, L. Huitink, A. Tagliabue (eds.), Experience, Narrative, and Criticism in Ancient Greece. Under the Spell of Stories (Oxford 2020) 15–35. Allan, R.J., de Jong, I.J.F., de Jonge, C.C., ‘From Enargeia to Immersion. The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept’, Style 51 (2017) 34–51. Avery, H.C., ‘A Poetic Word in Herodotus’, Hermes 107 (1979) 1–10. Bakker, M.P. de, ‘Herodotus’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018) 135–152. Bakker, M.P. de, ‘A Narratological Comparison of Herodotus and Diodorus on Thermopylae’, in L. van Gils, I.J.F. de Jong, C.H.M. Kroon (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative. Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond (Leiden / Boston) 54–90. Bakker, M.P. de, ‘Herodotus’, in M.P. de Bakker, I.J.F. de Jong (eds.), Speeches in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2021) 197–222. Baragwanath, E., Motivation and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford 2008). Bleumer, H., ‘Historische Narratologie’, in C. Ackermann, M. Egerding (eds.), Literaturund Kulturtheorien in der Germanistischen Mediävistik. Ein Handbuch (Berlin / Boston 2015) 213–273. Blok, J.H., ‘Solon’s Funerary Laws: Questions of Authenticity and Function’, in J.H. Blok, A.P.M. Lardinois (eds.), Solon of Athens. New Historical and Philological Approaches (Leiden 2006) 197–247. Branscome, D., ‘Waiting for Solon: Audience Expectations in Herodotus’, Histos 9 (2015) 231–276. Chiasson, C., ‘An Ominous Word in Herodotus’, Hermes 111 (1983) 115–118. Chiasson, C., ‘The Herodotean Solon’, GRBS 27 (1987) 249–262. Chiasson, C., ‘Solon’s Poetry and Herodotean Historiography’, AJPh 137.1 (2016) 25– 60. Contzen, E. von, Tilg, S. (eds.), Handbuch Historische Narratologie (Berlin 2019). De Romilly, J., ‘La vengeance comme explication historique dans l’oeuvre d’Hérodote’, REG 84 (1971) 314–357. Duplouy, A., ‘L’utilisation de la figure de Crésus dans l’idéologie aristocratique athénienne. Solon, Alcméon, Miltiade et le dernier roi de Lydie’, AC 68 (1999) 1–22. Flory, S., ‘Laughter, Tears and Wisdom in Herodotus’, AJPh 99 (1978) 145–153. Gould, J., Herodotus (London 1989). Grethlein, J., Experience and Teleology in Ancient Historiography. ‘Futures Past’ from Herodotus to Augustine (Cambridge 2013). Harrison, T., Divinity and History. The Religion of Herodotus (Oxford 2000). Huber, L., ‘Herodots Homerverständnis’, in H. Flashar, K. Gaiser (eds.), Synusia. Festgabe für W. Schadewaldt (1965) 29–65. Irwin, E., ‘To Whom Does Solon Speak? Conceptions of Happiness and Ending Life Well in the Late Fifth Century: Contemporary Allusions in Herodotus’ Croesus Logos’, in

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K. Geus, E. Irwin, T. Poiss (eds.), Herodots Wege des Erzählens. Logos und Topos in den Historien (Frankfurt am Main 2013) 261–322. Jong, I.J.F. de., ‘Introduction’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 1–10. Konstan, D., ‘Understanding Grief in Greece and Rome’, CW 110.1 (2016) 3–30. Lateiner, D., ‘No Laughing Matter. A Literary Tactic in Herodotus’, TAPhA 107 (1977) 173– 182. Lateiner, D., ‘A Note on the Perils of Prosperity in Herodotus’, RhM 125 (1982) 97–101. Moles, J., ‘Herodotus Warns the Athenians’, in F. Cairns, M. Heath (eds.), Papers of the Leeds International Latin Seminar (Leeds 1996) 259–284. Pelling, C.B.R., ‘Educating Croesus. Talking and Learning in Herodotus’ Lydian Logos’, ClAnt 25.1 (2006) 141–177. Regenbogen, O., ‘Die Geschichte von Solon und Krösus. Eine Studie zur Geistesgeschichte des 5. und 6. Jahrhunderts’, in W. Marg (ed.), Herodot. Eine Auswahl aus der neueren Forschung (Darmstadt 1962) 375–403. Stahl, H.-P., ‘Learning through Suffering? Croesus’ Conversations in the History of Herodotus’, YClS 24 (1975) 1–36.

chapter 23

Emotions in Thucydides: Revisiting the Final Battle in Syracuse Harbour Tim Rood

That Thucydides’ History has a strong emotional component was widely recognized by ancient critics.* Dionysius of Halicarnassus, for instance, contrasted Thucydides’ superiority in showing the emotions (τὰ πάθη) with Herodotus’ excellence at representing character (τὰ ἤθη, Pomp. 3.18), while Quintilian distinguished the two historians’ skill at two different sorts of passion, with Herodotus better at portraying the ‘relaxed’, Thucydides better at the ‘excited’ emotions (ille concitatis hic remissis adfectibus melior, Inst. 10.1.73). Contrasts were also drawn by critics between the emotional effects appropriate for different genres: in dismissing Thucydides as a rhetorical model, Cicero distinguished the historian’s need to ‘hold’ (tenere) auditors from the orator’s need to ‘excite’ (concitare) them (Opt. Gen. 15). In addition, the emotional effects of particular passages were discussed, sometimes to illustrate general principles: thus Ps.Longinus cited Thucydides’ account of Athenians soldiers in the retreat from Syracuse drinking bloodied, muddy water (7.84.5)1 to support the claim that hyperbole is most effective when it is concealed and used ‘under the influence of extreme emotion’ (ὑπὸ ἐκπαθείας) in a way that chimes with the magnitude of the circumstances being described: ‘the excess and circumstance of the emotion make it believable that a drink of blood and mud was nonetheless fought over’ (Subl. 38.3). Such readings of Thucydides have met with some resistance. ‘Clinically nonemotional’ and typical of the historian’s ‘fastidiously “objective” manner’ is how one acute modern critic, Stephen Halliwell, has referred to the sentence from the retreat from Syracuse that Ps.-Longinus picked out as hyperbolically emotional.2 Halliwell reasserts a once popular image of Thucydides that has been resisted by many critics in recent decades. While disputes over the complex

* Thanks to Luuk Huitink, Scarlett Kingsley, Chris Pelling and the editors for comments and discussion; Luuk Huitink will himself be discussing 7.71 and its reception in a forthcoming article on the difficulties of narrating the experiences of battle. 1 References in this chapter are to Thucydides unless otherwise indicated. 2 Halliwell 2017: 117–118.

© Tim Rood, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_025

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narratorial tone of the History will continue, the thematic prominence of the emotions has never been in doubt: there have been detailed lexical and thematic studies of emotions such as fear and pleasure, of the opposition of passion and reason, and of the role of morale in pre-battle speeches.3 The emotions also played a leading role in one of the classics of Thucydidean scholarship, F.M. Cornford’s Thucydides Mythistoricus (1907), which controversially suggested that Thucydides was still partly in the grip of mythical schemata according to which violent passions were conceived as invading daemons. Narratological approaches to Thucydides, too, have stressed the importance of the emotions: ‘fear’, ‘hope’, ‘morale’, ‘pathos’, and ‘reason/passion antithesis’ are among the index entries in my own monograph on Thucydides, the initial inspiration for which came from Irene de Jong’s work on Homer.4 This chapter will focus on the role of the emotions in Thucydides’ account of the final sea battle at Syracuse.5 While this is one of the most frequently discussed sections of the History, a precise narratological analysis may nonetheless help to dispel some generalizations in recent scholarship about the emotions generated by visuality and experientiality; it will also allow for comparison with some eighteenth-century discussions which anticipate recent cognitive approaches to the emotions. I will focus here on three sections of the account: Nicias’ supplementary speeches to individual officers following his speech to the whole army (7.69.2); the generalizing narrative of the clashes of ship against ship (7.70.2–7); and the much-imitated account of the emotions of the spectators on the shore (7.71.1–4).

Nicias’ Encouragement Following his report of speeches made by the opposing generals, Thucydides includes, uniquely in the History, a supplementary passage of indirect discourse conveying further exhortations made by the Athenian general Nicias.

3 See Huart 1968: 59–164; for fear, de Romilly 1956, Desmond 2006; for hope, Lateiner 2018; for pleasure, de Romilly 1966; for reason/passion Edmunds 1975; for morale, Luschnat 1942. 4 Rood 1998a. The publication of Narrators and Focalizers coincided with my arrival in Oxford as an undergraduate. The book soon made itself felt: it was in a tutorial on Pindar with Robert Parker that I first heard the term ‘implicit embedded focalization’, and it was Irene’s work that led Simon Hornblower to suggest that I work on Thucydides for my doctorate. It has subsequently been a pleasure to be involved in Irene’s SAGN series from the outset. 5 On the final sea battle, see e.g. Hunter 1973: Ch. 7; Macleod 1983: 142–145; Bakker 1997; de Romilly 2012: 87–97; Bruzzone 2018.

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This passage evokes both Nicias’ own emotions and the emotional content of his appeals: Nicias, feeling consternation at the present situation and seeing what sort of danger it was and how close now, since they were all but about to put to sea, and thinking, as people experience in great contests, that all they had done was insufficient and that not enough had yet been said, he called on each of the trierarchs again, calling them by patronym, by their own name, and by tribe; demanding that they should not betray whatever personal brilliance they had, and, if their forefathers were distinguished, not to annihilate the excellence of those familial deeds; reminding them of their fatherland, the most free, and of the opportunity for all of an unregimented life in it; and saying all the things which people now in this sort of crisis would say, not guarding against old-fashioned talk—similar appeals brought forward on all occasions to wives, children and ancestral gods— but thinking them useful in their present consternation they make these invocations. thuc. 7.69.2

Nicias’ emotions in this passage are presented firstly through participles: ‘feeling consternation’ (ἐκπεπληγμένος), ‘seeing’ (ὁρῶν), ‘thinking’ (νομίσας). The first two describe his responses to external stimuli—the present situation, the proximity of danger; the third brings out his cognitive response to those stimuli. While only the first of the three participles belongs to the emotional register, an accumulation of emotion is captured by the sequence as a whole:6 the participles shift from the perfect tense (for Nicias’ emotional response to the Athenians’ present situation, considered more generally) to the present (for the immediate spectacle, abstractly processed as ‘danger’) and then to the aorist (for his feeling of inadequacy, which is shown to be spring from the preceding emotions). The cumulative force of the participles is expressed further by the narratorial generalization attached to the last of them (‘as people feel in great contests’), which naturalizes Nicias’ emotions as a typical human response.7 The emotions suggested by this clause (‘experience’, πάσχουσιν, is cognate with πάθος) underline the magnitude of the ensuing conflict, which itself can be

6 The sequence also picks up the emotional language of Nicias’ previous speech (in direct discourse), esp. the appeal to the sailors at 7.63.3 ‘not to feel too much consternation (ἐκπεπλῆχθαι)’. 7 Cf. Nicias’ appeal at 7.61.2 ‘not to experience what (πάσχειν ὅπερ) the most untried of men …’.

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read as a microcosm of the Peloponnesian War, the greatness of which Thucydides emphasizes at the start of his work (1.1; 1.23.1–3).8 The idea that Nicias’ emotions reflect a characteristic human response to crisis is reinforced by the varied attributive discourse (see Glossary) that Thucydides uses for different types of speech act. He first has Nicias employ direct address (ἐπονομάζων), moral exhortation (ἀξιῶν), and appeals to shared memory (ὑπομιμνῄσκων)—the changing verbs perhaps intimating a stereotypical rhetorical sequence. He then broadens the scope of Nicias’ utterances (ἄλλα τε λέγων ὅσα …), suggesting that it consists in part of appeals (to wives, children, gods) that are made in any such crisis, before concluding with the forceful universalizing ἐπιβοῶνται (‘they call on’).9 Further narratorial guidance is offered by the suggestion that such appeals are ‘old-fashioned’ (ἀρχαιολογεῖν). This comment has sometimes been interpreted as a sign that Thucydides is dismissive of such rhetoric, but it is better to take it as an accentuation of the emotional impact of the scene: this is the sort of crisis that removes the constraints of rhetorical self-consciousness.10 Implicit in Thucydides’ presentation of Nicias is a psychological model of the emotions. The initial claim that Nicias feels consternation ‘at the present situation’ (ὑπὸ τῶν παρόντων) is picked up by the closing comment that people make such emotional appeals thinking them useful ‘in their present consternation’ (ἐπὶ τῇ παρούσῃ ἐκπλήξει). Thucydides suggests, that is, that present circumstances give rise to the emotional response, and that the present emotions give rise to the conventional speech-act. He presents a clear progression from impulse to emotion and from emotion to cognition and utterance. The psychological model implied in the description of Nicias can be found elsewhere in the History. In speeches, characters make generalizations about the effect of visual stimuli on the emotions: for instance, Archidamus suggests that anger falls on people who suffer unexpectedly ‘at the immediate spectacle’ (ἐν τῷ παραυτίκα ὁρᾶν) of that suffering (2.11.7). In his narratorial voice, Thucydides generalizes on how war, ‘a violent teacher’, ‘assimilates the passions of the many in response to present circumstances (πρὸς τὰ παρόντα)’ (3.82.2). And in specific episodes he recalls how memory of the words of an oracle was 8 9

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For the magnitude of the battle, see 7.70.2 (‘like no other of earlier sea-battles’); 70.4 (superlatives); 71.2; 71.4; 71.7 (all cited below). The middle is used elsewhere of invocations of the gods in the Plataean debate (3.59.2; 67.2) and emotive individual appeals (7.75.4; 8.92.8). For the narratorial control allowed by indirect discourse, see Rood 2021: 233–235. Rood 1998a: 194–195. The universalizing nature of the rhetoric is reinforced by the use of patronymics (πατρόθεν), which, as the scholiast ad loc. saw, echoes Hom. Il. 10.68 (Rood 1998b: 232–236).

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shaped by experiences (2.54.3: πρὸς ἃ ἔπασχον); how an envoy departed without completing his business ‘in consternation at the size of the present troubles’ (3.113.6: ἐκπλαγεὶς τῷ μεγέθει τῶν παρόντων κακῶν); how the sight of ‘present strength’ (6.31.1: τῇ παρούσῃ ῥώμῃ) boosted morale; and again how adroit political or military actors such as Pericles and Phormion overcame the emotional distress caused by the sight of present difficulties (2.22.1: πρὸς τὸ παρὸν χαλεπαίνοντας; 2.88.3: πρὸς τὴν παροῦσαν ὄψιν … ἀθυμοῦντας). In all these passages, there is a sense of passivity: emotions are moulded by circumstance, and it takes an exceptional leader (and perhaps a leader in a more propitious situation than Nicias) to overcome them. As we shall see, the ensuing narrative of the sea battle shares this focus on the contingency of emotions.11

The Confusion of Battle Following the speeches, Thucydides describes how Nicias spreads the Athenian land-troops along the shoreline to help the fleet’s morale (7.69.3). Then both sides man their ships and the fighting begins: There was great eagerness on both sides from the sailors in sailing against the enemy whenever the order was given, and great counter-ingenuity and mutual competition among the helmsmen; the marines too were taking care that whenever ship fell on ship the effort on the deck should not fall short of the skill elsewhere; and every individual hastened to be seen as first in whatever position had been assigned. With many ships falling on one another in a small area—for these were the most ships in the smallest space to fight a sea-battle, with both fleets together a bit short of 200 ships—there were few rammings because backing and sailing through was not possible, but more frequent attacks as ship happened to fall on ship either in flight or in sailing against another. All the time a ship was approaching the men on deck used unsparingly javelins, arrows, and stones against it; and when they came close, the marines fought handto-hand and tried to board each other’s ships. And it often happened because of the narrow space that they rammed others while they were themselves rammed, and that two ships, and sometimes more, were forcibly entangled, and for the helmsmen there was defence against some

11

On emotions in response to coincidental stimuli in the case of Herodotus’ characters, see the contributions of Rutherford and De Bakker in this volume.

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and planning against others, not one by one but in many parts on all sides; and the din, which was great as many ships fell on one another caused consternation and made it impossible to hear the coxswains’ sounds. thuc. 7.70.3–6

This narrative has often been admired for its vivid evocation of the confusion of the battle. Jonas Grethlein has recently attempted to capture its effect through the idea of social or collective minds as formulated by cognitive narratologists. Criticizing complaints that the outcome of the battle is not explained, Grethlein argues that Thucydides describes the soldiers’ collective emotions during the fighting. He supports this argument with grammatical and stylistic analysis of features such as the repeated use of the imperfect tense and of the verb γίγνεσθαι (‘happen’). The imperfect tense, he proposes, ‘helps to cast the action as a collective experience’ that is ‘ongoing’; it generates a ‘displaced immediacy’ that can be identified with ‘the vantage-point of the crowd present, notably the soldiers fighting on the ships’. The use of γίγνεσθαι supports this narrative strategy by underlining that ‘the possibility of action was limited for the combatants: in the narrowness of the harbour, the battle just “happened”.’ The lack of detail about the fighting, Grethlein concludes, is ‘an attempt to represent the experience of the participants’ in a battle in which ‘intentional attacks are nearly impossible’: ‘The chaos described by Thucydides is what the soldiers standing on the ships perceive.’12 Grethlein’s analysis rightly stresses the importance of collective emotions in Thucydides’ account of the battle.13 The participants’ emotional engagement is highlighted by the use of the abstract nouns προθυμία (‘eagerness’), ἀγωνισμός (‘competition’), and ἔκπληξις (‘consternation’), all from lexical roots that pervade the closing sections of the Sicilian narrative.14 The sense of collective experience is reinforced by the stress on mutual rivalry (πρὸς ἀλλήλους; compare the force of ἀντιτέχνησις). Particularly suggestive is the generalization that ‘every individual hastened to be seen as first in whatever position had been assigned him’. The verb ‘hastened’ (ἠπείγετο) covers both the emotional intens12 13

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Grethlein 2015: 126. Similarly Rutter 1989: 55–56: 7.70 ‘pictures the desperate and confused struggle from the point of view of the combatants’ (but see n. 15 below for a qualification). For the description of collective emotions in the context of political debate, see Pelling (on Thucydides and Xenophon) and Tsakmakis (on the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia) in this volume. For collective experience in battle scenes, compare the last example of Livy’s narrative of the Battle of Lake Trasimene in Van Gils and Kroon in this volume. προθυμία: 7.67.1; 70.7; 70.8; 76, and cf. the inverse, ἀθυμία, at 7.60.5; 61.2; 76; 79.3; ἀγων-: cf. 7.56.2; 56.3; 59.2; 61.1; 61.2; 64.2; 66.1; 68.3; 69.2; 71.1; ἔκπληξις: cf. 7.42.3; 43.6; 63.3; 69.2 bis; 71.7 (also the retrospective 8.96.1).

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ity experienced by participants and the physical urgency of their efforts, while their desire to be ‘seen as first in whatever position had been assigned’ (ἐν ᾧ προσετέτακτο … πρῶτος φαίνεσθαι) marks the battle as a visual arena for the stimulation and satisfaction of emotions, repeating both the energetic mood of ‘every individual and city’ (ἔρρωτό τε πᾶς καὶ ἰδιώτης καὶ πόλις, 2.8.4) at the beginning of the war and the rivalry among the trierarchs and troops ‘in the position each was assigned’ (ᾧ τις ἕκαστος προσετάχθη, 6.31.4) at the departure of the Athenian fleet. While there is a stress on shared emotion, it is misleading to suggest that the narrative captures the collective confusion experienced by the soldiers on the ships. Thucydides is in fact at pains to separate the roles and responses of numerous different types of participant in the battle. He starts with a reference to the sailors (ἀπὸ τῶν ναυτῶν)—the men below deck pulling the oars—and (implicitly) to the coxswains who give them orders (ὁπότε κελευσθείη). He proceeds to distinguish the contributions made by helmsmen (τῶν κυβερνητῶν), by heavily armed troops on deck whose role it was to board other ships (οἵ τε ἐπιβάται), and by three different types of light-armed troop on deck—javelinthrowers, archers, and slingers (οἱ ἀπὸ τῶν καταστρωμάτων τοῖς ἀκοντίοις καὶ τοξεύμασι καὶ λίθοις).15 He then returns to the helmsmen (implicitly) in stressing the repeated pattern of (intentional) attacks and retreats; to the marines (explicitly) in expressing their attempts to board other ships (ἐπιβαίνειν, with etymological play on ἐπιβάται); and back again to the helmsmen (but now explicitly) in stressing the difficulties caused by the number of ships involved at any one time. He concludes our passage by reverting to the roles stressed at the beginning—the coxswains (now explicitly οἱ κελευσταί, picking up ὁπότε κελευσθείη) and the oarsmen (now implicitly, through the inaudibility of the coxswains’ orders). Thucydides, then, is not offering a general description of a collective experience: beyond the shared eagerness, there is no such collectivity. Rather, he provides a precise account of the separate but repeated efforts made by each participant according to the role he was given. He describes a confusing and chaotic battle without undermining the professionalism and commitment of each separate contribution.16 The focus on the distinct roles and emotions of the participants is maintained in a passage of indirect discourse that follows immediately from the section quoted above: 15 16

Rutter 1989: 56 notes that such groupings by three run through 7.69–71. Edward Copleston 1810: 159 (Professor of Poetry at Oxford) wrote that in Thucydides’ work there is ‘spread out before their eyes a crowded but not a confused picture of human affairs, exhibiting all the passions, both in their secret workings and in their fullest energy’.

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There was much encouragement and shouting on both sides from the coxswains in relation to their skill and to their immediate contentiousness, to the Athenians shouting (ἐπιβοῶντες) to force the passage out and to grasp eagerly now (νῦν), if at any time, their safe return to their fatherland, to the Syracusans and their allies shouting that it was honourable (καλὸν εἶναι) to stop them fleeing and for each of them by their victory to increase the standing of their own fatherland. The generals on both sides too, if they saw anyone backing away not under compulsion, calling on the trierarchs by name asked, the Athenians if they were withdrawing thinking the most hostile land now more their own than the sea which they possessed through no small toil, the Syracusans if when they clearly knew that the Athenians were eager to escape in every way, they were themselves fleeing from men in flight. thuc. 7.70.7–8

Thucydides here reiterates the roles of the coxswains before returning to the focus on generals and trierarchs found in Nicias’ speeches at 7.69.2. As in that earlier passage, moreover, Thucydides reports iterative speech-acts which are responses to the speakers’ emotions (here their contentiousness, expressed through the abstract πρὸς τὴν αὐτίκα φιλονικίαν) and also attempts at inspiring emotions in their auditors (explicitly, in the exhortation to act ‘eagerly’, προθύμως,17 and implicitly, through conventional appeals to the fatherland). A new development in this passage is the overt differentiation between the two sides. This separation is highlighted by the different emotions that the coxswains on the two sides call on the participants to feel. On the Athenian side, the participle ἐπιβοῶντες is followed by infinitives corresponding to orders that can be imagined as shouted haphazardly;18 the syntactical irregularity (ἐπιβοῶντες has no nominative in agreement) stresses by the shift from abstract to personal expression the coxswains’ urgent attempt to assert their agency, and that sense of urgency is reinforced by the inclusion in indirect discourse of a temporal adverb (νῦν, ‘now’) geared to the deictic centre of the speakers. On the Syracusan side, by contrast, while formally, in the absence of a new verb of speaking, ἐπιβοῶντες has again to be understood, the form of the infinitive construction (καλὸν εἶναι) conveys a statement rather than a command. The Athenians, then, can be imagined as shouting commands while the Syracusans

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Itself perceived by the Syracusan generals (προθυμουμένους, 7.70.8) and used to incentivize their own troops. For the active, cf. 4.28.3; 5.65.3 (both unruly scenes).

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make a more measured appeal that transcends concerns of immediate safety and anticipates the increase of power and fame that their actions will promote.

The Troops on the Shore After his account of the action on board the ships, Thucydides moves to the troops on the shore. First he describes the emotions—‘a strong mental contest and conflict’—that they experienced ‘while the battle was evenly balanced’—a proleptic hint of the resolution to come. Then he separates, with varied syntactical constructions, the emotions of the two sides: the home soldier (singular ὁ αὐτόθεν) is contrasted with the invaders (plural οἱ ἐπελθόντες), the former being ‘contentious for (φιλονικῶν … περί) the greater glory now’, the latter ‘fearing that (δεδιότες … μή) they might fare still worse than the present circumstances’ (7.71.1). The contrast suggests that these emotions are based on a cognitive processing of the situation as a whole rather than any immediate stimulus. Thucydides then restricts his focus to the Athenian land troops. Rather than revealing whether they did in fact boost the morale of the men on the ships, as Nicias had planned, he highlights further their own turbulence—first ‘the fear for the future like none’ that they share (7.71.2), and then the diverse emotions that result from the uneven view that they ‘were compelled’ to have of the battle: Since the spectacle was at a small distance and they were not all looking at the same time in the same direction, if any saw their own troops victorious anywhere they were encouraged and would turn to invoking the gods not to deprive them of a safe return; those who looked towards a section where they were being defeated would utter lamentation and shout, and from the sight of what was being enacted they were more enslaved (ἐδουλοῦντο) in their minds than those in the action; others still, viewing an evenly matched part of the battle, because of the unresolved continuity of the struggle passed a terrible time, even fearfully swaying with their bodies together with their opinions, for they were always all but escaping or being destroyed. In the same army of the Athenians, while the battle was evenly matched, it was possible to hear everything together, groans, cheers, winners, losers, all the things in their many forms that in a great danger a great army would be compelled to utter. Similar, too, was the experience of the men on the ships, until the Syracusans and their allies … routed the Athenians. thuc. 7.71.3–5

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Following the abrupt return to the fighting on the ships at the end of this passage, the focus on the spectators’ emotions is resumed: ‘no longer differently, but from one impulse, with laments and groans, all distressed (δυσανασχετοῦντες: a Thucydidean hapax) at what was happening’, they feel a ‘consternation (ἔκπληξις) greater than any ever’ (7.71.6–7). Thucydides’ handling of the emotions in this passage points to the same psychological model we observed earlier. He again portrays emotions aroused by danger as a catalyst for specific types of utterance: the generalizing phrase ‘all the things …’ (ἄλλα ὅσα) echoes the report of Nicias’ further speeches (7.69.2: ἄλλα τε λέγων ὅσα), the difference being that here the utterances are reported as they are heard, not as they are spoken. Another point of continuity with that earlier passage is the stress on passivity: the sounds heard are the sort of things an army ‘would be compelled’ (ἀναγκάζοιτο) to make; this compulsion itself follows from Thucydides’ stress on the land troops’ necessarily limited spectacle of the battle (cf. ἠναγκάζοντο at 7.71.2). The suggestion of passivity is reinforced by the verb used for those sounds, φθέγγεσθαι, which can be applied not just to human speech but also to noises made by animals and inanimate objects. Its use marks a progression from 7.70.6 (its only other appearance in Thucydides), where it denotes inaudible shouts. Now, it is used in a totalizing account of human noise (‘everything together’, πάντα ὁμοῦ, could be heard) that also breaks up those sounds into discrete types of utterance (cf. πολυειδῆ, ‘multi-formed’—perhaps even ‘multi-generic’19) that are determined by emotions that are contingent on the restrictions of vision. Thucydides’ handling of emotions in the narrative of the battle in the harbour is typically linked by modern scholars to the use of focalization. In an important treatment of ἐνάργεια (‘vividness’) in ancient historiography, A.D. Walker suggests that this climactic moment is ‘told from the perspective of spectators and their emotional responses to the sight’ of the destruction of the Athenian fleet, picking up the earlier narrative of the fleet’s departure, which focuses on the responses of onlookers in the Piraeus (6.30–31).20 Grethlein suggests rather that the inclusion of the onlookers has the function of ‘prefiguring the reception of the reader’: ‘the embedded audience lets the reader see the action through the lens of an eyewitness. The emotions of the bystanders become the filter through which the reader accesses the scene.’21 Behind

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20 21

Cf. the classification of speech-types at Gorgias DK 82 B 27 (‘threats were mixed with supplications, and lamentations with prayers’), a passage cited by Σ Hom. Il. 4.450–451 alongside our passage. Walker 1993: 355. Grethlein 2015: 129. Cf. Gaertner and Hausburg 2013: 133.

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these recent scholarly approaches, a long rhetorical and critical tradition can be traced. The representation of emotions was a particular concern of aesthetic theories in the Scottish Enlightenment. In his lectures on rhetoric at Glasgow, for instance, Adam Smith underlined the importance of conveying the emotions of participants and eyewitnesses: ‘no action however affecting in itself, can be represented in such a manner as to be very interesting to those who had not been present at it, by a bare narration where it is described directly without taking notice of any of the effects it had on those who were either actors or spectators of the whole affair.’22 The same idea was expressed by another leading Enlightenment philosopher, Lord Kames (Henry Home), in his aesthetic treatise Elements of Criticism. Kames backed this theory by invoking a passage of ancient criticism on Thucydides that has been much cited in recent scholarship—Plutarch’s claim that Thucydides in his narrative of the battle in Syracuse harbour strove ‘to make the listener like a spectator and instil in readers the emotions of consternation and confusion (ἐκπληκτικὰ καὶ ταρακτικὰ πάθη) felt by viewers’ (Plutarch De gloria Atheniensium 347A).23 Despite some similarities, there are important differences in the way Thucydides’ account is conceived by these various critics. The modern scholars claim that Thucydides describes the battle ‘from the perspective of spectators’ (Walker) or let readers see the action ‘through the lens of an eyewitness’ (Grethlein). Plutarch and the Enlightenment critics suggest that Thucydides makes the reader like a spectator in part at least by focusing on the emotions of the onlookers. It is the latter perspective that is preferable.24 It is not the case that the battle is described from the onlookers’ perspective: readers look at the onlookers, not through them.25 Thucydides’ stress, moreover, is on how the onlookers’ emotions are determined by their different and shifting sightlines. Their sight of the battle forms the basis of an analysis of the contingency of

22 23 24

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Smith 1963: 86. These lectures are preserved in the form of notes taken by students that were rediscovered in the 1950s. Kames [1762] 2005: 633. Cf. Plutarch’s comment at Nic. 1.1 that Thucydides was at his most pathetic (παθητικώτατος) in the Sicilian narrative. Grethlein 2018: 76, by contrast, aligns his own approach with Plutarch’s: ‘Plutarch has, it seems, identified a salient aspect of the narration’s vividness: the internal audience grants the reader a viewing point on the scene and thereby renders the account experiential.’ Compare also, in this volume, Jurriaans-Helle’s observation on the role of bystanders painted on vases in mediating the reception of the scene by the viewer, and Van Peer’s ideas about the role of the chorus in Greek Tragedy. Rightly Greenwood 2006: 40; Hornblower 1991–2008: 3.694; Huitink 2019: 204. Similarly Harman 2018: 284–286, though she allows for the possibility of a strong identification with the spectators’ emotions as Athenians.

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emotions. At the same time, as Plutarch grasped, the account of spectators’ emotions itself stirs readers’ emotions, in part by the suspense caused by narrative retardation, in part by accentuating the stakes of the battle.26 The way Thucydides focuses on the spectators points to the same sort of emotional passivity that we noted earlier in the scene.27 In this instance, however, this passivity is conveyed not just by the emotional effect of the spectacle but also by the physical reaction of the viewers of ‘evenly matched’ parts of the battle: their very bodies ‘nod with’ (ξυναπονεύοντες) their judgements of (the ups and downs of) the battle, suggesting a sympathy between mental processing of visual stimuli and bodily processing of mental stimuli. Here, it is tempting to follow Grethlein’s reading of the spectators as filters. The physical movements of these spectators mirror the reader’s cognitive responses— responses that, as recent cognitive theorists suggest, can themselves be viewed as embodied, that is, as kinetic sensorimotor reflexes set off by rich specific descriptions of movement.28 Another philosopher of the Scottish Enlightenment, David Hume, caught the effect suggestively when, invoking ‘the deep distress of the numerous Athenian army before Syracuse’, he wrote in his Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals that ‘the perusal of a history … would be no entertainment at all, did not our hearts beat with correspondent movements to those which are described by the historian’.29

Understanding Emotions The understanding of the emotions suggested by the climactic sea battle in Thucydides’ Sicilian narrative can be paralleled in other fifth- and fourthcentury authors. In discussing Aristotle’s cognitively based account of the emotions, David Konstan has spoken of ‘the contemporary cultural disposition to view the emotions as responses to stimuli in the environment, as opposed to self-subsisting inner states that are recognized through their corporeal mani26 27 28 29

The importance of narrative detail in facilitating an ‘animated and affecting description’ was rightly stressed by Adam Smith (1963: 87). Note esp. the metaphorical ‘enslaved’ (ἐδουλοῦντο: cf. 2.61.3; 4.34.1). See Cave 2016, index s.v. ‘kinesis’; Kukkonen 2019; and Grethlein and Huitink 2017, Huitink 2019 for applications to classical literature. Hume 1751: 90. Similar admiration was expressed by Grote, who in an essay on early Greece historicized the emotional effect of the description as being inaccessible to an earlier epic audience (1873: 89), and in his History of Greece offered a paraphrase of Thucydides’ account of ‘the most picturesque battle (if we could abstract our minds from its terrible interest) probably in history’ (1888: 6.158).

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festations’.30 This is the same pattern that we have observed in this chapter. More broadly, Konstan’s words capture Thucydides’ tendency to characterize individuals in terms of intellectual and physical capacities rather than inherent emotional predispositions. It is tempting to connect Thucydides’ portrayal of the emotions with other contemporary philosophical currents. Gorgias in the Encomium of Helen offers an account of the emotional effect of fearful spectacles that is structured, like Thucydides’ treatment, around the idea of a chain of stimuli: ‘the sight is disturbed and disturbs the soul’ (ἐταράχθη καὶ ἐτάραξε τὴν ψυχήν, DK 82 B 11.16). He drives the point home by writing that some people in response to frightening sights ‘have been driven out from their present mind in the present moment’ (τοῦ παρόντος ἐν τῷ παρόντι χρόνῳ φρονήματος ἐξέστησαν, B 11.17). Gorgias’ paradoxical formulation draws on the same notion of assimilation to present circumstances that we have observed in Thucydides.31 Comparisons may also be made with the theory of vision in the atomist philosopher Democritus: drawing on Plutarch’s summary of his explanation of the phenomenon of the evil eye (Quaestiones convivales 682F–683A = DK 68 A 77), James Warren has suggested that Democritus was ‘able to offer a physical, atomist account of the mechanism of interpersonal psychic harm’.32 It is not that precise parallels can be drawn between these passages and Thucydides. Rather, they suggest together a shared materialist perspective on the creation of emotional disturbance. The analytical framework of Thucydides’ battle narratives militates against recent characterizations of the experiential and immersive quality of the History. Such characterizations tend to align Thucydides with the vivid style of historiography inspired by the novels of Walter Scott and typified by Macaulay, himself a passionate admirer of Thucydides’ Sicilian narrative.33 The emotions that the Sicilian disaster have aroused in many readers seem to pull in the same direction. Nonetheless, it is worth heeding the warning against such readings advanced more than a century ago by E.C. Marchant in his school edition of Book 7: ‘the following vivid description of the behaviour of the troops on shore exhibits a curious approximation to the romantic spirit, but it wants the pathos and the freedom of romanticism; and, fine as it is, the choice and the presentment of the details serve to show how entirely foreign to Thucydides’ genius the

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Konstan 2006: 30–31. For Gorgias and Thucydides, see Spatharas 2019: 59; 72–78, with further references. Warren 2007: 99. Cf. A 135 for Theophrastus’ summary of Democritus’ theory of vision, and in general Porter 2010 for materialism in fifth-century aesthetic thought. Rood 2017: 20.

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romantic spirit was.’34 Rather than seeking to re-create the emotional experience of battle for participants or spectators, Thucydides’ ‘living image’35 transcends the field of vision available to individuals, not least by incorporating an analytical description of emotions that is itself emotionally moving. At the same time, the startlingly brief shift from the spectators to the supposedly ‘similar’ experiences of the men on the ships may hint that there are some emotions that are beyond description, if not understanding.

Bibliography Abbott, G.F., Thucydides. A Study in Historical Reality (London 1925). Bakker, E.J., ‘Verbal Aspect and Mimetic Description in Thucydides’, in E.J. Bakker (ed.), Grammar as Interpretation. Greek Literature in its Linguistic Contexts (Leiden 1997) 7–54. Bruzzone, R., ‘Thucydides’ Great Harbor Battle as Literary Tomb’, AJPh 139 (2018) 577– 604. Cave, T., Thinking with Literature. Towards a Cognitive Criticism (Oxford 2016). Copleston, E., A Reply to the Calumnies of the Edinburgh Review against Oxford (Oxford 1810). Cornford, F.M., Thucydides Mythistoricus (London 1907). Desmond, W., ‘Lessons of Fear: A Reading of Thucydides’, CPh 101 (2006) 359–379. Edmunds, L., Chance and Intelligence in Thucydides (Cambridge, MA 1975). Gaertner, J.F., Hausburg, B., Caesar and the Bellum Alexandrinum: An Analysis of Style, Narrative Technique, and the Reception of Greek Historiography (Göttingen 2013). Gibbon, E., The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, 3 vols. ([1776–1788] Harmondsworth 1994). Greenwood, E., Thucydides and the Shaping of History (London 2006). Grethlein, J., ‘Social Minds and Narrative Time: Collective Experience in Thucydides and Heliodorus’, Narrative 23 (2015) 123–139. Grethlein, J., ‘Truth, Vividness and Enactive Narration in Greek Historiography’, in T. Blank, F. Maier (eds.), Die symphonischen Schwestern (Stuttgart 2018) 69–86. Grethlein, J., Huitink, L., ‘Homer’s Vividness: An Enactive Approach’, JHS 137 (2017) 67– 91.

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Marchant 1893: 195. Compare and contrast Abbott 1925: 202–203, who thought Thucydides’ talent was for ‘the statuesque’, not ‘the picturesque’, and dismissed 7.71 (and 6.30–31) as ‘little above the powers of an average journalist’. Gibbon [1776–1788] 1994: 3.954 n. 45, picked up by Marchant ad loc.

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Grote, G., The Minor Works of George Grote, ed. A. Bain (London 1873). Grote, G., The History of Greece, 10 vols. ([1846–1856] London 1888). Halliwell, F.S., ‘The Poetics of Emotional Expression: Some Problems of Ancient Theory’, in D. Cairns, D. Nelis (eds.), Emotions in the Classical World (Stuttgart 2017) 105–123. Harman, R.S., ‘Metahistory and the Visual in Herodotus and Thucydides’, in A. Kampakoglou, A. Novokhatko (eds.), Gaze, Vision and Visuality in Ancient Greek Literature (Berlin 2018) 271–288. Hornblower, S., A Commentary on Thucydides, Three Volumes (Oxford 1991–2008). Huart, P., Le vocabulaire de l’analyse psychologique dans l’œuvre de Thucydide (Paris 1968). Huitink, L., ‘Enactivism, Enargeia and the Ancient Readerly Imagination’, in M. Anderson, D. Cairns, M. Sprevak (eds.), Distributed Cognition in Classical Antiquity (Edinburgh 2019) 169–189. Huitink, L., ‘“A Curious Approximation to the Romantic Spirit”: Phantasia in Classical Greek Historiography between Distance and Proximity’, in X. Buxton, E. Clifford (eds.), Forms of Thought. The Imagination of the Mind in Classical Athens (London, forthcoming). Hume, D., An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals (London 1751). Hunter, V.J., Thucydides the Artful Reporter (Toronto 1973). Kames, Lord, Elements of Criticism, 2 vols. ([1762] Indianapolis 2005). Konstan, D., The Emotions of the Greeks (Toronto 2006). Kukkonen, K., 4E Cognition and Eighteenth-Century Fiction. How the Novel Found its Feet (Oxford 2019). Lateiner, D., ‘Elpis as Emotion and Reason (Hope and Expectation) in Fifth-century Greek Historians’, in G. Kazantzidis, D. Spatharas (eds.), Hope in Ancient Literature, History, and Art (Berlin 2018) 131–149. Luschnat, O., Die Feldherrnreden im Geschichtswerk des Thukydides (Leipzig 1942). Macleod, C.W., Collected Essays (Oxford 1983). Marchant, E.C. (ed.), Thucydides. Book vii (London 1893). Porter, J.I., The Origins of Aesthetic Thought in Ancient Greece. Matter, Sensation, and Experience (New York 2010). Romilly, J. de, ‘La condamnation du plaisir dans l’oeuvre de Thucydide’, WS 79 (1966) 142–148. Romilly, J. de, ‘La crainte dans l’oeuvre de Thucydide’, C&M 17 (1956) 119–127. Romilly, J. de, The Mind of Thucydides, tr. by E. Rawlings ([1956] Ithaca, NY / London 2012). Rood, T., Thucydides. Narrative and Explanation (Oxford 1998). [1998a] Rood, T., ‘Thucydides and his Predecessors’, Histos 2 (1998) 230–267. [1998b] Rood, T., ‘Thucydides, Sicily, and the Defeat of Athens’, Ktèma 42 (2017) 275–295.

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Rood, T., ‘Thucydides’, in M. de Bakker, I.J.F. de Jong (eds.), Speech in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2021) 223–245. Rutter, N.K., Thucydides Books vi and vii. A Companion to the Penguin Translation of Rex Warner (London 1989). Smith, A., Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres (Oxford 1963). Spatharas, D.G., Emotions, Persuasion and Public Discourse in Classical Athens (Berlin 2019). Walker, A.D., ‘Enargeia and the Spectator in Greek Historiography’, TAPhA 123 (1993) 353–377. Warren, J., ‘Democritus on Social and Psychological Harm’, in A. Brancacci, P. Morel (eds.), Democritus. Science, the Arts, and the Care of the Soul (Leiden 2007) 87–104.

chapter 24

The Dark Side of a Narrative: The Power of Emotions, Digressions, and Historical Causes in Hellenica Oxyrhynchia Antonis Tsakmakis

By a stroke of good fortune, the extant parts of the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia, a work known to us thanks to three papyri published between 1908 and 1976,1 preserve a full account of the author’s views on the causes of the so-called Corinthian War (395–387bce, Sparta against Athens, Boeotia, Corinth, and Argos), the conflict which put an end to Spartan domination in Greece. The anonymous historian argues that the principal cause of the war was the hatred felt towards Sparta by political leaders in other major Greek cities.2 The author introduces his theory in a digression which is occasioned by the so-called Demaenetus affair (chapters 9–11), an event of minor historical importance, ignored by all other sources, but obviously picked up on by our historian as an appropriate starting-point for this discussion. I will argue that the organization of the section around the Demaenetus episode, and in particular the stylistic and narratological features employed here, enhance the persuasiveness of the account as a whole and contribute to the establishment of methodological, aesthetic, and moral principles which sustain the intended interpretation of the narrative and endorse the author’s views as to the salient role played by emotions in the historical events in question. As this role can be better understood against the background of other references to emotion in the surviving parts of the work, I will first provide an overview of the relevant passages, with a particular focus on the most prominent narrative techniques found therein.

1 First editions Grenfell and Hunt 1908 (London Papyrus); Bartoletti 1949 (Florence Papyrus); Koenen 1976 (Cairo Papyrus). Parallel sources for the period are mainly Xenophon’s Hellenica and Diodorus (who depends on the Oxyrhynchus historian, through Ephorus). The Greek text is cited from Chambers 1993 and translations from Billows 2016, with slight modifications. 2 For an emotion as the ultimate cause of a great war in earlier historians cf. Hdt. 5.105.2; 6.94; 7.1.1; 7.4.1; 7.8β; 7.9.2; 7.11.2, in combination with other causes: 6.44.1; 7.5.3; 7.8α2 (see also Rutherford and De Bakker in this volume); Thuc. 1.23.6; 1.88. Misos as the cause of the Corinthian War: Xen. Hell. 3.5.2 (but it is attributed to the people of the cities, not to individuals).

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Emotions in the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia Like Thucydides, the Oxyrhynchus historian is less interested in private matters and personal emotions; there is only one reference, namely to Agesilaus’ desire for Megabates, son of Spithridates, which belongs to this category. Even here, private motivation is interwoven with considerations related to Agesilaus’ role as a military leader, very much in the Herodotean tradition of multiple motivation:3 ‘Agesilaus received them, particularly on account of the youth, for he is said to have fallen very much in love with him (ἐπιθυμητικῶς αὐτοῦ σφόδρα σχεῖν), but afterwards also on account of Spithridates, believing that he would be a guide for their campaign and useful in other ways’ (21.4). Despite the embedded focalization (the explicit references to Agesilaus’ emotions and expectations), the narrator manifests his own controlling presence through the hierarchical ordering of Agesilaus’ motives, the hint at his own sources (hearsay), and the use of the dispassionate term ‘lad’ (μειράκιον), which is less likely to be focalized by Agesilaus, especially since the neutral tone contrasts with the foregoing warm introduction of the boy as ‘young and handsome’ by the narrator. The subsequent narrative ironically refutes Agesilaus’ expectations by emphasizing three consecutive failures to capture a city (21.5–6). Against this failure and the resultant implicit criticism of Agesilaus’ leadership, emotion appears to play anything but a constructive role.4 Battle narratives in the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia are in general unadorned, avoiding pathos; references to the participants’ emotional reactions are infrequent (most allusions to their state of mind involve visual perception and intentions). Isolated references to fear (φόβος, κατάπληξις, ταραχή) occasionally motivate the final retreat of a defeated army, setting the seal on the negative evaluation of their overall performance in battle (2.1; 8.3; 15.1).5 A more elaborate technique is deployed in 14.5, where the attribution of φόβος to the enemy is ascribed to an observer, namely Agesilaus (‘seeing them in terror’). The focalization here is complex:6 Agesilaus perceives how the enemies feel (in contrast, the 3 Cf. Baragwanath 2008: 3–4 and passim. 4 Further references to emotions of individuals in passages which cannot be reconstructed with certainty: 16.1: …]οργ̣ [… (the King’s anger as a cause of Tissaphernes’ execution?); fr. 21: ὠ]ργισμέ[ν; 5.1: φι]λοτιμίας (in a section where the Spartan Pedaritus is mentioned twice, but the term does not necessarily refer to him); 17.2: a person is praised for his lack of greed. 5 The rational aspect of φόβος is prevalent in 24.4; 25.2 (appreciation of the possible negative effects a present or future situation might have). Forms of δέδοικα (frequently used for this meaning in classical prose; cf. de Romilly 1956; pace Konstan 2007: 153–154) are not found in the text. 6 On complex focalization, see Zunshine 2011: 164–170.

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preceding narrative of the Greek attack, which is focalized through the barbarians, exclusively revolves around sensory perception; similarly, the narrator’s description of the scene lacks any hint of emotion: ‘when each of the barbarians saw the Greeks charging at them, they fled across the whole plain’). Thus, it is Agesilaus’ mental state that guides the narratee on how to interpret the narrative as a whole. The passage shows that reading the opponents’ minds, and especially discerning their emotional state (and, occasionally, foreseeing their reactions) is profitable, whereas the display of one’s emotional state can work to one’s disadvantage, particularly in battle. Collective emotions play a salient role in the mutiny of Conon’s Cypriot mercenaries in Caunus (23).7 The mercenaries were irritated (χαλεπῶς ἔφερον, 23.1) because they were not being regularly paid. Their annoyance was justified, but their ensuing reactions are exposed by the narrative as unfounded and exaggerated. The narratee has been informed in advance (22) that Conon had acknowledged the problem (the historical background of which is expounded in a detailed authorial digression, 22.2), had visited Tithraustes in order to apprise him of the situation (βουλόμενος, 22.1: the only explicit reference to Conon’s thoughts in the section), and made sure that the money was sent (the specific detail that it was taken from the confiscated treasure of Tissaphernes renders the report still more credible to the narratee). The Cypriots, however, put their trust in misleading and malign rumours (διαβαλλόντων, 23.1) which alleged the contrary, and demonstrated their hostility towards Conon by electing a Carpasian as their general (23.1). Although the situation seemed to be under control (Conon had discussed the matter with the ‘general’; the ‘general’ followed Conon while he was walking), a skirmish broke out when Conon’s guard harassed the Carpasian (23.2–3). Because of the escalation of the situation, Conon executed the ‘general’ and sixty rebels (23.4–5). The news also sparked off anger in Conon’s main camp on Rhodes, where a second mutiny broke out. Conon returned, punished the initiators and distributed the salary (23.6). In the case of the mercenaries, emotion prevails over rational assessment of the situation and leads the Cypriots to the erroneous conviction that Conon is going to deceive them (πεπεισμένοι 23.3, cf. ἀναπεισθέντες 23.1). Conversely, Conon’s recognition of the potentially devastating effects of the soldiers’ emotional reaction prompts him to defend his own interests, so that the rebellion backfires on the rebels. His judgement and foresight furthermore shield him against even an unpredictable development, namely the spontaneous reaction 7 See also Rood’s contribution to this volume on collective emotions and experiences in Thucydides’ narrative of the naval battle in Syracuse harbour.

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of his guard, who also act under the influence of hostile emotions towards the man (‘they wished to keep him in the city so that he might pay the penalty for his wrong-doing’, 23.3).8 In fact, the episode demonstrates the indirect effects of emotions: the irritation on the part of the Cypriots provokes the anger of Conon’s guards towards them and thus sets in motion a chain of disastrous events. Although Conon is the winner of this covert game of mind-reading, with one exception (see above), we are not given access to his mind. We infer his thoughts from his actions, but mostly from his speeches, as in numerous instances he expresses himself verbally (22.3 λέγοντος; 23.1 διελέ]γετο; 23.2 ἔφασκεν; 23.5 εἶ]πεν—κελεύσας). Conon’s words are never deceitful, so that narratees can realize that he is portrayed as a reliable, insightful, and socially competent leader; the lack of any reference to his emotions suggests that he is able to control them, even in the midst of a crisis.9 The author’s interest in collective emotions is also evident in a passage which deals with the reaction of the Athenians to the battle of Kerata, on the border between Attica and the Megarid (409).10 The Athenians were victorious against the Megarians and their allies, amongst them a Spartan contingent, yet the people in Athens had mixed feelings about the victory: they ‘were angry at the generals and took it ill, considering that they had confronted the danger rashly and gambled the entire fate of the state (ὠργίζοντο καὶ χαλεπῶς εἶ[χο]ν ὑπολαμβάνοντες προπετῶς αὐ[το]ὺς ἀνελέσθαι τὸν κίνδ[υ]νον καὶ κυ|[βε]ῦσαι περὶ ὅλης τῆς πόλεως); but they were delighted with the victory. For it so happened that they had never before defeated the Lacedaemonians since the campaign at Pylos’ (4.2).11 The preserved text (from the middle of the battle onwards) does not prompt the narratee to anticipate the anger of the Athenians; perhaps this is a conscious strategy to suggest the narrator’s critical stance towards them; rather, it is focalization which conveys criticism: the figurative language used to explain the Athenians’ anger evokes an impression of authenticity and exposes the reaction as remarkably exaggerated. Indeed, a revisiting of the battle narrative may lead readers to infer a possible explanation—though not justification—for the anger: the Lacedaemonians, who were presumably still

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On the connection between anger and revenge: Arist. Rh. 1378a31–33; Konstan 2007: 41–76. On the virtue of emotional control in historiography, see in this volume the contributions of De Bakker (in Herodotus’ Croesus Logos) and Huitink (in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia). Compare also Van Henten on emotional control in 2Maccabees. For the date, see Bleckmann 1998: 287. The generals were Leotrophides and Timarchus (Diod. Sic. 13.65.1–2). The end is corrupt; the reference to Pylos was suggested by Bartoletti.

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in the vicinity of the hills, could either have surrounded the Athenian force that pursued the Megarians towards Megara or invaded Attica. Nevertheless, the felicitous outcome of the operation and the apparently limited size of the Lacedaemonian force suggest that this fear was exaggerated. Thus, additional contextual information is required in order to fully explain the anger elicited by the event. This is also consistent with the author’s practice, since he offers additional background information to explain the (similarly exaggerated)12 joy of the Athenians, namely that this was the first success of the Athenian infantry against Spartans since Pylos. Because no background information is offered as an explanation for the anger, we must resort to our knowledge from other sources in order to understand the emergence of this collective emotion. Collective ὀργή was not a rarity in a democratic city like Athens,13 but while anger is usually the consequence of a disaster, its emergence after a victory confirms the unpredictable character of the Athenians and provides an insight into their psychology in the wake of Sicily, dominated as this was by a feeling of vulnerability and distrust; they feared that any exposure to danger might prove lethal for the city.14 It is useful to recall that ‘the Athenians’ are mostly treated as an identifiable collective character15 both in the historian’s predecessor, Thucydides, and in texts of various genres ranging from comedy to rhetoric. It might not be too far-fetched to suggest that, apart from contextual knowledge concerning the prevailing mood in Athens during this period, the Oxyrhynchus historian presupposes this stock image of the Athenian demos with its well-established characteristics: instability, unpredictability, suspicion of city officials.16 In sum, the Kerata narrative encourages different, overlaying readerly approaches which entail a variety of cognitive procedures: first, as a narration accessed from the narrator’s perspective; next, as an episode whose historical interpretation is enhanced by its focalization through the Athenians, who import contextual knowledge from their collective memory; finally, the text prompts readers to consider the broader historical context in order to better

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In classical prose, περιχαρής usually carries connotations of excess (Isoc. 1.42; Pl. Ti. 86b; Arist. Eth. Nic. 1124a15; cf. Diod. Sic. 13.45.10 etc.). Characteristically, Herodotus applies it to barbarians, and occasionally to a Greek woman (1.31.4) and a Greek tyrant (5.32.1). Thuc. 2.59–65; on the generals’ fear of the people’s anger, see Tsakmakis 2006: 162. Thuc. 8.27.2–3; on the motif of salvation of the city, see Lévy 1976: 13–27. On collective characters in the narratological sense, see Margolin 2007: 66 (and on characters across works, 69–70, 75–76). Character in historiography is not entirely a construct of the author as it depends on evidence from the real world; on the other hand, for this same reason, the exporting of information across texts is less problematic than in fiction. Compare in this volume also Pelling’s discussion of the Arginusae debate in Xenophon’s Hellenica (1.7), which includes observations on Thucydides’ debate on Mytilene (3.36–49).

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understand the Athenians’ collective psychology at this specific point in time. Ultimately, the passage can be read as a case study in emotional versus nonemotional responses to an event.

The Demaenetus Episode and the Causes of War After their defeat in the Peloponnesian War, the Athenians had accepted onerous peace terms (Xen. Hell. 2.2.20). In fact, for ten years no involvement of Athenian ships in any war-related activity is reported. In the winter of 396/5, however, while Conon was based on Rhodes or Caunus trying to expand his forces as chief commander of the Persian fleet, the Athenian Demaenetus, together with certain other citizens, organized the secret transfer of naval equipment and skilled personnel to him. This episode is related in detail in the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia, and is interpreted as a manifestation of the anti-Spartan sentiments in Greece which led to the Corinthian War. The organization of this section is elaborate, which raises questions about the effects of its formal properties. Our analysis of style and narrative technique (especially shifts in time and space, manifestations of authorial control, and focalization) will endeavour to answer these questions, with a particular emphasis on the way in which information regarding emotions is processed. The structure of the section is as follows: 9.1 Main narrative: Departure of Demaenetus’ trireme for Rhodes with equipment and skilled personnel (with retrospective description of the preparations). 9.2–3 Parallel narrative string (shift in space): Reactions in Athens with multiple actors (political groups) involved; Milon, harmost of Aegina, is notified. 9.3–10.2 Digression (shift in time): Earlier anti-Spartan activity of Athenian democrats; authorial comment about their intentions (to incite war). 10.2 (middle of the entire section): Authorial comment against differing opinions with respect to the causes of the war. 10.2–10.3 Digression (shift in space): The similar aspirations of politicians in Argos, Boeotia, and Corinth—and Athens (again). 10.4 Digression (shift in time): The early career of the Corinthian Timolaus. 10.5 Wrap-up formula. 11.1–2 Main narrative: Milon’s pursuit of Demaenetus.

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The first paragraph is concerned with the sailing, while the rest deals with the Athenians’ reactions: At this same time, a trireme sailed out from Athens without authorization of the people. Demaenetus was its master, secretly co-operating (κοινωσάμενο[ς) with the council on this matter, so it is said, since some of the citizens were in league with him, with whom he went down to the Piraeus and launched one of the warships from the ship-sheds, and putting to sea sailed off to Conon. Hell. Oxy. 9.1

The essential information about the mission is disclosed piecemeal. While the formal opening functions as a header (date + subject), the destination of the trireme is not disclosed until the end of the paragraph, which keeps the narratee in need of elucidation, a particular sort of suspense which involves the recipients’ state of knowledge and the answering of questions raised explicitly or implicitly by the narrative. The objective of the mission is not (and in fact is never) revealed, but can only be inferred later on (10.1) from an analeptic reference to the activity of radical democrats. This complex arrangement of information heightens the narratee’s feeling of dependence upon the narrator, foregrounding the latter’s control of the narrative. The name of the owner and captain of the ship is not included in the opening phrase (ὑπὸ δὲ τοὺ[ς αὐτοὺς χρόνο]υς ἐξέπλευσε τριήρης Ἀθήνηθεν [οὐ μετὰ τῆς τοῦ] δήμου γνώμης),17 but is introduced as the (focalized) syntactic predicate of a new main clause, while the aorist participle attached to it (κοινωσάμενο[ς) abandons the main narrative and diverts attention to the pre-history of the sailing (the flashback does not advance the main narrative thread, but rather introduces the actors in a parallel event which will take place in Athens after Demaenetus’ departure: the Council and a group of citizens, later to be identified as radical democrats; the Assembly has already been mentioned).18 Despite the fact that Demaenetus, along with his collaborators, seems to belong to a group of people who involve themselves in political controversies (as 9.2 will reveal) and are characterized unfavourably, the information included in 9.1 sets

17 18

The phrase ‘without authorization of the people’ is attached to ‘from Athens’ so as to preclude the reasonable suggestion that the mission ‘from Athens’ was official. It also prepares the shift of space back to the city, whereas in the reader’s mind the image of a trireme sailing on the high seas en route to Rhodes/Caunus dominates as the principal action.

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up his image in a neutral manner. Indeed, the continuation of the main narrative in 11.1 succeeds in creating the impression of a ‘hero’ in an episodic story, who manages to cope with numerous consecutive adversities (the practical challenges of the preparations, the opposition of public opinion in Athens, a defective vessel, the Spartan enemy). All of this evokes a traditional narrative pattern around the exploits of a hero, intended to evoke a sympathetic response on the part of the narratee. In contrast with this treatment of Demaenetus, the collective bodies of Athens are represented as passive (the Council is neutralized by Demaenetus and the Assembly is bypassed) in a way which prepares the ground for the (implicitly) unfavourable characterization of them in the subsequent paragraphs: But when a clamor was raised later, and those of the Athenians who were distinguished and accomplished were displeased and said that those in power were thrusting the city into war with the Spartans, the councillors were frightened by this clamor and summoned the people to meet, pretending they had had no part in this matter. Now when the people had come together, the party of Thrasybulus and Aesimus and Anytus explained to them that they were sowing a great danger if the city did not remove the cause. Now those of the Athenians who were worthy and property owners were satisfied with the existing state of affairs; but the masses and the democrats since they were then becoming afraid, were persuaded by their fellow councilors; and sending to Milon the harmost of Aegina, they said that he should punish Demaenetus however he could in the belief that he had done this without the (consent of) the city. But before this, they had been causing trouble almost constantly and had opposed the Lacedaemonians on many matters. Hell. Oxy. 9.2–3

While in 9.1 the essential action was reported first, now the chronological order of events is respected; the outcome (the decision of the Assembly) is not revealed by the omniscient narrator in advance. The report is rich in psychonarration (information concerning mental states and events).19 Various groups of people are involved in the story, and indications of their emotions (ἀγανακτούντων, καταπλαγέντες, ἔστεργον, φοβηθέντες) and (indirect) speech serve as momentous focalizing devices. These emotions drive the action forward,

19

On this term see Cohn 1978: 11–12 and 21–57.

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but also characterize the groups.20 The most important effect of this is the reinforcement of the negative image of the Council and Assembly. The great outcry (θόρυβος) which spreads through the city provokes astonishment in the members of the Council (καταπλαγέντες,21 a term which implies some loss of control). In the Assembly, the democratic majority makes a decision under the influence of fear. While the moderates (‘worthy and property owners’) are in principle opposed to any confrontation with Sparta, the ordinary people, in contrast with their usual policy (as the last sentence of 9.3 emphasizes in an analeptic reference), follow the same line for no other reason than fear. The narrator withholds the names of their leaders until 10.2, thus fostering the impression that it was mainly the masses who gave in to emotion, and, consequently, separating the treatment of collective emotion from individual psychology (there is no change of subject even in 10.1, where the narrator refers to a series of actions which are usually associated with the individuals who propose them; instead, he switches to the passive voice: ἐπέμ]φθησαν). The analeptic digression ironically undermines the Athenians’ decision, as it highlights the inconsistency of their policy in the Demaenetus affair and confirms the negligible historical importance of the official reaction: narratees realize that collective bodies (not unlike Conon’s Cypriot mercenaries) are not reliable political actors.22 In conclusion, as in the case of Megara, collective emotions potentially have a destabilizing effect on the political life of the city. Again, narratees are indirectly invited to appreciate the role of collective memory for the emergence and intensity of these emotions. The key argument of those who influenced the people’s decision was that such initiatives would ruin the city by thrusting it into a war with Sparta, a phrase that unmistakably evokes the recent defeat of Athens in the Peloponnesian War. At the same time, knowledge of the past functions as a catalyst for a critical evaluation of the historical situ-

20

21 22

For characterization through speech, contrast the expressions of two groups who say the same: the ‘distinguished and accomplished’, under the influence of emotion (ἀγανακτούντων) exaggerate the situation and its potential consequences (‘were thrusting the city into war with the Spartans’; the verb used is καταβαλοῦσι, a wrestling metaphor), whereas the moderate democrats (supporters of Thrasybulus, Aesimus, and Anytus) use precise language and create a more objective image of the situation. On κατάπληξις cf. Patera 2013: 120 with n. 68. On the similar notion of ἔκπληξις see Nagy 2010. This is mainly indicated by the term παροξυνόντων, which implies that their leaders were aiming to stir up emotions rather than persuade; cf. 21.3, 21.4. Cf. also the instability and emotional volatility of the Athenian demos in Thucydides and Xenophon (see also Pelling in this volume).

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ation and the various responses to its challenges. The fact that this knowledge is included in analeptic references in the text is a narrative device which foregrounds the present versus past opposition and highlights reference to the past as a prerequisite for the proper comprehension of historical events. The retrieval of information concerning the past occurs several times in the section on Demaenetus, serving as a constant implicit reminder of the narrator’s authoritative control of his material, and of the way in which this material acquires its meaning. The summary of past anti-Spartan activities (10.1) leads on to the important authorial pronouncement about the causes of war (10.2). The focus is now on individuals (and, as will become obvious, their emotions), a fact which is signposted by the (belated) introduction of the names of the Athenians Epicrates and Cephalus. The narrator contests the view that Persian gold was the cause of the anti-Spartan alliance, claiming that anti-Spartan sentiments antedated the mission. A new digression shows that this holds for all cities of the alliance (10.2 end–10.3: a report which concerns various Greek cities at the same, roughly defined period of time, namely earlier than the time of the Demaenetus affair). The facts the narrator presents seem convincing, because they feature the same pattern of behaviour, namely personal enmity guiding individual politicians to advocate war against Sparta, with the result that they appear to complement one another. Thus, the practice of looking to the past in order to better understand the present is again shown to be beneficial. As a result, there is an inclination on the part of the narratee to accept the author’s theory despite potential objections (strictly speaking, phenomena of a different order are being compared as potential causes of the war—emotions with facts—, and the only real argument applied in favour of the preferred version involves temporal anteriority). The hatred at issue is not, as one might expect, an emotion brought on by Sparta’s hegemonial conduct in general (as Athenian expansion and tyranny had given rise to the hatred and fear which, according to Thucydides, led to the Peloponnesian War). On the contrary, the detailed account of the motives of leaders in every city of the alliance emphatically foregrounds the selfish rationale of the instigators. These motives range from personal disappointment over Sparta’s support of the opposing party (Argos, Boeotia, and some of the Corinthian instigators)23 to entirely private matters (Timolaus of Corinth, a former friend of Sparta, went over to the other side for private reasons not further explained). An analeptic digression on Timolaus’ activities during the

23

On Theban politicians see also 19–21.

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Peloponnesian War reminds the narratee of his pro-Spartan and anti-Athenian past. This does not directly contribute to the argumentation, but serves to forestall scepticism about the proposed theory: the narrator does not ignore Timolaus’ earlier activity; rather it is Timolaus who has contradicted his own past. Besides, his change of sides suggests that he had very strong reasons for doing so and functions as a peak within a digression devoted to the theme of anti-Spartan sentiments. In addition to that, the explicit reference to private reasons creates the impression that the narrator knows more than he is actually reporting, thus emphasizing once more his control and authority. And, of course, it also highlights the fact that personal and private motivation can be stronger than ideology, political sympathies and alliances; private/personal matters are of more concern in this period and override public interests,24 since in all of the cities under discussion, common opinion is manipulated by politicians who are driven by the same, strong negative emotion, namely hatred. The information about the Athenians is also significant, both in terms of content and mode of presentation. In them, we witness the pinnacle of selfseeking behaviour, as greed is identified as the ultimate motivation of the democratic leaders (‘were eager to turn the Athenians away from peace and quiet and lead them on into war-making and meddling so that they themselves could make money from the public funds’, 10.2). This remark exploits a common prejudice against politicians in Athenian discourse and further amplifies the message conveyed by the digression regarding the priority of personal motives over public emotions and the policies rooted in them.25 A climax results from the arrangement of information: While the activities reported in 10.1 have been attributed to the Athenians (or the democratic party) in general, at the beginning of 10.2 the role of individual, now named politicians (Epicrates and Cephalus) is highlighted; finally, at the end of the same paragraph, after listing the other cities and their motives for resisting Sparta, the narrator reveals further details about the aims of these politicians. There is a movement from documented facts, via manifest attitudes to hidden ulterior motives—the very point at which the narrator/historian wishes to arrive, demonstrating simultaneously his omniscience as a narrator and his knowledge and authority as a historical analyst. But the piecemeal disclosure of increasingly detailed information creates an effect of ‘constantly increasing pressure’ on dissenting minds: it demonstrates to every narratee, even to those who might have been critically disposed to the author’s theory, that the historian is always able to add new, 24 25

Cf. also Thucydides’ analysis of the motives of politicians in the post-Periclean era (2.65. 10–11). On fear as Pericles’ means of controlling the city: Thuc. 2.65.9; see also Patera 130–131.

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stronger evidence to support his case. The resulting impression, or rather lesson, is that it is hopeless to compete against him. It is not our aim here to discuss the historical plausibility of the author’s theory. Be that as it may, the persuasiveness of the digression relies on several factors that concern the content, the form of presentation, and the consistency of the underlying ideological assumptions. The quoted evidence seems overwhelming; the sophisticated structure and the digressions which demonstratively satisfy the need of the narratee for more information (and occasionally throw up surprising new items) build a profile of the narrator as a reliable authority who is in control of the past and can safely guide the narratee to valid interpretations through a large amount of historical material. The methodological message conveyed by this complex arrangement of information is that to explain present events, it is necessary to look into the past, which is realized through successive analepses, which are artfully dealt with both stylistically and narratologically.

Conclusions and Outlook If emotions are universally held to be inseparable from reason and represent an important cognitive factor in the processes that lead to decision and action, the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia shows a clear predilection for the negative effects of emotions. They do not usually predict sound decisions or effective action. Even positive emotions, such as Agesilaus’ love for Megabates, lead to futile actions. The narrative in most cases exposes reactions prompted by emotions as untimely, inappropriate or exaggerated. The historian shows a particular interest in collective emotions, which may either be the result of manipulation or a spontaneous response to an event; in such cases they can mostly be traced back to a selective and distorted perception of reality. Thus, subjects who act under the influence of emotion are negatively evaluated. The narrative regularly exposes or unmasks their failure, but not always in an explicit or obvious manner; cues for such an interpretation are rather inferred from textual analysis. Stylistic and narratological choices are of paramount importance in this respect; they also play a decisive role in elucidating the important ideas and views of the historian, such as his identification of hatred as the principal cause of the Corinthian War, an opinion expressed as an authorial comment and elucidated by means of a digressive report on the motivation of politicians in various Greek cities who promoted war against Sparta in the 390s. In the extant parts of the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia we find neither statements on the author’s writing method and principles, nor any theoretical expositions

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on moral and political questions. The section we have examined here, however, reveals important aspects both of his writing technique and of his anthropological and historical tenets. The Demaenetus affair is more than just an account of an undercover expedition from Athens to Rhodes; in the course of telling this story, the author expresses his views on a broader issue—the circumstances in Greece which led to the Corinthian War. To persuade his audience, he applies step-by-step techniques which train the narratee to regard his compositional principles as a mark of authority and historical competence. In parallel, he progressively validates principles of human behaviour, which become canonical and ultimately support his views on the narrated events. Accumulation of parallel cases, climax and repetition of behavioural patterns elevate a moral doctrine which underlies the author’s theory on the causes of the war to a selffulfilling principle, so that the individual instances of selfish political acts in the author’s version ultimately support each other. Thus, the section under examination appears to be a multi-layered text which conveys overlapping messages over and above the exposition of historical facts and the demonstration of their causes. In the same vein, the importance of the digressions is not exhausted by the factual information contained in them. An ‘undercurrent’, encoded in particular predominating stylistic and narrative devices,26 conveys a mental framework which guarantees the persuasiveness of the author’s text and the credibility of his outlook.27

Bibliography Baragwanath, E., Motivation and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford 2008). Bartoletti, V., ‘PSI 1304: Nuovi frammenti delle Elleniche di Ossirinco’, Papiri greci e latini 13 (1949) 61–81. Billows, R.A., ‘Hellenika Oxyrhynchia (66)’, in I. Worthington (gen. ed.), Brill’s New Jacoby (2016). dx.doi.org/10.1163/1873‑5363_bnj_a66 (accessed 19/3/2018) Bleckmann, B., Athens Weg in die Niederlage. Die letzten Jahre des Peloponnesischen Kriegs (Stuttgart 1998). 26 27

For an innovative study of a similar technique in fictional narrative, see Shen 2014. In constructing a covert message throughout this section, the narrator, mutatis mutandis, is deploying the same strategy as one of his protagonists, Conon, did when attempting to control the behaviour of others (18.1–2): Conon made the Rhodians familiar with the presence of his troops in their city so that the latter would be able to intervene, unhindered, during the planned democratic revolt. He ‘trained’ them to regard an action (the exercising of his troops in a public space) as habitual, or in other terms, introduced a specific script (see Stockwell 2002: 75–78) into their minds.

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Chambers, M. (ed.), Hellenica Oxyrhynchia (Stuttgart / Leipzig 1993). Cohn, D., Transparent Minds. Narrative Modes for Presenting Consciousness in Fiction (Princeton 1978). Grenfell, B.P., Hunt, A.S., ‘P. Oxy. 842: Theopompus (or Cratippus) Hellenica’, in B.P. Grenfell, A.S. Hunt (eds.), The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, vol. 5 (London, 1908) 110–242. Koenen, L., ‘Papyrology in the Federal Republic of Germany and Fieldwork of the International Photographic Archive in Cairo’, Studia Papyrologica 15 (1976) 39–79. Konstan, D., The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks. Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto / Buffalo / London 2007). Lévy, E., Athènes devant la défaite de 404. Histoire d’une crise idéologique (Paris 1976). Margolin, U., ‘Character’, in D. Herman (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Narrative (Cambridge 2007) 66–79. Nagy, G., ‘The Subjectivity of Fear as Reflected in Ancient Greek Wording’, Dialogues 5 (2010) 29–45. Patera, M., ‘Reflections on the Discourse of Fear in Greek Sources’, in A. Chaniotis, P. Ducrey (eds.), Unveiling Emotions ii. Emotions in Greece and Rome: Texts, Images, Material Culture (Stuttgart 2013) 109–134. Romilly, J. de, ‘La crainte dans l’oeuvre de Thucydide’, C&M 17 (1956) 119–127. Shen, D., Style and Rhetoric of Short Narrative Fiction. Covert Progressions Behind Overt Plots (New York / London 2014). Stockwell, P., Cognitive Poetics. An Introduction (London / New York 2002). Tsakmakis, A., ‘Leaders, Crowds, and the Power of the Image. Political Communication in Thucydides’, in A. Rengakos, A. Tsakmakis (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Thucydides (Leiden / Boston 2006) 161–187. Zunshine, L., ‘1700–1775. Theory of Mind, Social Hierarchy, and the Emergence of Narrative Subjectivity’, in D. Herman (ed.), The Emergence of Mind. Representations of Consciousness in Narrative Discourse in English (Lincoln / London 2011) 161–186.

chapter 25

Cyrus’ Tears: An Essay in Affective Narratology and Socratic History Luuk Huitink

C’est tellement mystérieux, le pays des larmes. antoine de saint-exupéry, Le petit Prince

∵ Introduction Tears are a suitable topic for an essay written on the occasion of Irene de Jong’s retirement—and not only because her colleagues and students are sad to see her go, but also because, as I hope to make clear, tears are of some interest to Greek narratology, to which Irene has devoted her professional life. I will home in on a pivotal scene in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, in which tears and the question how to interpret them play a central role.* My first aim is to substantiate several commentators’ sense that there is something ‘off’ about Cyrus’ tears within the development of the story as a whole by suggesting that they compromise the emotional logic of narratives, as charted in studies of ‘affective narratology’. My second aim is to offer some thoughts on the reasons which may have led Xenophon—the rest of whose historical oeuvre makes abundantly clear that he knew perfectly well how to spin a good tale—to write such an emotionally awkward narrative.1 The results are tentative: this essay is a first exploration of a set of issues which I hope to tackle in a larger project on Xenophon’s narrative prose—a project which owes much to Irene’s work and personal encouragement.

* All references are to Cyropaedia, unless otherwise specified; translations are my own. I thank Leonie Henkes, Tazuko van Berkel, Felix Budelmann, Jacqueline Klooster, Tim Rood, and an audience in Heidelberg for valuable feedback on earlier versions of the paper; I alone am responsible for the claims made in it. 1 See Tamiolaki 2013 for Xenophon’s skilful representation of emotions in Hellenica.

© Luuk Huitink, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_027

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Cyropaedia Cyropaedia is the boldest generic experiment of a bold author. It can be described roughly as a blend between narrative historiography and philosophical politeia-literature.2 On the one hand, it offers a narrative account of the life of Cyrus ii (‘the Great’, c. 600–530 bce) from the cradle to the grave, although the bulk of the work is devoted to the story of how Cyrus defeats the Assyrians in a war fought in the service of his uncle Cyaxares, King of the Medes, and in the course of that war effectively supplants his uncle as ruler over what is from then on a unified Persian-Median Empire.3 The linear narrative structure is complicated by the insertion of a number of subsidiary plots (the so-called ‘novellas’ of Cyropaedia), the most famous of which are the stories of the Assyrian defectors Gobryas and Gadatas and of the lovers Panthea and Abradatas, which are told in multiple episodes interspersed in the main narrative throughout Books 4–7. On the other hand, Xenophon uses the figure of Cyrus to exemplify his own ideas about the best forms of political and military leadership; in antiquity itself, Cyropaedia was considered Xenophon’s response to Plato’s Republic.4 Many readers regard Xenophon’s decision to cloak philosophical reflections in narrative form as a failure. Since Cyrus is portrayed as an ideal leader who always does the right thing, his story is one of unmitigated success, which ‘knows nothing of the destabilizing forces that tend to disrupt actual history, and experience’, and fails to command the reader’s attention for long.5 The result, according to some, is nothing less than ‘one of the dullest writings in any tongue’.6 Stadter has suggested that Cyropaedia resembles Xenophon’s Socratic works like Memorabilia more than his historiographical works like Anabasis: the narrative framework is not detailed and merely serves to string together a series of loosely connected scenes which allow Xenophon to showcase Cyrus’ leadership qualities in ever new situations, ‘each an example of virtuous behaviour in human relations’.7 Those who have sought to rehabilitate Cyropaedia’s

2 For the generic affiliations of Cyropaedia, see Due 1989: 117–146; Gera 1993: 1–13; MuellerGoldingen 1995: 1–43; Tamiolaki 2017: 181–189; Huitink 2018: 468–472. 3 1.5.2–7.5.36, probably only a year or so of narrated time; see Beck 2007. 4 See Danzig 2003: 286. 5 Tatum 1994: 18. I bypass the question to what extent Cyropaedia contains recognizably historical elements; see e.g. Sancisi-Weerdenburg 2010 [1985] and Tuplin 2012 for discussion. 6 Rose 1934: 307. Compare Gibbon 1994 [1776–1788]: i.952, n. 115 (on the ‘vague and languid’ Cyropaedia); Cawkwell 1966–1968: 50; Sancisi-Weerdenburg 2010: 439 [1985: 459] (‘the Cyropaedia contains too much virtue for our age’); Johnson 2012. 7 Stadter 2010: 398 [1991: 490].

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narrative format have usually done so by arguing that Xenophon intends his readers to read between the lines and to see that, for all the surface praise, Cyrus is a Machiavellian figure who schemes his way to the throne. However, while such readings serve to bring to light some odd aspects of Xenophon’s narrative, they are ultimately based on the questionable a priori assumption that Xenophon is an ‘ironical’ author who often says the opposite of what he means, and proceed by assimilating, without much textual support, Cyrus’ story to familiar narrative patterns of the often violent succession stories found in the pages of Greek historiography.8 In my view, neither approach is satisfactory. I should like to argue instead that Cyropaedia’s narrative form does have specific raisons d’ être, but that they have to do with a wish on Xenophon’s part to develop a new form of narrative prose, which might be called ‘Socratic’ or ‘ethical’.9 As a first step, I will make the case that the reason the main plot feels so stilted is that it does not chime with the sort of emotional experiences which narratives normally afford readers.

Cyrus and Cyaxares I first turn to a crucial scene, which forms the climax to one of the main strands of the principal plot, namely the mounting rivalry between Cyrus and Cyaxares.10 It is set in motion in Book 1, when Cyrus is still a boy and spends time away from Persia at his grandfather’s Median court, and Cyaxares is still the crown prince. During a hunt Cyrus behaves in ways which elicit from his uncle the remark, ‘Do as you wish, since you already have the semblance of being our king’ (ποίει ὅπως βούλει· σὺ γὰρ νῦν γε ἡμῶν ἔοικας βασιλεὺς εἶναι, 1.4.9). The storyline resumes when Cyrus is an adult and Cyaxares, who has by now succeeded his father, enlists Cyrus’ help in the war against the Assyrians (1.5.4). Cyrus manages the war so well and inspires such loyalty in the Median troops that, far from being grateful, Cyaxares becomes increasingly jealous. Things come to a head when Cyrus, after driving the enemy from Media, calls on his uncle to join him for a council of war. When Cyaxares arrives on the border, Cyrus sets out to meet him with the troops by his side, ‘displaying his forces to Cyaxares’ (ἐπιδεικνὺς τῷ Κυαξάρῃ τὴν δύναμιν, 5.5.5):

8 9 10

See Tatum 1989; Nadon 2001; cf. Huitink 2018: 470–471 for the underlying assumptions. Though it may be more accurate to say that Cyropaedia exacerbates the ‘ethical’ streak that is part of Greek historiography from its very beginning; see Hau 2016. See Due 1989: 55–62 and Sandridge 2012: 90–91 for summaries.

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When Cyaxares saw many fine and valiant men following Cyrus, while his own escort was small and of little account, he thought it a dishonourable thing and grief took a hold of him. When Cyrus dismounted from his horse and approached him to kiss him according to custom, Cyaxares also dismounted, but turned away. He refused to kiss him and he was visibly crying (δακρύων δὲ φανερὸς ἦν). 5.5.6

Cyrus responds by taking his uncle by the hand and leading him to a secluded spot to talk. Cyaxares vents his feelings of humiliation, frustration and fear. And as he said those things, he was still more violently overcome with weeping (ἔτι μᾶλλον ἐκρατεῖτο ὑπὸ τῶν δακρύων), so that he affected Cyrus, too, till his eyes filled with tears (ὥστε καὶ τὸν Κῦρον ἐπεσπάσατο ἐμπλησθῆναι δακρύων τὰ ὄμματα). But after a moment (ἐπισχὼν δὲ μικρόν) Cyrus answered him as follows … 5.5.10

A long discussion ensues, in which Cyrus reassures Cyaxares that he has nothing to fear before engaging him in a logical argument designed to prove that at no stage has he done his uncle wrong (there are fifteen occurrences of words built on the stem δικ-).11 In the end, Cyrus breaks off the conversation, asking his uncle to defer judgement until he has further proof of how Cyrus is disposed towards him, and the men embrace (5.5.35–36). Encouraged by Cyrus, the Median commanders pay homage to Cyaxares, who once more feels honoured as he thinks he should be. But it is clear that Cyrus is from now on the actual ruler and king in all but name. Cyaxares is mentioned on only a few more occasions; the last time is when he gives Cyrus his daughter’s hand in marriage and so makes him his official successor (8.5.19). Now, I suppose that for many readers this scene confirms the general picture, in that it feels oddly bloodless and contrived.12 It offers an immediate solution to the problem at hand (how to deal with a jealous superior), but without providing a proper sense of resolution or closure to the storyline which it in effect rounds off. After the build-up, the story of the men’s rivalry ends, ‘not with a bang, but a whimper’, and with more than three books to go, it seems 11 12

For discussion, see Gera 1993: 98–109; Mueller-Goldingen 1995: 201–203. Cf. Stadter 2010: 398, n. 58 [1991: 490, n. 58]: ‘If the narrative is unconvincing, it is because Xenophon cannot overcome the reader’s sense, based on his own experience, of the way such situations resolve themselves in real life’.

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that Cyrus has won his kingdom too early. (His admission into Cyaxares’ family, which puts an official stamp on proceedings, is deferred for so long that it seems empty instead of a meaningful defusion of tension.) Furthermore, the fact that the reader’s sense of anticipation and release is compromised makes it difficult to interpret specific incidents narrated in the scene. Why, for instance, does Cyrus display his forces to Cyaxares: is it to show how well he has organized the war or to intimidate his uncle? And what about his tears? Cyaxares’ tears of frustration transparently contribute to his characterization as a man who finds it difficult to endure the glory won by another, but the emotion underlying Cyrus’ truncated tears is less easy to gauge. Scholars differ as to what to make of them. To Danzig, for example, they suggest that Cyrus ‘displays deep sympathy, breaking down and weeping with’ his uncle; Tatum, however, thinks that there is room to wonder: ‘Is Cyrus sincere? Or is it embarrassment or calculation that makes him weep?’13

Affective Narratology I should now like to argue that what is compromised in Cyropaedia is the emotional logic of stories. To that end, I turn to some reflections about the relation between emotions and narrative in the emerging field of affective narratology.14 In general, students of affective narratology suggest that traditional definitions of narrative in terms of a sequence of causally linked events fall short, because prototypical stories (stories that really ‘feel’ like stories) are characterized first and foremost by the fact that they cohere emotionally: ‘a description of events qualifies as a story in virtue of its power to initiate and resolve an emotional cadence in the audience’.15 Stories, that is, do not so much convey an objective understanding of how events came about, as a subjective understanding of how to feel about them. Stories are rendered intelligible when the audience relates, not so much to the story’s events, as to the emotions which those events generate. Thus, the audience’s understanding is based on their own emotional sensibility and depends not least on processes of empathy and sympathy, that

13

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Danzig 2012: 535; Tatum 1989: 129–130. Cf. e.g. Sandridge 2012: 30: ‘he sympathizes with Cyaxares’ frustration’; Gera 1993: 101: ‘Cyrus’ tears are less heartfelt’; Tamiolaki 2018: 314: ‘It is not certain whether Cyrus eventually empathizes with Cyaxares’. Velleman 2003 is a seminal paper. Hogan 2011 and Andersen 2016 are book-length treatments. See also the Introduction to this volume, and the contributions of Van Emde Boas and Kahane. Velleman 2003: 18; cf. Hogan 2011: 72.

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is the human capacity to share others’ feelings or to bring to bear a cognitive understanding of why others feel how they feel. Two more specific claims are relevant for our purposes. The first concerns the global unfolding of plots. Velleman defines the beginning and end of stories, not in (Aristotelian) terms of final causal antecedents and consequences, but in terms of a deviation from, and subsequent return to, a certain level of emotional stability.16 Near the start of a story there tends to occur a precipitating incident which arouses an unstable emotion (such as hope, fear or anger) and triggers the pursuit of a goal with a view to resolving that emotion. Along the way, attainment of the goal is at times obstructed and at times helped along, and one emotion gives way to another; Oedipus Tyrannus, for instance, guides audiences through an emotional sequence leading from puzzlement to curiosity to foreboding to dismay, before ending in grief. Closure is achieved when the goal is either attained or definitively out of reach, with both outcomes allowing the cadence to be resolved into a more or less stable disposition (such as happiness or grief). The resolving emotion tends to subsume the emotions which precede it: ‘the triumph felt at a happy ending is the triumph of ambitions realized and anxieties allayed; the grief felt at a tragic ending is the grief of hopes dashed or loves denied’.17 Borrowing Kermode’s analogy of a ticking clock, Velleman suggests that gratifying stories organize events in such a way as for ‘some episodes to set off an emotional tick to which subsequent episodes can provide the answering tock’.18 A second useful point of reference is Hogan’s and Andersen’s somewhat more differentiated model of emotions and their relation to goal-oriented action and thought. First, they follow psychologists in operating with two theories of emotions, the perception and appraisal theories.19 The perception theory is based on the observation that emotional responses to situations can be quick and visceral, such as when we perceive—all at once and without stopping to think—that something is scary or arousing. The appraisal theory analyses emotions in more strongly cognitive terms, as evaluations of how particular, interpreted situations affect our immediate objectives and wishes or overall life goals and projects. Emotions, on this count, can be related to various time scales of desire and aspiration, so that we can distinguish between, for instance, reactions, feelings, moods, temperaments and attitudes to life.20 As we move 16 17 18 19 20

Velleman 2003: 13–16, 18–20; see also Hogan 2011: 81–85, 125. Velleman 2003: 19. Velleman 2003: 20, referring to Kermode 1967: 43–45. Hogan 2011: 42–54; Andersen 2016: 68–70, 130. Andersen 2016: 74, taking his cue from Oatley’s (2004) similar phenomenological division of ‘affects’. Hogan 2011: 61–66 has introduced a set of narratological terms which partly

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from left to right on this continuum, emotions are increasingly less perceptual and due to immediate external events and increasingly more cognitive and indicative of continuing commitments. Finally, on all levels of temporal segmentation emotions tend to play out and combine in accordance with ‘scripts’, in which emotions and responses occur in expected sequences.21 Scripts range from quick and largely instinctive reactions (for example, a fright/flight sequence sparked by the sudden appearance of a wild animal) to more elaborate, and culturally reinforced or determined, scenarios (for example, a script like ‘revenge’, and all that usually comes with that in terms of a sequence of events and goals and the feelings and moods that sustain them). Scripts are experientially acquired and allow readers to assimilate characters’ emotional responses to familiar experiences. As Andersen remarks, some of the most memorable moments in literary narratives occur when unfamiliar or unexpected scripts create ‘enigmas’ in the text.22

Gobryas and Gadatas Before returning to Cyrus and Cyaxares, I should like to make all of this more tangible by considering a different and less problematic story. For that, I turn to one of the ‘novellas’ of Cyropaedia, one of the functions of which is thought to be to inject some much-needed pathos into the work.23 The ‘novella’ of Gobryas and Gadatas relates how those Assyrian noblemen go over to Cyrus, the former because the (unnamed) Assyrian King has killed his son out of jealousy of the young man’s hunting prowess (4.6.1–10), the latter because the King has had him castrated out of jealousy of his beauty (5.2.28).24 Gobryas enters into an alliance with Cyrus first, in the hope that ‘with your help I will get some vengeance for my dear son’ (τῷ φίλῳ παιδὶ τιμωρίας ἄν τινος μετὰ σοῦ τυχεῖν, 4.6.7), and suggests that Gadatas will be open to a similar arrangement, ‘and would even pay for the opportunity to do the current King of the Assyrians some serious harm’ (κἂν πρίαιτο Γαδάτας τὸ μέγα τι ποιῆσαι κακὸν τὸν νῦν βασιλέα Ἀσσυρίων, 5.3.10). After several developments—including Gadatas’ infiltration of an

21 22 23 24

overlap with these concepts, distinguishing between incidents, events, episodes and stories (but they suggest a relation between the duration of emotions and units of discourse which is only partly borne out). Andersen 2016: 47–51, 177–178; Hogan 2011: 42–43; see also Velleman 2003: 12–13. Andersen 2016: 48. Gera 1993: 192. For a more elaborate treatment, see Gera 1993: 245–265.

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Assyrian fort by means of deception (5.3.15–18) and an Assyrian attempt on Gadatas’ life which is foiled by Cyrus (5.4.1–14)—the denouement comes when Gobryas and Gadatas lead the charge into Babylon and together with their men kill the King (7.5.24–30). They then go to Cyrus ‘and first paid homage to the gods, because they had avenged themselves upon the godless King, and then kissed Cyrus’ hands and feet, shedding many tears of joy’ (καὶ θεοὺς μὲν πρῶτον προσεκύνουν, ὅτι τετιμωρημένοι ἦσαν τὸν ἀνόσιον βασιλέα, ἔπειτα δὲ Κύρου κατεφίλουν καὶ χεῖρας καὶ πόδας, πολλὰ δακρύοντες ἅμα χαρᾷ, 7.5.32). This story plays out along the lines of a revenge plot, which Hogan claims is a cross-culturally prevalent genre because of its emotionally neat structure (it is, of course, common in Greek literature).25 The treatment which Gobryas and Gadatas receive at the hands of the Assyrian King triggers resentment and a lust for revenge, which they seek to satisfy by betraying him and working for Cyrus. The story goes through several emotional ups and downs, as one event succeeds another and, for instance, the hope raised by Gadatas’ taking of the fort gives way to fear when he is almost killed, and then to relief when he is rescued by Cyrus. Closure is achieved when they attain their goal by killing the King. Xenophon makes much of the denouement, emphasizing how Gobryas and Gadatas wept for joy: this is a vehement emotional response, especially by the standards of Greek historiography, in which tears are a relatively rare occurrence and usually underscore moments of high pathos.26 Even if we find their tears slightly distasteful, they are easy to relate to as a spontaneous release of tension after the murder of the King, while the depth of the emotion which they betoken feels justified in terms of the wider revenge script, because of the heinous crimes of which Gobryas and Gadatas are the victims and because of the risks they have run along the way. It is for this reason that the ending is an emotionally satisfactory tock to the murder and castration which provided the initial tick.

Cyrus and Cyaxares When we return to Cyrus and Cyaxares, we encounter a very different story. Although it contains an initiating and resolving incident—their encounter dur-

25 26

Hogan 2011: 220–233. For tears in Greek historiography, see Lateiner 2009. For tears of joy in Greek literature, see Seaford 2017. Tears of sadness are more common in epic (see in this volume the contributions of Bowie, on Andromache and Helen, and Currie, on Odysseus and Laertes) and in the Bible (see Müllner in this volume, with examples on p. 341).

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ing the hunt and the discussion in which they sort out their differences—the tick and tock are little more than formal markers without meaningful phenomenological content. There are too few ups and downs to connect these events in a relatable emotional cadence which allows the reader to make the journey from point A to point B. While Cyrus behaves like a king (possesses, as it were, an inalienable king-like temperament from the start), it is never his avowed goal to become king by removing his uncle: no incident triggers pursuit of that goal and makes him (or the audience) emotionally invested in its attainment.27 Remarkably, only when the main narrative is almost concluded, after the conquest of Babylon, does Xenophon finally attribute to Cyrus a desire to establish himself as a king: ‘Then, when Cyrus himself, too, finally desired to start behaving as he thought became a king (ἐκ δὲ τούτου ἐπιθυμῶν ὁ Κῦρος ἤδη κατασκευάσασθαι καὶ αὐτὸς ὡς βασιλεῖ ἡγεῖτο πρέπειν), he decided to do so with the approval of his friends’ (7.5.37).28 Conversely, Cyaxares is subject to violent mood swings and occasionally acts on them—as when he is angry that the Median cavalry follows Cyrus and he orders them (in vain) to return (4.5.9)— but his goals remain short-term and there never emerges a plan with him actually to get rid of his rival. In the case of neither Cyrus nor Cyaxares, then, is the passage of power from the one to the other the gratifying tock of a gamble taken and won/lost, because there is no tick initiating a gamble to begin with. It is worth saying a bit more about the emotional make-up of Cyrus and Cyaxares, using the terms of affective narratology. Cyaxares is characterized by a lack of control over his emotional impulses and is to a large degree impelled by changeable and short-lived reactions and feelings; he is simply incapable of laying—let alone realizing—plans which are driven by the sort of longerterm hopes and fears which tend to sustain the forward thrust of stories like that of Gobryas and Gadatas. More importantly for the texture of Cyropaedia’s main plot, Cyrus has a completely opposite emotional disposition, but it is equally extreme and unsuited to forging a narrative of much emotional

27 28

Cf. Sandridge 2012: 93. Cf. Gera 1993: 286, arguing in favour of a translation se gerere for κατασκευάσασθαι, and suggesting that Cyrus’ portrait becomes less positive from this point onward; cf. Atack 2018: 516. One may contrast Cyrus’ late desire with the crucial episode of Cyrus’ ascent to the throne in Herodotus, which is explicitly structured around Harpagus ‘desiring to take revenge on Astyages’ (1.123.1) and enlisting Cyrus to do so. Also instructive is Ctesias F8d.12 Lenfant: ‘Since he had a noble and high-minded nature, it occurred to Cyrus that, bringing god to his side, he ought to make the Persians revolt and attempt to remove Astyages from power’. Ctesias shares Xenophon’s interest in leadership qualities, but makes them the basis of Cyrus’ explicit desire (and subsequent quest) for power.

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interest.29 He displays a remarkably constant attitude to life, which is not so much determined by external happenings as by a certain existential rest. In this respect, Sandridge helpfully lists and exemplifies Cyrus’ talents for ‘being friendly but not permissive’, ‘giving without losing’ and ‘caring without anxiety’;30 the second part of each of these phrases eliminates the potential for an emotional unfolding of the story entailed by the first part. Due, meanwhile, notes how Cyrus’ temperament is largely determined by the virtues of σωφροσύνη (‘moderation’) and ἐγκράτεια (‘self-control’), which allows him to face up to all situations with equanimity.31 Scholars have of course long recognized that Xenophon has allowed his insistence on Cyrus’ virtues to get in the way of a good story. However, after our foray into affective narratology, which has emphasized the fundamental emotional structure of stories, we can say with greater precision (and using terms which Xenophon and his audience may have understood) that Xenophon has exchanged the pathos from which narratives usually derive their energy for ethos. Moreover, he at times appears to draw attention to the fact, by planting ‘enigmas’ in the text which defy readers’ expectations. Examples are Cyrus’ short-lived tears and the late mention of his desire to start governing like a king, which stands in such a marked contrast to how such stories normally work in Greek historiography. And then there are the ‘novellas’ like that of Gobryas and Gadatas. While it can be thought simply to provide some light diversion, the very fact of its ‘normality’ (in emotional terms) throws the awkwardness of the main storyline into sharp relief. All of this raises the question why Xenophon did this. For the beginnings of an answer, I suggest, we need to look outside Cyropaedia itself.

Plato on Emotions and Narrative Plato had a keen eye for the role played by emotions in traditional Greek narratives and, as is well known, heartily disapproved. Thus, in the initial discussion of mimesis in Book 3 of Republic, much time is spent on detailing Socrates’ objections against the literary representation of characters crying, laughing

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For Cyaxares as a foil to Cyrus, see Due 1989: 61; Tatum 1989: 118; Huitink 2018: 482. Sandridge 2012: 83, 93–94. Due 1989: 170–181; see also Sandridge 2012: 63, noting that ἐγκράτεια tends to denote control over physical appetites and σωφροσύνη over emotional distractions. Compare also Cyrus’ ability to control his emotions in Herodotus’ Histories as discussed in the contributions of Rutherford and De Bakker.

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or enjoying bodily pleasures (388b–390c). When a young man peruses stories which relate, for instance, how heroes and gods weep in distress, the risk is that he will not ‘rebuke himself for doing and saying similar things when something happens to him, but instead, feeling neither shame nor restraint, will sing many dirges and laments at even insignificant misfortunes’ (388d). Nor will it be conducive ‘to his self-restraint’ (πρὸς ἐγκράτειαν ἑαυτοῦ), when a young person is exposed to a scene like Iliad 14.292–351, in which Zeus ‘easily forgets all his plans because of sexual desire (τὴν τῶν ἀφροδισίων ἐπιθυμίαν) and is so overcome by the sight of Hera that he doesn’t even want to go inside, but wants to make love to her there on the ground’ (390c–d). When the discussion of mimesis is resumed in Book 10, Socrates develops profound theoretical arguments to explain why it is so damaging for (especially young) audiences to be confronted with the literary representation of emotions.32 I cannot do justice to his reasoning here, but at its core is the concept of mimetic contagion: all too easily, audiences slide into the roles of characters and internalize their objectionable emotions and behaviours.33 One premise is that representations of characters’ sufferings and emotions break down our critical faculties, so that we ‘enjoy them, give ourselves up, and follow along in sympathy’ (χαίρομέν τε καὶ ἐνδόντες ἡμᾶς αὐτοὺς ἑπόμεθα συμπάσχοντες, 605d3– 4). In a statement with far-reaching implications for the nature and function of narrative as a whole, Socrates claims that mimetic literature especially affects the irrational and excitable part of people’s character: Is it not the case that one part, the excitable one (τὸ ἀγανακτητικόν), admits of many multicoloured imitations (πολλὴν μίμησιν καὶ ποικίλην), but that the thoughtful and calm character (τὸ δὲ φρόνιμόν τε καὶ ἡσύχιον ἦθος), which is almost always true to itself, is neither easy to imitate 32 33

See also Finkelberg’s contribution to this volume: emotions are only useful when they accompany dialectical reasoning meant to elevate the rational part of the soul. See especially Grethlein 2020 on Plato’s argument in the light of current cognitive theory. Halliwell 2002: 72–97 remains an invaluable discussion, and includes the suggestion that Plato stops short of positing a full identification between characters and audiences, so that Liveley’s 2019: 20 translation of mimesis as ‘identification’ is not an improvement on De Jong’s 2004: 3 ‘impersonation’. Still, while there are moments in which it is suggested that audiences have room for emotional dissociation, in general Plato seems to shift easily between authors, performers, characters and audiences when talking about the effects of narrative. In a modern study on empathy in literature Keen 2007: 4 suggests a sort of staged response, in which empathy (however phenomenologically indistinct) precedes sympathy and more distanced emotional evaluations. Such a model seems worth contemplating for Plato, too, the suggestion being that many people do not normally reach the later stages.

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(οὔτε ῥᾴδιον μιμήσασθαι) nor easy to understand when someone imitates it (οὔτε μιμουμένου εὐπετὲς καταμαθεῖν), especially by a crowd consisting of all sorts of people gathered in a theatre? For the imitation is of an experience which is alien to them (ἀλλοτρίου γάρ που πάθους ἡ μίμησις αὐτοῖς γίγνεται). 604e1–6

Going further, Socrates claims that ‘the mimetic author … is by nature related to the excitable and changeable character because it is easy to imitate’ (ὁ δὴ μιμητικὸς ποιητὴς … πέφυκε … πρὸς τὸ ἀγανακτητικόν τε καὶ ποικίλον ἦθος διὰ τὸ εὐμίμητον εἶναι, 605a2–5). As Halliwell notes, these statements amount to the claim that a philosophically acceptable narrative is nearly impossible: ‘The composed self-consistency of the rationally virtuous character would be almost a negation of the idea of dramatic, “human” interest’ and so hardly ‘be a possible subject for poetic, let alone dramatic, representation at all’.34 If studies of affective narratology are on the right track, Plato’s analysis (if stripped of its normative slant) does indeed reveal a fundamental truth about the nature of narrative understanding. And it may be emphasized that the point does not pertain only to epic and tragedy, the genres to which the discussion is ostensibly limited in Republic, but to all true narratives, including the skillfully plotted works of Greek historiography.35 Recent scholarship has established a dense network of connections between the subject matter, themes and imagery of Cyropaedia and Plato’s political thought in dialogues like Republic, Statesman and Laws, and it is plausible, as we have seen ancient authors already contended, that both authors are engaged in an intertextual dialogue (rather than merely tapping into a shared fourthcentury philosophical discourse). Scholars who accept this tend to follow Diogenes Laertius (3.34) in suggesting that Cyropaedia responds to Republic, with Laws providing a Platonic rejoinder to Cyropaedia, even if many details remain to be worked out.36 Acknowledging the speculative nature of my argument, I should nonetheless like to suggest that, just as some of Xenophon’s precepts of leadership articulated in Cyropaedia can be understood as a multifaceted

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Halliwell 2002: 83. Danzig 2008: 191 indeed argues that Plato has Herodotus firmly in view. See Danzig 2018 for a general introduction to Platonic–Xenophontic intertextuality; in relation to Cyropaedia, see especially Danzig 2003; Atack 2018. Also suggestive is Cyropaedia 2.2.11–16, in which Cyrus defends the practice of making up stories in order to raise a laugh against the objections of a certain Aglaïtadas (‘the shiny one’), in which some commentators recognize Plato; see Reichel 2010: 437 [1995:17–18]; Jazdzewska 2018: 205.

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engagement with Platonic thought, so can its literary form. Xenophon, who was both a serious historian and a serious Socratic philosopher, would have had every reason for not simply letting Plato’s all-out assault on narrative as a vehicle of moral improvement stand.

Cyrus’ Tears and the Lessons of Literature Let us return to the ‘enigma’ of Cyrus’ tears, shed in response to Cyaxares’, which, as we have seen, has divided interpreters. They are Cyrus’ only expression of emotion in this pivotal scene and the moment is captured in striking language. In my view (and some concepts from affective narratology are helpful here) that language, especially the rare ἐπισπάομαι and passive ἐμπλησθῆναι, suggests that Cyrus’ emotional reaction is at first an instance of spontaneous ‘contagious crying’, a probably universal phenomenon linked to empathy and sympathy, and attested in Greek literature.37 However, the fact that Cyrus manages quickly to suppress his tears (ἐπισχὼν δὲ μικρόν) makes clear that his response to the entire situation is ultimately determined by the peculiar, unshakeable equanimity which ensures his success in the current scene and in life in general. In this way, I would suggest, Xenophon dramatizes, in a single arresting moment, the ‘hostile takeover’, as it were, of pathos by ethos. That takeover, I suggest, is a major plank of Cyropaedia’s narrative project as a whole. Time and again, readers are confronted with situations which, if this had been a normal work of Greek historiography, would have elicited very different emotions and actional outcomes than the ones which they elicit from Cyrus. On this reading, Cyropaedia can be understood as Xenophon’s attempt to show that one can shape a narrative around what Plato would call ‘a thoughtful and calm character’ (τὸ δὲ φρόνιμόν τε καὶ ἡσύχιον ἦθος, see above) and to replace familiar historiographical scripts with novel ones (indeed, it strikes

37

Middle ἐπισπάομαι is otherwise found at An. 4.7.14, for a man accidentally dragging another with him off a cliff in the heat of the moment. See Geangua et al. 2010 for a developmental psychological account of contagious crying. As for Greek literature, see e.g. Hom. Il. 24.509–512 (Achilles and Priam), an ultimate source of our passage; and Xen. Hell. 5.4.27 (Archidamus and Cleonymus), indicating how Xenophon himself understood the phenomenon. Leonie Henkes draws my attention to Menelaus’ words to Agamemnon in Eur. IA, a more combative context; see especially 477–478 ἐγώ σ’ ἀπ’ ὄσσων ἐκβαλόντ’ ἰδὼν δάκρυ | ᾤκτιρα, καὐτὸς ἀνταφῆκά σοι πάλιν (‘When I saw you weeping, I myself felt pity and shed tears in my turn for you’); 496–497 σὺ δ’ ὄμμα παῦσαι δακρύοις τέγγων τὸ σόν, | ἀδελφέ, κἀμὲ παρακαλῶν ἐς δάκρυα (‘Stop wetting your face with tears, my brother, and compelling me to weep as well’).

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me that scholars who discover familiar scenarios concerning usurpation and revenge ‘between the lines’ of the main storyline precisely miss the mark). As Plato had himself predicted, such a narrative is not the sort of entrancing story to which one can give oneself up and which is easy and enjoyable to follow, because it represents what is unfamiliar. But that may precisely be the point. The only philosophically acceptable narrative—a Socratic history of sorts— would be one which enables readers to resist mimetic contagion and elicits constant reflection on moral issues.38 Xenophon appears deliberately to stage a clash between his own novel narrative mode, represented by Cyrus and his actions and feelings, and traditional story patterns, represented by other characters and their actions and feelings. We should realize (and the notion of ‘script’ helps us do so) that some of Cyrus’ antagonists look as if they have walked straight out of the pages of a Herodotus or a Ctesias. This holds, for instance, for Cyaxares, who is but an extremely stylized example of the monarchs encountered in great numbers in Greek historiography, whose emotional responses are determined by basic scripts which have to do with the gratification of instant needs and desires and the esteem that comes with the outward trappings of power.39 It also holds for the characters of the ‘novellas’. Gobryas’ and Gadatas’ anger at the Assyrian King and desire for revenge (such an important recurrent motif in for instance Herodotus’ Histories) is justified, but it is Cyrus who knows how to make those emotions productive, so that they benefit him and the common good.40 The love story of Panthea and Abradatas, with its many reminiscences of epic and tragedy, casts the generic net wider and shows how Cyrus learns to use a wider range of emotions to his advantage.41 Indeed, it is tempting to think of Cyrus, not just as a great reader of men, but also as a great reader of historiographical and other narratives. Such an admittedly metaphorical interpretation may help explain why Cyrus is explicitly portrayed as someone who quickly overcomes ‘contagious crying’, perhaps the prototypical example of ‘mimetic contagion’. On such a reading, which I hope to elaborate in future, Xenophon is not merely showing that a philosoph38

39

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Given Cyropaedia’s generic affiliations with the encomium (see Mueller-Goldingen 1995: 59), it is intriguing to note that ‘eulogies (ἐγκώμια) to good people’ (607a4) are among the few forms of literature Plato sanctions. In the background also lurks Plato’s depiction of tyrants as emotionally incontinent (R. 571a–573c). For Herodotus’ Cyrus as an exception in this respect, see De Bakker in this volume. From a different perspective, Tamiolaki 2018 also points out that Cyrus succeeds in exploiting the often dark motives and emotions of others. Though arguably, as I will try to show in a future publication, less successfully so.

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ically responsible narrative is possible, but also mounting a defence of traditional stories, suggesting to Plato that readers who, like Cyrus, have learned to become impervious to narrative’s emotional power, can read it with profit to improve their own social skills in dealing with people—an outcome which may strike readers of Lisa Zunshine as quite modern.42 Of course, it remains to be seen whether the tentative claims made here stand up when confronted with other aspects of Plato’s and Xenophon’s theorizing and with Xenophon’s narrative art in Cyropaedia and elsewhere.

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Tamiolaki, M., ‘Xenophon’s Cyropaedia: Tentative Answers to an Enigma’, in M.A. Flower (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Xenophon (Cambridge 2017) 174–194. Tamiolaki, M., ‘Being or Appearing Virtuous? The Challenges of Leadership in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia’, in A. Kampakoglou, A. Novokhatko (eds.), Gaze, Vision, and Visuality in Ancient Greek Literature (Berlin 2018) 308–330. Tatum, J., Xenophon’s Imperial Fiction. On the Education of Cyrus (Princeton 1989). Tatum, J., ‘The Education of Cyrus’, in J.R. Morgan, R. Stoneman (eds.), Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context (London 1994) 15–28. Tuplin, C.J., ‘Xenophon’s Cyropaedia: Fictive History, Political Analysis and Thinking with Iranian Kings’, in L. Mitchell, C. Melville (eds.), Every Inch a King. Comparative Studies on Kings and Kingship in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds (Leiden 2012) 67–90. Velleman, J.D., ‘Narrative Explanation’, The Philosophical Review 112 (2003) 1–25. Zunshine, L., Why We Read Fiction. Theory of Mind and the Novel (Columbus, OH 2006).

chapter 26

The Joys and Sorrows of the Argument: Emotions and Emotional Involvement in Plato’s Narratives of Philosophical Reasoning Margalit Finkelberg

Delimiting the Scope of Inquiry Although Plato famously criticized tragedy for its representation of emotions and for the emotional involvement produced in the audience as a result, this did not prevent him from representing emotions in his own dialogues. The philosophical discussions he portrays often take the form of highly competitive debates whose participants are only too ready to antagonize each other. The emotions that emerge in such agonistic situations are invariably those of glee and smugness on the part of the one who had the upper hand and the loser’s bitterness and anger. We are exposed to the embarrassment and anger of Critias (Charmides 162c–d; 169c–d), the anger of Anytus (Meno 95a2; 99e2), Protagoras’ irritation and embarrassment (Protagoras 333e; 335a–b; 338e; 348c),1 Euthydemus’ anger and Dionysodorus’ blushing (Euthydemus 295d; 297a), Thrasymachus’ anger and sarcastic cackle (Respublica 336b–d; 337a3) followed by sweating and blushing (350d1–3)—and, conversely, to the laughter and cheers of Protagoras’ supporters (Prt. 334c; 339d–e), the cheers and roaring laughter of Euthydemus’ followers (Euthd. 276b; 276d; 303b), and so on. All these are emotions of Socrates’ opponents, and the fact that they are as a rule focalized by Socrates in his capacity as either the dialogue’s narrator or, sometimes, one of the characters,2 strongly suggests that the negative impression they create is anything but accidental. But there are also emotions of a different kind. Consider the Phaedo. No cheers and roaring laughter here, only gentle laughing and smiling—by Socrates (84d8; 86d6; 115c5), by Cebes (62a8; 77e3; 101b3), by Simmias (64a10–b1).

1 On emotions in the Protagoras, see Lloyd’s contribution to this volume. 2 So in Meno 95a2: ‘O Meno, it seems to me that Anytus is in a rage (χαλεπαίνειν)’. Later on, Meno repeats almost verbatim Socrates’ observation that Anytus is getting angry, see Meno 99e2. Unless otherwise indicated, the translations of Plato are those by Benjamin Jowett, adapted where necessary.

© Margalit Finkelberg, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_028

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Understandably enough, weeping, lament and other expressions of sorrow loom large—by Xanthippe (60a1–b1), by the jailor (116d2), by Crito, Phaedo, Apollodorus, and by everyone present except Socrates himself (see esp. 59a8– 9 ‘we were laughing and weeping by turns’; see also 117c5–d6). The emotions described in the dialogue contribute to the somber atmosphere of Phaedo’s narrative and are inseparable from the story of Socrates’ last day that it delivers. Yet not all emotions represented in the Phaedo are associated with the account of Socrates’ death. The high point of the philosophical discussion in the dialogue is the moment when Socrates’ arguments of the immortality of the soul ostensibly collapse under the objections raised by Simmias and Cebes. Phaedo and his companions become deeply upset: PHAEDO: When we heard what they [Simmias and Cebes] said we all became depressed (ἀηδῶς διετέθημεν), as we told each other afterwards. We had been quite convinced by the previous argument, but they, it seemed, upset us (ἀναταράξαι) and drove us to doubt not only what had already been said but also what was going to be said … Phd. 88c

This is immediately echoed with an analogous reaction of Phaedo’s audience in the narrative frame of the dialogue: ECHECRATES: By the gods, Phaedo, I feel the same as you all (συγγνώμην γε ἔχω ὑμῖν), for as I listen to you now I find myself saying to myself: ‘What argument shall we trust, now that of Socrates, which was extremely convincing, has fallen into discredit?’ Phd. 88c1–d3. Tr. g.m.a. grube, slightly adapted

Rather than by Socrates’ impending death, the emotions described in this passage are triggered by the twists and turns of a philosophical argument. Indeed, as Echecrates’ concluding remark makes especially clear, it is above all the apparent collapse of Socrates’ argument that shocks those present and causes them emotional distress. The emotions aroused on this occasion are, however, not the feelings of resentment and anger we encounter in competitive situations. The prevailing feeling is that of sorrow, which is described in the same terms as the sorrow caused by Socrates’ impending death.3 3 Cf. ἡμᾶς … ἀναταράξαι here (Phd. 88c3–4) and καὶ αὐτὸς ἔγωγε ἐτεταράγμην καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι at 59b3– 4, relating to the participants’ sorrow caused by Socrates’ approaching death.

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Note that there are three levels of emotional involvement in this episode. Firstly, the dialogue represents the emotions of the characters which are, again, thoroughly focalized by the first-person narrator. Thus, when the emotional state of his companions is beyond Phaedo’s perception, this is acknowledged and accounted for in a metaleptical remark: ‘we all became depressed, as we told each other afterwards’ (emphasis mine).4 Secondly, the emotions of the narrator himself are also acknowledged: ‘we all became depressed’, Phaedo says (emphasis mine). Thirdly, Phaedo’s narrative deeply affects Echecrates and other listeners who closely follow the argument in the narrative frame of the dialogue, triggering in them a sense of sympathy and fellow feeling (συγγνώμη).5 In that it simultaneously refers to the emotions of the characters, the narrator, and the internal audience of the dialogue, the Phaedo episode epitomizes Plato’s overall treatment of the emotions which are evoked by the philosophical argument per se, beyond the emotional reaction triggered by one’s winning or losing in a competitive situation. It should be hoped, therefore, that examination of the relevant contexts along the lines suggested in the Phaedo episode would allow us to arrive at the wider picture of Plato’s attitude to the emotions arising in the course of philosophical reasoning.

The Characters, the Narrator, and the Audience We have good reason to suppose that ‘to follow the argument wherever it leads’6 was seen by Plato not only as a methodological injunction but also as a highly pleasurable activity. It is the Phaedo again that brings this point home. ‘That is why I had no feeling of pity (ἐλεινόν), such as would seem natural in my sorrow,’ Phaedo says of Socrates’ last hours,

4 Phd. 88c2: ὡς ὕστερον ἐλέγομεν πρὸς ἀλλήλους. Metalepsis, or frame-breaking, is a narratological concept purporting to account for the narrative strategy of transgressing the boundaries between different narrative levels. It was first identified in Genette 1980 [1972]: 234–235. See also Allan, Heerink, and Verhelst in this volume. On metalepsis in Plato, see Finkelberg 2019: 22–23 and 90–92, and Finkelberg 2021. 5 For συγγνώμη as fellow feeling, see Ar. Pax 997; Pl. Criti. 107a; Arist. EN 1143a23. 6 Resp. 394d8–9: ‘we must follow the argument wherever, like a wind, it may lead us’; Lg. 667a9: ‘but wherever the argument leads, there let us go’. Cf. Phd. 107b4–9: ‘And if you analyse them [the first hypotheses] adequately, you will, I think, follow the argument as far as a man can, and if the conclusion is clear, you will look no further.’

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nor indeed of pleasure, although we engaged in philosophical discussion (ἐν φιλοσοφίᾳ) as we were accustomed to do—for our arguments were of that sort—but I had a strange feeling, an unaccustomed mixture of pleasure and pain at the same time as I reflected that he was just about to die. Phd. 59a1–7

In spite of the pain (λύπη) caused by the tragic circumstances in which the discussion takes place, the feeling of pleasure (ἡδονή) is so integral to the engagement in philosophical logoi that even the most tragic circumstances imaginable cannot erase it. Nor does disagreement prevent one from enjoying a wellwrought argument. Consider the reaction of Parmenides and Zeno to the young Socrates’ criticism of Zeno’s book: Pythodorus told that, while Socrates was speaking, he himself supposed that Parmenides and Zeno would be distressed (ἄχθεσθαι) at each one of his arguments, but they listened attentively and often looked at one another, and smiled as if in admiration of Socrates. Prm. 130a3–7

Elsewhere in the Parmenides Zeno says that Socrates is ‘as keen as a Spartan hound in pursuing the track’ (128c1–2), and this seems to be reason enough for the two philosophers to enjoy his argument whatever the objections they may have. Note that, just as in the agonistic situations, Plato’s descriptions of the characters’ emotions are strictly limited by the narrator’s perception. Thus, Phaedo becomes assured of the feelings of his companions only when they tell him about them later (above); Pythodorus, who naturally expects that Parmenides’ and Zeno’s reaction to Socrates’ argument will be negative, adjusts his initial assumption as a result of their positive body language; Socrates discerns that Lysis is excited even before the boy interrupts his conversation with Menexenus (below), and so on. Here and elsewhere in Plato’s dialogues, the characters’ emotions are thoroughly focalized by the first-person narrator, who is never configured as omniscient.7 The only emotions Plato’s narrator is at liberty to express are his own. This usually happens when the argument runs into trouble. Pleasurable though it certainly is, ‘following the argument’ is far from being envisaged as proceeding smoothly and uneventfully. It is not for nothing that Plato frequently compares the argument’s progress to a long, bumpy journey

7 Cf. Finkelberg 2019: 33 n. 16 and 43.

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(ὁδός; πορεία) through unexplored territory8 or to a hunting expedition with its inevitable ups and downs.9 Reversals often occur, and they evoke strong emotional responses like the one we encountered in the Phaedo. To appreciate in full the role such responses play in Plato’s narrative, we should turn from emotions of the characters to those experienced by the narrator himself. Consider first the following passage from the Lysis: They both agreed and entirely assented, and even I myself greatly rejoiced (πάνυ ἔχαιρον), like a huntsman just holding fast his prey. But then a most strange suspicion came across me from somewhere to the effect that the conclusion was untrue. I became distressed (ἀχθεσθείς), and said, Alas! Lysis and Menexenus, I am afraid that we have been grasping at a dream only. … I am afraid that the argument about friendship is false. Ly. 218c2–810 This is echoed in the Theaetetus: I am dismayed (δυσχεράνας) at my own stupidity and tiresome garrulity … I am not only dismayed (δυσχεραίνω), but I do not know what to answer if anyone were to ask me: ‘O Socrates, have you indeed discovered that false opinion arises … in union with thought and perception?’ ‘Yes’, I shall say, ‘with the complacence of one who thinks that he has made a noble discovery.’ Tht. 195c1–d3

In both cases, from the moment his argument fails Socrates’ joy and complacence at what just a short while ago was proclaimed an unqualified triumph give place to an outspoken expression of distress. Obviously, this is essentially the same emotional dynamics as the one we observed in the Phaedo—except that, as distinct from the Phaedo, the Lysis and Theaetetus are narrated by Socrates himself.11 What difference does it make?

8 9 10 11

See, e.g., Resp. 402c, 420b, 532e; Phdr. 270d; Sph. 237b, 242b, 245e; Criti. 106a; Phlb. 31b, 32d, 61a; Lg. 779d. See, e.g., Ly. 218c; Euthyd. 291b; Resp. 432b, 432d; Prm. 128b–c; Tht. 198d; Sph. 226a–b; Plt. 263a; Phlb. 65a. Cf. Tht. 208b11–12: ‘And what we fancied to be a perfect definition of knowledge is a dream only.’ On Socrates as the suppressed narrator of the Theaetetus, see Genette 1980 [1972]: 236–237; De Jong 2014: 34; Finkelberg 2019: 5–9.

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Like all narrators in Plato’s dialogues, both Socrates and Phaedo are homodiegetic narrators, that is, narrators who are also characters in the story. Yet, while Phaedo is a homodiegetic narrator who, although present in the story, is not the story’s main character (narrator-observer), Socrates is a homodiegetic narrator who is also the main character in the story he delivers (an autodiegetic narrator, or narrator-hero).12 Accordingly, he is much more at liberty to mould the narrative in accordance with his own agenda. Another difference consists in that in the Phaedo the emotions described belong to those who follow Socrates’ argument whereas Socrates himself remains unaffected. While such lack of emotional response agrees with Socrates’ characterization both here and elsewhere in Plato’s dialogues,13 it is in sharp contrast to the emotional outbursts of the Lysis and Theaetetus. Would it not be reasonable to expect that the collapse of so pivotal an argument as that of the immortality of the soul should have provoked a no less intense emotional response on Socrates’ part? It is important to keep in mind in this connection that the distinctive feature of Plato’s Socrates is his habit of saying things that he does not really mean, that is, his irony: as narrative theory would put it, he is an unreliable narrator.14 This seems to indicate that, just as his expressions of unalloyed admiration for Ion in the Ion, for Hippias in the Hippias Major, for Euthydemus and Dionysodorus in the Euthydemus, or his exaggerated scare vis-à-vis Thrasymachus’ anger in Republic 115 and his self-deprecation in Republic 2 and 3,16 so also his despair and self-deprecation in the Lysis and Theaetetus should not be taken at face value. In other words, it is reasonable to suppose that the emotions acknowledged by Socrates in these two dialogues do not necessarily reflect what he really feels. As distinct from the Phaedo, in both the Lysis and the Theaetetus Socrates’ interlocutors are young people whom he tutors, as it were, in the art of dialectic. The same would be true of Charmides in the Charmides, Meno in the Meno, Glaucon and Adeimantus in Republic 2–10, Protarchus and his friends in

12 13 14 15 16

See Genette 1980 [1972]: 244–245; 248. On Socrates’ emotional self-sufficiency, with a special reference to the Phaedo, see Nussbaum 1992: 269–270. On unreliable narrators, see Booth 1983 [1961]: 158–159; 300–309. See esp. Resp. 336d5–6: ‘I was panic-stricken at his words, and could not look at him without fear.’ Tr. P. Shorey, slightly adapted. Resp. 362d: ‘Though for my part what he [Glaucon] has already said is quite enough to overthrow me and incapacitate me for coming to the rescue of justice’; 392d: ‘I seem to be a ridiculous and obscure teacher.’

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the Philebus. In such so-called pedagogical conversations,17 Socrates’ expressions of emotion follow the ups and downs of an argument whose course must have been known to him in advance. This allows us to suggest that the main purpose of Socrates’ expressions of emotion in these dialogues was to actively engage his interlocutors by rendering them emotionally involved in the argument’s progress. And emotionally involved they are. Meno and Adeimantus are bewitched (see below), Charmides and Lysis laugh and blush,18 Protarchus and his friends do not allow Socrates to depart before the argument has been completed.19 Even the shy Lysis gradually becomes excited: ‘But, O Menexenus!’ I said, ‘may we not have been altogether wrong in our conclusions?’ ‘I am sure that we have been wrong, Socrates’, said Lysis. And he blushed as he spoke, the words seeming to come from his lips involuntarily, because his whole mind was taken up with the argument (τοῖς λεγομένοις); it was obvious that he was in the same state even when he was listening. Ly. 213d1–5

The episode illustrates once again the significance of reversals in Plato’s narratives of philosophical reasoning. By letting his narrator dramatize the argument and react emotionally at its twists and turns, Plato stimulates the characters’ emotional involvement in the argument’s progress and their active engagement with it as a result. The question however is whether he stops here. There is good reason to suppose that the ultimate target of Plato’s strategies of emotional involvement is the dialogues’ extradiegetic audience. Let us return for a moment to the Phaedo. The objections of Simmias and Cebes notwithstanding, Socrates’ argument of the immortality of the soul is eventually redeemed: PHAEDO: What you say is most true, said Simmias and Cebes, speaking at once. ECHECRATES: Yes, Phaedo; and I do not wonder at their assenting. Anyone who has the least sense will acknowledge the wonderful clearness of Socrates’ reasoning. PHAEDO: Certainly, Echecrates; and such was the impression of the whole company at the time. 17 18 19

See Blondell 2002: 200–202; cf. Finkelberg 2019: 108. Chrm. 156a4, 158c, 162b; Ly. 207c6, 208d7, 213d. Phlb. 19d–e; 23b; 50c–d; 67b.

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ECHECRATES: Yes, and equally of ourselves, who were absent, and are now listening. But what followed? Phd. 102a2–9

The orientation towards the extradiegetic audience is neatly conveyed by Echecrates’ phrase ‘and equally of ourselves, who were absent, and are now listening’,20 which encompasses all readers and listeners of the Phaedo. We are clearly expected to become as fully involved as the characters are—or, as Kathryn Morgan put it, ‘[i]t is hard not to think that his [Echecrates’] reactions are a guide to reader reception and response.’21 It is reasonable to suppose that the Lysis and Theaetetus, as well as the other dialogues in which similar tactics of emotional involvement are applied, pursued the same objectives. This may also be true of Plato’s dialogues as a whole. In an important article published in 2012, James Henderson Collins convincingly argued that, insofar as ancient philosophical texts were set as protreptic discourse, they required of their audience a considerable degree of active involvement. This is especially true of dramatic texts such as the philosophical dialogue: [S]ome of these texts suggest through the use of narrative devices that readers and spectators not merely theorize the dramatic maneuvers of philosophical dialogue but get involved with and experience, as only they themselves can, the struggles of philosophical conversion.22 Placed in this context, the narrator’s stimulation of the characters’ emotional response as described in this section should be regarded as one of the manifestations of Plato’s protreptic method—or, as he himself put it in the Phaedrus, of ‘sowing into a fitting soul’, with the assistance of the art of dialectic, of ‘words

20

21 22

Phd. 102a8: Καὶ γὰρ ἡμῖν τοῖς ἀποῦσι, νῦν δὲ ἀκούουσιν. Note that, although the dramatic frame of the Phaedo is disguised as the extradiegetic reality, it is fully enclosed within the fictional domain and is therefore intradiegetic. Collins 2015: 45–169, misses this point, repeatedly referring to the narrative level to which Echecrates and his companions belong as extradiegetic. Morgan 2004: 367. Cf. Rowe 1993: 211; Collins 2012: 165–167. Compare also the contributions of Lloyd and Morgan in this volume. Collins 2012: 151. Cf. ibid. 156: ‘Bystanders are turned into respondents; audiences are drawn into becoming participants. … The representation of reception and transmission within a text or performance may determine, or provide a model for, the reader’s or audience’s reception of that text or performance.’ See also Collins 2015.

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accompanied with knowledge’ (Phaedrus 276e5–7; see also the next section). This, however, raises the question about how this strategy would square with Plato’s negative stance on emotions as coming to the fore in his discussion of mimetic art in Republic 10.

The Philosopher’s Emotions According to Republic 10, the greatest danger posed by mimetic art in general and Homer and tragedy in particular lay in their ability to act upon the inferior, i.e., the irrational, part of the soul, in that Homer and tragedy present characters who openly express the very emotions that we are expected to suppress in real life.23 Accordingly, they harm the audience in that they weaken the superior, i.e., the rational, part of the soul: Please take into account that what in the former case, in our own misfortunes, was forcibly restrained, and what has always hungered for tears and a good cry and satisfaction, because it is its nature to desire these things, is the very element in us that the poets satisfy and delight, while the best element in our nature, since it has never been properly educated by reason or even by habit, now relaxes its guard over the plaintive part, since it is being engaged in contemplating the sufferings (πάθη) of strangers and it is no shame to itself to praise and pity another who, claiming to be a good man, abandons himself to excess in his grief—on the contrary, it thinks that this pleasure (τὴν ἡδονήν) is so much clear gain, and would not consent to forfeit it by disdaining the poem altogether. That is, I think, because few are capable of reflecting that what happens to strangers will inevitably react upon ourselves. For after feeding fat the emotion of pity (τὸ ἐλεινόν) there, it is not easy to restrain it in our own sufferings. Resp. 606a3–b9

It can be seen from this passage that, although Plato saw the eagerness of the soul to indulge in emotions as a natural instinct, the process by which the emotions of fictional characters take hold of the spectators’ souls is presented by him as a sort of contamination: ‘what happens to strangers will inevitably react upon ourselves’.24 The effect produced by Homer and tragedy is not simply

23 24

See in this volume also the Introduction and Huitink’s contribution. Resp. 606b6–7: ἀπολαύειν ἀνάγκη άπὸ τῶν ἀλλοτρίων εἰς τὰ οἰκεῖα.

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to arouse the emotions of fear and pity,25 but to cause the audience to be immersed in the fictional universe, to identify themselves with the characters and to respond emotionally to their predicaments. This is where the pleasure caused by poetry ultimately comes from: I think you know that the very best of us, when we hear Homer or some other of the makers of tragedy representing one of the heroes who is in grief (ἐν πένθει), and is delivering a long tirade in his lamentations or chanting and beating his breast, are delighted, and abandon ourselves and follow the action, suffering together with the characters, and eagerly praise as an excellent poet the one who most strongly affects us in this way. Resp. 605c10–d5

‘We are delighted, and abandon ourselves and follow the action, suffering together with the characters’26—this passage, relating to the reaction of the Athenian audience to the performance of Homer and tragedy, gives the clearest idea of the degree of emotional involvement Plato had in mind. Note that the language of emotional involvement used in this passage is essentially the same as the one Echecrates uses in the Phaedo in order to describe his and his companions’ response to Phaedo’s narrative of the collapse of Socrates’ argument: in both cases, Plato emphasizes the fellow feeling experienced by the members of the audience.27 In the pseudo-Platonic Minos tragedy is described as the branch of poetry ‘most delightful to the mass of the people (δημοτερπέστατον) and most soulguiding (ψυχαγωγικώτατον)’.28 The words do not belong to Plato, but ‘soulguiding’ (ψυχαγωγία) is a Platonic term. It was introduced in the Phaedrus in order to describe the right kind of rhetoric, namely, ‘a certain soul-guiding (ψυχαγωγία) by means of logoi’,29 which can only be attained by those who know the truth. To arrive at such knowledge, one has to master the dialectical 25 26 27

28 29

On fear and pity in Plato, see Halliwell 1986: 170 with n. 3, and 333 under 49b27; Nussbaum 1992. Resp. 605d3–4: χαίρομέν τε καὶ ἐνδόντες ἡμᾶς αὐτοὺς ἑπόμεθα συμπάσχοντες; my translation. Cf. Finkelberg 1998: 186–188. Phd. 88c8: συγγνώμη (with n. 5); Resp. 605d4: συμπάσχοντες. Rowe 1993: 200 comments on the Phaedo episode: ‘the equivalent of the reversal of fortune, or peripeteia (Aristotle, Poetics ch. 6 etc.) in a tragedy.’ [Pl.] Min. 321a4–5. In her discussion of the passage, P.E. Easterling 1997: 214 translates ψυχαγωγικώτατον as ‘most powerful in its appeal to the emotions’. Phdr. 261a7–8: ψυχαγωγία τις διὰ λόγων, cf. 271c10: λόγου δύναμις (sc. ψυχαγωγία).

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procedure of Collection and Division, that is, of dividing things into classes and subsuming them under a single form.30 Only then will the practitioner of this art be able to persuade the audience and literally to guide their souls. Elsewhere, Plato provides illustrations of the effect that the application of such ‘soul-guiding by means of logoi’ would produce. ‘O Socrates’, Meno says in the Meno, I used to be told, before I knew you, that you have always been perplexed and rendering others perplexed (ἀπορεῖν); and now you are casting your spells (γοητεύεις) over me, and you bewitch (φαρμάττεις) and simply enchant (κατεπᾴδεις) me, and I am now utterly perplexed (μεστὸν ἀπορίας γεγονέναι). … you seem to be both in your appearance and your power over others very much like the torpedo fish, who torpifies those who come near him, as you have now torpified me. For my soul and my tongue are really torpid, and I do not know how to answer you. Meno 79e7–80b2

Adeimantus in the Republic is even more specific: … when you talk in this way, those who listen to you experience something like that: they fancy that they are led astray a little at each step in the argument … these littles accumulate, and at the end of the discussion (τῶν λόγων) they are found to have sustained a mighty overthrow and all their former notions appear to be turned upside down. Resp. 487b2–7

Obviously, what is described here is the same psychagogical effect as the one ascribed to tragedy by the author of the Minos, and Plato in his description of the power of Homer and tragedy in Republic 10 could hardly mean something significantly different. Likewise, the terminology of enchantment so lavishly exploited in the Meno (‘spells’, ‘bewitchment’, ‘enchantment’ are among the terms used) is the signature mark of the effect of poetry from Homer onwards.31 In view of this, it would be hard to avoid the conclusion that Plato not only saw dialectical reasoning as arousing emotional response but also treated the latter along the same lines as the emotional response aroused by poetry. If we take 30 31

On Collection and Division as the proper, i.e. psychagogical, kind of rhetoric, see Phdr. 265d–266c. On enchantment as one of the principal effects of poetry in the Homeric epics, see Finkelberg 1998: 92–99.

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into account that both philosophy and poetry are presented by him as sources of pleasure (see above, the Phaedo reference to the pleasure felt by those who follow philosophical argument and Republic 10 on the pleasure of those who watch a performance of tragedy), we will arrive at an almost perfect symmetry in Plato’s treatment of these two activities: both poetry and philosophy bring pleasure and arouse emotions which profoundly affect the human soul. This is, however, where the similarity between poetry and philosophy ends. While both poetry and philosophy employ emotions to stimulate and reinforce the fellow feeling in their audiences, the emotions they arouse are different. Rather than pity and fear evoked by the sufferings of fictional characters, the emotions aroused in the course of dialectical reasoning are joy and sorrow triggered by the ups and downs of a progressing philosophical argument. These two different sets of emotions reflect what Plato saw as a profound difference between philosophy and mimetic art. It is true that, like poetry, philosophy brings pleasure, but the pleasure it produces is sui generis. While Homer and tragedy feed the emotions of fear and pity which harm the rational part of the soul, the emotions of joy and sorrow evoked by dialectical reasoning elevate the rational part of the soul and, just as the one and only science (ἐπιστήμη) placed in the Symposium at the upper level of the spiritual ascent towards the Good, lead it to the contemplation of the ultimate beauty.32 Not everyone, however, is equally equipped to undergo this experience. While tragedy is ‘most delightful to the mass of the people’ (δημοτερπέστατον, see above), philosophy appeals to a select few. For Plato’s Socrates and his circle contemporary drama is hardly more than a vulgar spectacle, specially tailored to appease the taste of the crowd. In an episode of the Symposium, the tragic poet Agathon, who only a day before stood with ‘ease and dignity’ before a vast audience as a participant in the Lenaea competition, is represented as being shy to speak before a small group of friends, ‘because a man of any judgement cares more for a handful of brains than an army of blockheads.’33 Even a mere visit to the theatre of Dionysus may cause the members of the intellectual elite to be contaminated by the inferiority of the crowd’s favourite spectacle.34 This does not necessarily mean that Plato saw no way in which art could satisfy the taste of the intellectual elite; however, this would never be achieved by means

32 33 34

Smp. 210d2–8. Smp. 194b7–8: ὅτι νοῦν ἔχοντι ὀλίγοι ἔμφρονες πολλῶν ἀφρόνων φοβερώτεροι. Tr. M. Joyce. Smp. 194 c1–5. The terms ‘intellectuals’ (σοφοί) and the ‘crowd’ (οἱ πολλοί) used in this passage (see also 194c9) are the key-words in Plato’s attitude to Attic drama, see Finkelberg 2006: 24–26; cf. Allan and Kelly 2013.

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of the mimetic art dear to the heart of the general public. In the Laws Plato says that the ‘finest Muse’ is the one that ‘delights the best men, the properly educated’,35 and in the Philebus that the beauty of abstract geometrical forms ‘is not what most people (οἱ πολλοί) would understand as such, not the beauty of a living creature or a picture.’36 It goes without saying that, just as with the philosophical argument, such abstract beauty would be beneficial to the soul, in that it would appeal to the rational part of it. It is not before Aristotle’s Poetics that we will encounter the idea that, rather than harming the soul, the emotions of fear and pity aroused by mimetic art have a purifying effect on it. To recapitulate, although Plato’s strategies of emotional involvement closely resembled those employed in Homer and tragedy, he negotiated these strategies in a different way. Rather than tragedy’s pity and fear, the emotions he privileged were joy and sorrow which accompany the progress of philosophical argument—or lack of it. Building upon the interplay of emotions which involved both the narrator and the characters, Plato’s representation of emotions was purported to stimulate active engagement of those who are prepared to train their minds in the exalted activity of philosophical reasoning.

Bibliography Allan, W., Kelly, A., ‘Listening to Many Voices: Athenian Tragedy as Popular Art,’ in A. Marmadoro, J. Hill (eds.), The Author’s Voice in Classical and Late Antiquity (Oxford 2013) 77–122. Blondell, R., The Play of Character in Plato’s Dialogues (Cambridge 2002). Booth, W.C., The Rhetoric of Fiction (Chicago / London [1961] 2nd edn. 1983). Collins, J.H., ‘Prompts for Participation in Early Philosophical Texts’, in E. Minchin (ed.), Orality, Literacy and Performance in the Ancient World (Leiden / Boston 2012) 151–182. Collins, J.H., Exhortations to Philosophy. The Protreptics of Plato, Isocrates, and Aristotle (Oxford / New York 2015). Easterling, P.E., ‘From Repertoire to Canon’, in P.E. Easterling (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Greek Tragedy (Cambridge 1997) 211–227. Finkelberg, M., The Birth of Literary Fiction in Ancient Greece (Oxford 1998). Finkelberg, M., ‘The City Dionysia and the Social Space of Attic Tragedy’, in J. Davidson, F. Muecke, P. Wilson (eds.), Greek Drama iii. Essays in Honour of Kevin Lee (London 2006) 17–26.

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Lg. 658e8–9: ἥτις τοὺς βελτίστους καὶ ἱκανῶς πεπαιδευμένους τέρπει. Phlb. 51c1–3. Cf. Finkelberg 1998: 198–200.

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Finkelberg, M., The Gatekeeper. Narrative Voice in Plato’s Dialogues (Leiden / Boston 2019). Finkelberg, M., ‘Frame and Frame-Breaking in Plato’s Dialogues’, in E. Kaklamanou, M. Pavlou, A. Tsakmakis, (eds.), Framing the Dialogues. How to Read Openings and Closures in Plato (Leiden / Boston 2021) 27–39. Genette, G., Narrative Discourse. An Essay in Method, tr. by J.E. Lewin (Ithaca, NY [1972] 1980). Halliwell, S., Aristotle’s Poetics (London 1986). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narratology and Classics. A Practical Guide (Oxford 2014). Morgan, K., ‘Plato’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 357–376. Nussbaum, M.C., ‘Tragedy and Self-Sufficiency: Plato and Aristotle on Fear and Pity’, in A. Oksenberg Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Poetics (Princeton 1992) 261–290. Rowe, C. (ed.), Plato. Phaedo (Cambridge 1993).

chapter 27

The Arousal of Interest in Plato’s Protagoras and Gorgias Michael Lloyd

Interest in Philosophy Plato is alert to the question of why people engage in philosophical discussion, and regularly explains it in terms of the emotions.* He often describes the motivation of the participants to continue with a discussion, with the everpresent possibility that they have other things to do. The most common of these motivating emotions are pleasure and desire, although an excitement akin to madness is sometimes mentioned. Socrates thus characterizes himself as a lover (ἐραστής) of speeches (Phaedrus 228c), although it should be noted that this is focalized through Phaedrus’ desire to find someone with whom to share his speech. His self-characterization is indeed typically oblique, bantering, and ironical. He describes himself as a lover of learning (φιλομαθής, Phdr. 230d; cf. Phdr. 67b) and a speech-lover (φιλόλογος, Phdr. 236e; cf. Tht. 146a). He may frequently have been bested in argument, but refuses to give up because he has such a great passion (ἔρως) for this type of exercise (Tht. 169c). These emotions may be aroused by the process of philosophical discussion, or directed towards knowledge itself. He thus speaks of wisdom (φρόνησις) ‘which we desire (ἐπιθυμοῦμεν) and whose lovers (ἐρασταί) we profess to be’ (Phdr. 66e). His youthful passion for natural philosophy is described in similar terms: ‘I had an amazing desire (ἐπεθύμησα) when I was young for this knowledge’ (Phdr. 96a). Philosophical discussion has a sociable aspect, and Socrates is a ‘friendlover’ (φιλέταιρος, Ly. 211d–e). After a long period away on military campaign, he ‘returned with delight (ἀσμένως)’ to his usual haunts (Chrm. 153a), and the news from Athens that he wants is about philosophy and whether any of the young men is remarkable for beauty or intelligence. The passion for wisdom, philosophy, or philosophical discussion resembles erotic passion for another person. Socrates develops this parallel in Gorgias, where he compares his love for Alcibiades and Philosophy to Callicles’ love for

* I am grateful to the editors for their helpful comments on an earlier draft of this chapter.

© Michael Lloyd, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_029

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Demos son of Pyrilampes and the Athenian dêmos (Gorgias 481c–d). This striking view of the essential similarity of apparently distinct emotions enables him to explain how we can understand the emotions of others: ‘If people had not certain feelings in common (τὸ αὐτό), some sharing one feeling, some another, but some of us had unique feelings unshared by the rest (ἴδιον ἢ οἱ ἄλλοι), it would not be easy to reveal one’s experience (πάθημα, the result of the πάθος) to one’s neighbour’ (Grg. 481c).1 Socrates’ expertise in love (ἔρως, for example Phdr. 257; Smp. 177d; 204b) is fundamental to his philosophical project.2 Socrates’ friends and associates share his passion. The aged Cephalus speaks of the desires (ἐπιθυμίαι) and pleasures (ἡδοναί) concerning philosophical discussion, which replace their physical equivalents as one gets older (Respublica 328d). Apollodorus says that whenever he engages in philosophical discussion ‘apart from believing that I am benefiting, I get extraordinary pleasure (χαίρω)’ (Smp. 173c). Nicias knows that he will be subjected to examination by Socrates, ‘for I enjoy (χαίρω) associating with him’ (La. 188a). Laches adds ‘I would very greatly enjoy (ἥδιστα) being questioned by him’ (La. 189a). Alcibiades, very drunk, expresses himself in more extravagant terms: ‘when I hear him talk, my heart leaps and tears pour from my eyes’ (Smp. 215e), and later says to the others ‘you have all shared the philosophical madness (μανία) and frenzy (βακχεία)’ (Smp. 218a–b).3 Irene de Jong has argued that the reactions of secondary narratees to embedded narratives in Homer ‘may help us to determine the intended reaction of the primary narratees to the Iliad and Odyssey themselves’ (for instance emotional involvement).4 In a similar vein, Margalit Finkelberg, focusing on the joy and sorrow triggered by the progress of a philosophical argument, argues, ‘There is good reason to suppose that the ultimate target of Plato’s strategies of emotional involvement is the dialogues’ extradiegetic audience’.5 The present chapter will look somewhat more broadly at Plato’s engagement of the emotions of the primary narratees (that is, the readers or audiences of the dia-

1 Translated and annotated by Dodds 1959: 261. 2 See (e.g.) Belfiore 2012: 3, contrasting ‘ordinary ἔρως’ with ‘Socratic ἔρως’ (‘a passionate desire for the wisdom, beauty and other good things that one recognizes that one lacks’); Yunis 2011: 87, note on Phaedrus 227c3–4. Compare also Finkelberg’s observations in this volume on the benevolent emotions that accompany dialectic argumentation and therefore need not be avoided—in contrast to the emotions displayed in epic and tragedy, as pointed out in Resp. Book 10. 3 Belfiore 2012: 24 remarks on Socrates’ rather less emotional attitude to philosophy in the trial and death dialogues. 4 De Jong 2004: 23; cf. 2001: 197–198. See also the Introduction to this volume, p. 10. 5 Finkelberg in this volume, p. 434.

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logues), and in particular how he arouses and maintains interest in the whole process of philosophical discussion. One way of doing so is to describe the enthusiasm of the participants, and another is to have an eager internal narratee to guide our response. The rest of this chapter will focus on two dialogues, Protagoras and Gorgias, in order to show how Plato generates interest in the philosophical discussion. This has two aspects. First, it explains why the participants choose to occupy their time in this way, when the experience is sometimes uncomfortable and they may have other things to do. Second, Plato arouses the interest of the readers of the works, drawing them into material which might seem difficult or irrelevant. In both of these aspects, emotion plays a significant role.

Protagoras Protagoras is mostly narrated by Socrates as a secondary internal narrator, but is introduced by a brief dramatic dialogue with an anonymous friend.6 The Friend will be the internal narratee of the main body of the dialogue, and his enthusiasm to hear about Protagoras is designed to generate the interest of the reader from the start.7 This dialogue also conveys Socrates’ interest in Protagoras, although in a more oblique and ironic way. The beginning of a Platonic dialogue often introduces themes which will be developed later, and this is no exception.8 The Friend addresses Socrates abruptly, assuming that he must have come from ‘the hunt of the beautiful Alcibiades’ (309a). He follows up this rather presumptuous reference to Socrates’ emotional attachment to Alcibiades by remarking that he has seen him recently, suggesting that he has independent, and perhaps more up-todate, knowledge. Finally, he observes that, while Alcibiades may still be beautiful, he is, ‘between the two of us’, too old to be an appropriate erômenos. This is a remarkable amount of provocation to get into such a short speech, in particular the Friend’s assumption that he can read Socrates’ emotions and thereby gain a conversational advantage. Socrates does not reply directly, which would inevitably betray his emotions one way or the other, but focalizes Alcibiades’ beauty through the attitudes and opinions of the Friend: he is an admirer of Homer, who regarded as most attractive the age when the first beard is grow6 On dramatic, narrated, and mixed dialogues in Plato, see Morgan 2004: 361. 7 See Finkelberg 2019: 82–83 for discussion of the three brief occasions when attention is drawn to the narrative frame, although none of these mentions the response of the Friend. 8 See generally Burnyeat 1997, although he does not discuss Protagoras.

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ing, which is Alcibiades’ age now. The Friend persists with direct questions, but Socrates disconcertingly responds that he paid hardly any attention to Alcibiades when he saw him earlier in the day. The Friend is thrown off the track, assuming that Socrates has met a more beautiful boy, indirectly admitting that there could be none more beautiful than Alcibiades. Socrates reminds him of this later: ‘Alcibiades the beautiful, as you say and I agree’ (316a), again focalizing his admiration for Alcibiades through the viewpoint of the Friend. Socrates gradually reveals, to the incredulity of the Friend, that the person he has met who is more beautiful than Alcibiades is a visitor from Abdera. He explains: ‘How is the wisest not going to seem more beautiful?’ (309c). The Friend then asks whether Socrates has just met someone wise, to which he answers: ‘The wisest man alive, if the person who seems wisest to you is Protagoras’ (309d). The name is held back for effect, and Socrates wins this conversational game of chess as the Friend cannot contain his excitement: ‘O what are you saying? Is Protagoras in town?’ (309d).9 We are not in a position to know whether Socrates is aware that the Friend has any particular enthusiasm for Protagoras, or merely that he knows that anyone would be impressed by his acquaintance with this celebrity. Either way, he reads the Friend’s emotions, and manipulates him into betraying them. He emphasizes his victory by revealing that Protagoras has already been in Athens for two days, echoing the Friend’s provocative implication that he may have seen Socrates’ beloved more recently than he has himself. The dialogue ends with an elaborately polite exchange in which the Friend asks Socrates to describe his encounter with Protagoras, and he agrees.10 The Friend fulfils the role of eager narratee, who helps to arouse the reader’s interest. The question arises why the revelation of his enthusiasm for Protagoras in this introductory dialogue is so elaborate, and why he needs to be manipulated by Socrates into revealing it. The answer must partly be that Socrates is adept at reading the emotions of others and concealing his own, and this is indeed an important theme in what follows. This section also shows that Socrates himself is interested in Protagoras, although he only reveals this obliquely and ironically.11

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Denyer 2008: 67, n. on 309d3 observes that ‘ὤ is a strongly emotional expression’, with only one other example in Plato (Phaedrus 227c). See Lloyd 2018: 418–419 for the polite negotiations involved in someone agreeing to give a lengthy verbal performance, discussing this passage and two others in Plato. Rutherford 1995: 123 notes that Socrates’ irony in this introductory dialogue ‘does not convey outright dismissal or condemnation of its object [i.e. Protagoras], but raises doubts and questions’.

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The second stage of Plato’s arousal of interest in Protagoras is the opening of Socrates’ narrative, in which he describes being disturbed at the crack of dawn. He begins as if he has less restricted focalization than one might have expected from someone lying in bed in the dark: ‘Hippocrates, the son of Apollodorus and brother of Phason, banged violently on my door with his stick, and when a slave had opened it to him rushed immediately inside …’ (310a–b). Socrates’ focalization then narrows to his perceptions at the time, as he describes his recognition of Hippocrates’ voice, followed by awareness of him standing beside his bed and feeling for a place to sit down. This shift of focalization enables Socrates to stress his identification of Hippocrates’ emotions, which he characterizes as ἀνδρεία (‘impetuosity’) and πτοίησις (‘excitement’), brought on by news of the arrival of Protagoras.12 Socrates also comments on Hippocrates shouting and laughing. His excitability would in any case have been evident from his speech, according to which he insists on doing everything ‘immediately’, and in which he frequently uses oaths (310b– d). Socrates’ questioning soon reveals that Hippocrates’ urgent desire to meet Protagoras is not informed by any very coherent view of what he might gain from associating with him. Socrates develops analogies to illustrate what one might hope to learn from specialists in various fields, for example that one might want to learn to be a sculptor oneself by seeking instruction from a well-known sculptor, and then asks Hippocrates why he would go to the sophist Protagoras: ‘And he said with a blush (ἐρυθριάσας)—for day was already beginning to dawn, so that he was visible—“If it is anything like the previous examples, then clearly in order to become a sophist myself”. “But wouldn’t you” I said “be ashamed to present yourself to the Greeks as a sophist?” “Absolutely, Socrates, at least if I should say what I really think”’ (312a). The significance of the blush here is that it reveals Hippocrates’ true opinion, as he goes on to state explicitly.13 Socrates suggests instead that he would be going to Protagoras for educational purposes, and the argument which follows from this would have been blocked if Hippocrates had stuck with his original answer, which would have given him a coherent position which followed logically from the previous discussion. It will turn out that one of Protagoras’ pupils, Antimoerus of Mende, is indeed studying to be a sophist himself (315a), but he is exceptional. Socrates regularly insists that participants in a dialogue say what they really think rather than merely what might help them to win the argument (for example, Prt. 331b–e; Grg. 499c; Chrm. 174b;

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On these two words, see Denyer 2008: 69–70, n. on 310d3. On blushing in Plato, see Morgan 2018: 449–450.

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La. 196c; Smp. 201c). The elenchus often exposes contradictions in the interlocutor’s beliefs, demonstrating that he must abandon or revise one or more of them. It is also a common feature of argument that consistency can be achieved only at the price of the interlocutor adopting views which he can reasonably be suspected of not really believing. Richard McKim has argued that in Gorgias Socrates tries to shame Polus and Callicles into admitting what they really believe, that it is better to suffer injustice than to do it (for example, Grg. 494c– e): ‘Whereas Callicles says that men assert out of shame what they really believe to be false, Socrates thinks that men assert out of shame what they really believe to be true.’14 This is an interesting and convincing reversal of the usual view of the role of shame in the dialogue. Hippocrates’ change of tack here is an example of the same process, showing the importance of emotion as evidence of what someone really thinks. Protagoras himself later says: ‘it would be shameful (αἰσχρός) for me of all people to deny that wisdom and knowledge are the most powerful of all human things’ (352d), although it might have been to the advantage of his argument if he had denied it. The amusing episode in which Socrates gains admittance to Callias’ house, where Protagoras is staying, illustrates again how he explicitly interprets someone’s emotions when they are in any case apparent from the dialogue. The porter says ‘Ha! Sophists! My master is busy’, before pushing the door closed (314d). Socrates introduces this reaction by saying that he thought the porter might have been annoyed by the number of sophists visiting the house, which the narratee could in any case have deduced from the dialogue. Socrates presents himself as continually reasoning about the emotions of others, and being proved right by events (compare Phdr. 228a; Euthd. 285a; 288b).15 Socrates asks Protagoras to consider taking on Hippocrates as his pupil (316b–c). The request is later expressed more precisely: ‘Hippocrates here desires (ἐν ἐπιθυμίᾳ ὤν) your company, and says that he would gladly (ἡδέως) discover what the outcome would be from associating with you’ (318a). Protagoras explains why he would rather discuss the matter in public (317c), but before describing his reply Socrates makes the following narratorial comment: ‘I suspected that he wanted to show off to Prodicus and Hippias and preen himself (καλλωπίζομαι) on our presence as his admirers’ (317c–d). Socrates ignores Protagoras’ lengthy and plausible explanation for his preference to be as open as possible. No evidence is provided for his interpretation of Protagoras’ emo-

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McKim 1988: 40; contrast Denyer 2008: 181, n. on 352d2. See the discussion by Finkelberg 2019: 33; 51–52; 82.

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tions, as it was in the scenes with Hippocrates and the porter discussed above.16 Plato’s extended build-up to the discussion reaches its climax as the large and distinguished audience gather round, glad (ἄσμενος) that they are going to listen to wise men (317d–e). The internal narratee (the Friend) is well rewarded for his attention, but all this serves to engage the interest of the external narratee (the reader): Plato makes the point that what is to follow is of the greatest interest and importance. Socrates also has the challenge of keeping Protagoras himself engaged. The first sign of strain is when Socrates changes the subject ‘since you seem to me to be annoyed by this’ (332a). His later comments on Protagoras’ emotional state are in his narratorial voice and not shared with him. They start with ‘he agreed very reluctantly’ (333b), when his actual words are not quoted. A little later, Socrates again uses the word καλλωπίζομαι (333d). This was translated ‘preen himself’ in the discussion of its occurrence at 317d above, but here it seems to mean ‘play hard to get’ (compare Phdr. 236d). Either way, this is the behaviour of a pretty boy pursued by admirers. An element of seduction is prominent in other dialogues (for example, Charmides, Lysis). It is rather surprising to find it in a dialogue with an elderly sophist, but we may recall Socrates’ comparison of Protagoras to Alcibiades in the introductory conversation. Socrates then decides to proceed more cautiously: ‘I thought Protagoras had become exasperated and agitated, and had drawn himself up against giving answers’ (καί μοι ἐδόκει ὁ Πρωταγόρας ἤδη τετραχύνθαι τε καὶ ἀγωνιᾶν καὶ παρατετάχθαι πρὸς τὸ ἀποκρίνεσθαι, 333e).17 The pleasure of the company in the discussion comes to the fore again in the passage where Socrates threatens to break it off and needs to be persuaded to resume (335d–338e). The introductory section of the dialogue established that Protagoras was an interesting and important figure, who was worth going to listen to. This passage makes explicit that the audience, and by implication the readers, have time for Socrates’ dialogue with him. When Socrates was standing up to leave, Callias grasped his hand with his right hand and his cloak with his left and says: ‘We shall not let you go, Socrates. The conversation will not be the same if you leave. There is nothing I would listen to with more pleasure (ἥδιον) than you and Protagoras conversing. Please do us this favour’ (335d).

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For Socrates’ narrative control in dialogues narrated by him, see Morgan 2004: 363–364; 2017: 454–456. παρατάττω is a metaphor from lining up troops in battle order, and πρός shows that Protagoras is setting himself against giving answers at all, as if answering Socrates’ questions were the enemy (cf. Isocrates 4.96), rather than, as some translators have it, setting himself to give battle in his answers. For ἀγωνιάω, cf. Chrm. 162c, discussed below.

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Other distinguished members of the audience also ask them to continue the discussion. This remarkable episode is the climax of Plato’s efforts to engage the interest of the reader in the dialogue. We may feel dissatisfaction, boredom, or impatience with various aspects of it, but the pleas of Callias and the others to continue indicate the correct response. There are further problems at the end of the discussion of Simonides, when Alcibiades asks Socrates and Protagoras to continue their previous discussion (347b), and after Socrates has said that he would gladly (ἡδέως) do so, puts pressure on Protagoras to continue. Callias and almost all the others also ask him to continue, and Socrates again interprets his response: ‘He was ashamed (αἰσχυνθείς), as it seemed to me, and reluctantly returned to the discussion’ (348c).

Gorgias In Gorgias, a dramatic dialogue, Socrates’ identification and manipulation of his interlocutor’s emotions are necessarily expressed in a different way. He does not have the narrative control of interpreting the emotions of his interlocutor to the narratee which he has in Protagoras. He only has the other people present, and thus needs to be more indirect and polite. Gorgias has not been bridling under the pressure of Socrates’ questioning, as Protagoras was (Prt. 333e), and has indeed just made a long and confident speech arguing that the teacher of rhetoric is not responsible for any bad use of it made by his pupils (Grg. 456a–457c). He clearly expects that to be his last word on the matter, but Socrates actually intends to question him in order to expose inconsistencies in his position. Socrates’ reply begins with generalities about how discussion can go wrong, politely focalized from Gorgias’ point of view: ‘I think that you too, Gorgias, have experience of many discussions, and have seen in them the following …’ (457c). He does no more than express concern that Gorgias might experience the disagreeable emotions (χαλεπαίνουσι, 457d) of the participants in such discussions if he were to be questioned more closely, and does not actually attribute such emotions to him. He then focalizes the issue through his own pleasure in either refuting or being refuted, according to who is speaking the truth. In other words, he does not say ‘Do you mind being refuted if you are wrong?’ but ‘I would gladly (ἡδέως) be rid of false ideas: are you like me?’ Finally, Socrates gives Gorgias the option of continuing the discussion on these terms or giving it up. He does not take for granted that everyone will find this kind of activity worthwhile. Gorgias insists that he is just like Socrates in not minding being refuted if he is mistaken, but suggests that the audience may have had enough of the dis-

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cussion: ‘We should consider them too, in case we are detaining some of them when they are wanting to do something else’ (458b–c). It is sometimes alleged that Gorgias only says this because he wants to make a face-saving exit from the discussion himself,18 but the possibility that we all have better things to do is regularly mentioned in Plato, and Gorgias turns out to be quite willing to continue when asked to do so. Chaerephon reports the sounds of enthusiasm from the audience, and remarks that he personally would never be too busy to listen to such discussions. He plays a useful role here and on two other occasions in the dialogue (447a–448c; 481b), where the dramatic form leaves a gap which was filled by Socrates as narrator in Protagoras.19 It is actually the intervention of Callicles which is most striking here: ‘By the gods, Chaerephon, I have been present at many discussions before, and I do not think that I have ever taken such pleasure (ἥσθην) as I am doing now. So far as I am concerned, you will be doing me a favour if you continue your discussion for the rest of the day’ (458d). The intensity of Callicles’ enthusiasm comes as a surprise, especially as we have not heard from him since the beginning of the dialogue. He both guides our response to what we have already heard, and whets our appetite for what is to come. Gorgias later returns the favour when he encourages Socrates and Callicles to continue (497b; 506b). Gorgias, like Protagoras, is also motivated to continue the discussion because of shame: ‘It would be shameful (αἰσχρόν) for me not to continue, Socrates, since I have said [447d–448a] that anyone could ask me whatever they wanted’. Gorgias also exemplifies a technique which Plato often uses to generate interest in a discussion. This is not used in Protagoras, but does occur in the Republic as we shall see, so is not confined to dramatic dialogues. As with the expressions of enthusiasm discussed above, it both explains the motivation of the participants to continue and reflects and reinforces the interest of the narratee and reader. Polus becomes exasperated by the progress of the debate with Gorgias, and bursts in with criticisms of Socrates’ handling of it (461b–c). His emotional state is made apparent by his abrupt questions and disordered syntax,20 culminating in the direct criticism ‘It is very boorish to bring the discussion down to this’. Socrates makes no explicit comment on Polus’ manner, although his ironically restrained reply could well be understood to imply criticism. We may also recall Polus’ rudeness earlier (448a–e). The impetus of the discussion is thus maintained by the arrival of a new participant who is pro18 19 20

E.g. Rutherford 1995: 149. Finkelberg 2019: 68 may however go too far when she says: ‘the Gorgias is focalized through Chaerephon and … it is Chaerephon who is envisaged as its implicit narrator’. See Dodds 1959: 221, n. on 461b4–c3.

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voked by how it is proceeding, and in particular believes that he can deal better with Socrates’ questioning. This will reflect the emotions of many readers, and serve to maintain and increase their interest and engagement. There is a similar, although more polite, sequence at the beginning of the dialogue, which starts with Chaerephon questioning Gorgias and then Polus for just long enough to arouse impatience for the discussion between the principals Socrates and Gorgias for which both internal and external audiences have been waiting (447d– 449a). Callicles is similarly provoked to join in the discussion, although he does so more politely when he asks if Socrates is serious about his paradoxical view that doing injustice is worse than suffering it (481b). There is a series of such interventions in the Republic. Polemarchus interrupts, prompting Cephalus to bequeath the argument to him (Resp. 331d). There is then the episode of Thrasymachus’ intervention (Resp. 336b–d). Socrates as narrator can describe how he had been observing his growing impatience to interrupt, in contrast to the unprepared intervention of Polus in the dramatic dialogue Gorgias, whose emotions can only be deduced from his language. Finally, Glaucon is dissatisfied with Thrasymachus’ withdrawal and carries on the discussion himself (Resp. 357a). There is something similar in Charmides, another dialogue narrated by Socrates, when Critias is drawn into the conversation. Socrates gives an elaborate analysis of Critias’ emotional condition during the preceding discussion with Charmides: ‘It had been clear for some time that Critias was agitated (ἀγωνιῶν) and anxious to impress (φιλοτίμως … ἔχων) in front of Charmides and the others present. He had only with difficulty restrained himself previously, but was no longer able to do so’ (Chrm. 162c).21

Losing Interest in Philosophy Returning to Protagoras, the moment eventually comes when Protagoras has finally had enough of Socrates: ‘We shall discuss these matters some other time, whenever you like, but now it is time to turn our attention to something else’ (361e). Rutherford is critical: ‘we cannot help feeling that Protagoras has failed a test: he lacks the determination, and the concern for truth, which would enable him to ignore his own failures or false moves and concentrate on the enquiry at hand.’22 Another way of looking at it is that he has persevered for a remarkably

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The passage is well discussed by Morgan 2004: 363–364. Rutherford 1995: 139.

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long time with an unfamiliar and unwelcome mode of philosophizing, which does not show his abilities to the best advantage and does little or nothing for his reputation. Socrates highlights his own skill in seducing him into continuing to participate. Plato himself certainly does not take for granted that his readers will have limitless appetite for Socratic dialectic, and goes to remarkable lengths to generate enough enthusiasm to keep it going. It is evidence for the success of his philosophical project that modern scholars tend to assume that failure to go along with it demonstrates moral and intellectual failure. Plato is always alert to the fact that Socrates needed reasonably co-operative interlocutors, and that he himself needed to maintain the interest of his readers. Dialogues do not always end with all participants content with the conclusions reached, and there is the ever-present possibility that they may decide that they have better things to do. Euthyphro is less polite than Protagoras: Socrates wants to start the investigation of piety again from the beginning, but he replies ‘Some other time, Socrates, for I have urgent business now and it is time for me to go’ (Euthphr. 15e).23 Socrates analyses Anytus’ withdrawal from the discussion, believing himself to be insulted (Meno 95a). Cephalus happily bequeaths the argument to Polemarchus, while he goes off to attend to a sacrifice (Resp. 331d). Blondell is rather censorious about this: ‘he is quite literally retreating to traditional values rather than face elenctic scrutiny’ (170).24 Socrates himself occasionally remembers other engagements (Prt. 335c; 362a; Meno 100b; Tht. 210d).

Conclusion Plato is always aware that people have other things to do than engage in philosophical discussion, and that their interest needs to be aroused and maintained. Protagoras begins with two separate scenes in which characters (the Friend and Hippocrates) want to hear about or to meet Protagoras. Socrates is able to guide his conversations with both of them because he is able to identify their emotions while concealing his own. Many characters in Plato feel emotions towards philosophy or philosophical discussion which are explicitly or implicitly related to other emotions, and in particular to desire for another person. When the discussion in Protagoras seems about to break down, members of the audience noisily express their wish for it to continue. Similar enthusiasm 23 24

For ‘some other time’ (εἰς αὖθις) as a polite way of saying ‘never’, see Prt. 347b; Grg. 449b, 449c; Cra. 440e; Euthphr. 6c. Blondell 2002: 168–173, at 170. Beversluis 2000: 185–202 quotes various judgements of Cephalus, including some sympathetic ones.

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is expressed by the audience in Gorgias, notably Chaerephon and Callicles. The momentum of a discussion can also be sustained by emotions of a more negative kind, such as annoyance or impatience. This can be seen with both Polus and Callicles in Gorgias, and a number of examples from other dialogues were mentioned above. These expressions of emotion are clearly designed to guide or reflect the emotions of the external narratee, and play a significant role in generating interest in the dialogue. We have seen a number of cases where the participants remember pressing engagements and decide that they have better ways of passing their time than engaging in philosophical discussion, and Plato is always alert to the possibility that his readers may have similar feelings. He thus both encourages our interest by describing the enthusiasm of the participants, and also anticipates and expresses possible feelings of boredom or dissatisfaction. In conclusion, Plato offers striking examples in these dialogues of how a writer can use the description of emotion to arouse and maintain the interest of the reader.

Bibliography Belfiore, E.S., Socrates’ Daimonic Art. Love for Wisdom in Four Platonic Dialogues (Cambridge 2012). Beversluis, J., Cross-Examining Socrates. A Defense of the Interlocutors in Plato’s Early Dialogues (Cambridge 2000). Blondell, R., The Play of Character in Plato’s Dialogues (Cambridge 2002). Burnyeat, M.F., ‘First Words: A Valedictory Lecture’, PCPhS 43 (1997) 1–20. Denyer, N. (ed.), Plato: Protagoras (Cambridge 2008). Dodds, E.R. (ed.), Plato: Gorgias (Oxford 1959). Finkelberg, M., The Gatekeeper. Narrative Voice in Plato’s Dialogues (Leiden / Boston 2019). Jong, I.J.F. de, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 13–24. Lloyd, M., ‘The Hortative Aorist’, CQ 68 (2018) 415–424. McKim, R., ‘Shame and Truth in Plato’s Gorgias’ in C.L. Griswold (ed.), Platonic Writings, Platonic Readings (New York / London 1988) 34–48. Morgan, K., ‘Plato’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narrative in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 357–376. Morgan, K., ‘Plato’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Character and Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018) 445–464. Rutherford, R.B., The Art of Plato. Ten Essays in Platonic Interpretation (London 1995). Yunis, H. (ed.), Plato: Phaedrus (Cambridge 2011).

chapter 28

Socratic Emotions Kathryn A. Morgan

The representation of emotion in the dialogues of Plato has recently been receiving increased scholarly attention, with respect to both the emotions used to characterize speakers in the dialogues and the extent to which these emotions should be regarded as guiding the responses of external narratees.* Already in 1993 David Blank published a seminal article in which he attempted to explain how ‘The intended effect of Plato’s arguments is essentially, though by no means exclusively, emotional. … This emotional manipulation is a chief aim of the Platonic dialogues’. In Blank’s vision, ‘heightened emotions … lead … to the cathartic experience of aporia … and to the new-found willingness to learn’, and this effect is not confined to the characters in the dialogue world but extends to the external audience.1 A.K. Cotton’s 2014 book Platonic Dialogue and the Education of the Reader similarly stresses the importance of an affective response on the part of the characters and the reader, although she resists the notion that Plato intended any simple congruence between the responses of internal and external narratees and stresses the importance of the reader’s distance and critical evaluation.2 My goal in this short essay is not to replicate these analyses but to focus on a particular aspect of the representation of emotion in the dialogues, namely the representation of Socratic emotions. I hope that this will form a fitting tribute to the work and influence of Irene de Jong, who first induced me to pay closer attention to Platonic narratology when she initiated the series on Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative. My focus will be largely, although not exclusively, on the Republic, and on the places where Socratic emotion is marked in the Platonic text. I shall argue that these episodes are exemplary for the narratees of the dialogues (whether internal or external), even when we may suspect Socrates of irony, because they

* The author would like to thank David Blank, John Tennant, and the editors of this volume for helpful discussion and commentary on the topics of this essay. 1 Blank 1993: 428, 436. Jansen 2013 argues that the representation of emotion in the Phaedo is intended to train the emotions of the dialogue’s readers. On this role of emotions in the dialogues, see also the contributions of Finkelberg and Lloyd in this volume. 2 Cotton 2014: 36–37, 112–116.

© Kathryn A. Morgan, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_030

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show him deploying a type of argumentative courage that should be emulated. Plato has Socrates acknowledge that the emotions connected with philosophical enquiry may be problematic. Certain arguments may arouse ridicule and disapproval in their target audience, and fear of such ridicule may be a constraining force. The philosophical speaker may, moreover, sometimes be carried away by his own intellectual passions into a form of expression that can seem excessive. We see this possibility realized in the reaction of critics like Dionysius of Halicarnassus to some of Plato’s more expressive passages. Plato’s alertness to such reactions shows that the issue of the boundaries of philosophical style was a live one also in his own time. Nevertheless, I suggest, argumentative courage and a type of stylistic courage (on both Plato’s and Socrates’ part) go hand in hand in some of Plato’s dialogues.

Socrates on His Emotions Let us begin with the way Socrates marks his emotional reactions. Two famous examples come from the Charmides and the Protagoras. In the former, Socrates reports that he almost lost control of himself when confronted with the charms of the young Charmides: ‘Then indeed, my noble friend, I saw inside his cloak and caught on fire and was beside myself’ (Chrm. 155d). It is only with difficulty that he can bring himself to reply to the boy’s question. This is one of the rare times in the corpus that we are presented with a Socrates (almost) overwhelmed by a non-intellectual emotive response. In the Protagoras, on the other hand, Socrates’ emotion is directly connected to the progress of his argument. When Protagoras makes a shrewd counter-attack and is applauded by the bystanders, Socrates narrates how ‘at first I saw black and felt dizzy, like someone struck by a good boxer’ (Prt. 339e), before he recovered himself and made an answer that played for time. What emotion is Socrates feeling here? Presumably a mixture of confusion and fear that Protagoras may have bested him in argument. The audience of the dialogues and those experienced in Socratic self-presentation may well doubt that Socrates was in fact almost overcome by lust for Charmides or that he felt intellectually dizzy at Protagoras’ assertion. What is important, however, is the narrative strategy deployed. These incidents are both presented in narrated dialogues, where Socrates is telling the story of his encounter to a friend. He is performing his emotion in narrative.3

3 For general comments on the Socratic narrator, see Morgan 2004. See also the remarks of Finkelberg, this volume.

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One reason to do so might be to magnify his subsequent triumph: Charmides will end his eponymous dialogue as an eager pursuer of Socrates (rather than the reverse) and Protagoras will prove no match for Socrates’ dialectical skills. Yet more important, from a philosophical point of view, is the fortitude with which he withstands these very different attacks. Even though he is seized by desire or intimidated by the sophist’s performance, he manages to make a reply and continue to pursue his goals for the conversation. This kind of persistence is valuable for a philosopher, and we may suspect that Socrates has exaggerated his momentary weakness precisely in order to dramatize in his narrative how one overcomes the incursion of lust or fear. Even as Socrates narrates his response, he overlays the narrative with a layer of wry humour. In the Charmides he tells how, even as he was struck by desire, he remembered the words of the poet Cydias about desire and thought how accurate they were (Chrm. 155d); it is a very self-possessed person who can assess the validity of a poetic tag and apply it to himself while ‘beside himself’ with lust. While reeling from Protagoras’ deployment of a Simonides quotation, Socrates can still ‘play for time’ (ἵνα μοι χρόνος ἐγγένηται, Prt. 339e) and appeal for help to the nearby Prodicus by way of a Homeric quotation. Both narratives showcase Socrates’ urbanity and intellectual resources even under siege, and this effect is possible only because Socrates is himself narrating his emotions while giving his audience, through his narrative, the resources to doubt the seriousness of the attack.

Fear and Anger in the Republic Early in the Republic Socrates is confronted by another terrifying opponent, the sophist Thrasymachus, who has a violent outburst against Socrates’ thoughts on justice. Socrates portrays himself as ‘amazed’ (ἐξεπλάγην) and ‘frightened’ (ἐφοβούμην), and when he replies he does so ‘trembling a little’ (ὑποτρέμων) (336d–e). He defers to Thrasymachus’ superior expertise and asks for help, a response that leads Thrasymachus to burst out in scornful laughter and exclaim, ‘This is Socrates’ accustomed irony!’—proof, if any were needed, that Socrates’ presentation of his emotions needs to be carefully parsed.4 As one might expect, Socrates will go on to argue that Thrasymachus’ vision of justice is incoherent, but as Book 1 ends Socrates accuses himself of intellectual gluttony in talking about the properties and consequences of justice before he has

4 See the useful remarks of Cotton 2014: 118–120 on the difficulty posed by Socratic irony for the assessment of Socratic emotion.

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defined what it is (354a–b). We suspect that there may be a range of emotions associated with intellectual exchange among which greed and fear may be numbered. We have seen Socrates narrate obtrusively his encounter with his fear of Thrasymachus, and his perseverance through this fear. As the dialogue proceeds, he will be forced to slow down and address the topic of justice systematically. This will call for a particular kind of philosophical courage, and compel Socrates to confront other emotions, including his own scorn and indignation, as well as the potential scorn of others. Focusing on Socratic emotions allows us to see an ongoing thematic complex in the Republic, one marked repeatedly in the narrative, of encounters with the different emotions connected with philosophical conversation: fear, as well as anger, which manifests itself through ridicule and contempt.5 The fear performed in Book 1 was an immediate response to an interlocutor in the embedded narration. Socrates’ fear as the dialogue advances is of a slightly different type. In his contemptuous dismissal of Socratic irony, Thrasymachus claimed that Socrates always dissembles and refuses to reply when asked a question. Yet in Books 2–10, Socrates must commit himself to a definition of justice and explain why it is preferable to injustice. This is a formidable task, and he seems to his interlocutors too prone to take argumentative shortcuts, a tendency that leads to the famous ‘three waves’ of the central books of the dialogue. Here Socrates is forced to expand on equal education of men and women in his ideal state, the community of women and children, and the possibility that such a state could actually exist. When pushed to begin this process, Socrates is reluctant. He had foreseen that going into detail would cause trouble (450a–b), and hesitated in case his views should be considered merely wishful thinking (450d). When Glaucon tries to encourage him that his audience is receptive, Socrates responds that this makes it worse, since he does not know if he is right. Speaking to friends about such matters is ‘fearful and tricky’. He is not afraid of their laughter, which would be childish, but of dragging them down into error (450e–451a). This is an important point. Fear of ridicule was an important motivator in ancient Greek society—neither one’s friends nor one’s enemies should laugh at one—but it does not (or should not) motivate Socrates. He is concerned only with intellectual error and the consequences of this for his interlocutors.6

5 Elsewhere in this volume, fear is discussed by Coray and Krieter, by Van Emde Boas (in Homer’s Iliad), and by Rutherford (in Herodotus’ Histories), whereas Finkelberg points at the feelings of sorrow that may accompany the collapse of a philosophical argument. 6 Cf. Halliwell 2008: 284–285. On the need for a philosopher to appear courageous (and thus

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The point is reinforced during the discussion of (naked) female exercise. This might appear laughable (γελοῖα, 452a) to some, but ‘we must not fear the jibes of those delightful people’ (452b). It is a foolish person who considers anything laughable other than evil (452d–e). Philosophical innovation can cause strong emotional reactions (we remember Thrasymachus’ anger and ridicule of Socrates in Book 1), but the philosopher must not be afraid.7 So too when the idea of philosopher-kings is introduced (the third wave), Socrates hesitates and is afraid (ὤκνουν τε καὶ ἐδεδοίκη, 472a) to put forward so paradoxical a notion. Nevertheless, he will speak, even if this subjects him to a deluge of laughter (εἰρήσεται δ’ οὖν, εἰ καὶ μέλλει γέλωτί τε ἀτεχνῶς ὥσπερ κῦμα ἐκγελῶν καὶ ἀδοξίᾳ κατακλύσειν, 473c). He continues to mark his fear of ridicule, thus highlighting the heroic enterprise of bringing up such a sensitive topic in the discussion. A little later, while continuing to address the rightful position of the philosopher in society, he looks back to his introduction of this paradox and emphasizes that even though the many have never experienced a true philosophical discussion, ‘I spoke in spite of my fear, compelled by the truth’ (δεδιότες ὅμως ἐλέγομεν, ὑπὸ τἀληθοῦς ἠναγκασμένοι, 499b). As discussion of the subject draws to a successful close, Socrates is sure that ‘one might dare’ (τετολμήσθω, 503b) to say that the perfect guardians of the state are philosophers. It is notable, first, how Socrates models correct behaviour. He is courageous, in the terms laid down elsewhere in the Republic, in that he (or more accurately, his spirited part) abides by the outcome of the argument when it comes to considering something dreadful or not (442b–c). Second, we remark how careful he is to mark in his narrative these moments of apprehension and response. The natural conclusion is that he intends them to be didactic episodes. If the philosopher must not be afraid of ridicule or contempt, what should their reaction be when confronted by an angry audience? We have seen that in Book 1 Socrates tries (or does he?) to soothe the irritation of Thrasymachus. Other passages in the Republic confirm that gentle, soothing, and persuasive speech is the appropriate response to anger and ridicule, rather than returning anger for anger. In Book 5 Socrates distinguishes those who know from those who merely have opinions. He speculates that the person who opines may react to this distinction with irritation (χαλεπαίνῃ, 476d) and may not believe that they do not know. So he asks what could be said to ‘reassure them and persuade

‘manly’) in classical Athens, see Hobbs 2000: 159, 163, 242–247. At Grg. 458a Socrates emphasizes that he is the sort of person who would gladly be refuted when he does not speak the truth. 7 Cf. Hobbs 2000: 243. On the ‘genuinely laughable’ in this passage and the importance of cultural perceptions, see Halliwell 2008: 285.

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them gently (παραμυθεῖσθαι … καὶ πείθειν ἠρέμα, 476e) while concealing that they are not of sound mind’. Later, at 499e he tells his interlocutor not to ‘accuse’ the many, and asserts optimistically that they will change their minds about philosophers being useless if someone proves the contrary to them not just ‘out of ambition to win an argument but soothingly’ (μὴ φιλονικῶν ἀλλὰ παραμυθούμενος). Few people who are gentle and ungrudging themselves will be harsh to someone who is not harsh, or be grudging to someone who is ungrudging (500a). Once convinced, the many will cease to be harsh (χαλεπανοῦσι, 500e) or angry (ἀγριανοῦσι, 501e), if for no other reason than that they would be ashamed (αἰσχυνθέντες, 502a) to be so.8 The problem, of course, from the perspective of the multitude (and Thrasymachus), is that soothing and gentle speech may come across as condescension or irony. Few people react well when they suspect that the person talking to them thinks that they are ignorant or misguided, and the reader has good reason to suspect that Socratic gentleness is tinged with irony. At 426e during a discussion of the misguided many, Socrates tells Adeimantus ‘Don’t be angry at them; such people are, I think, the most charming people in the world’ (μὴ τοίνυν χαλέπαινε: καὶ γάρ πού εἰσι πάντων χαριέστατοι οἱ τοιοῦτοι, 426e). The use of the word ‘charming’ here is telling. A few lines earlier Adeimantus had had problems when Socrates used ‘charming’ of the intellectual and political ‘invalids’ under discussion: ‘Isn’t this a charming trait in them, that they consider most hateful of all the one who speaks the truth to them?’ ‘Not entirely charming,’ he replies, ‘for being angry at one who speaks well has no charm’ (426a–b). It is notable that even Adeimantus, a habitual companion of Socrates, has trouble grappling with Socratic irony and reads it literally. This does not bode well for Socrates’ interactions with a more unsympathetic audience.

Purple Passages in the Republic So: the philosopher must be courageous; he must react to scorn and indignation with gentleness, be fearless in the face of ridicule, and consider only evil ridiculous. Socrates for the most part conforms to this vision. But what other signs of emotional affect can we see in the Republic? In the second part of this paper, I want to consider some instances where Socrates’ stylistic register changes and investigate whether such changes might have some connection with emotion. This will lead us, eventually, to an ancient criticism of some of Plato’s ‘purple

8 Cf. 501c: ἐχαλέπαινον … πραΰνονται.

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passages’ and to the question of the limits of philosophical style. Let us begin with an ambiguous case. As Socrates begins to discuss the education of the guardian class in his ideal state, he is clear that he wants them to be able to preserve the imperative of doing what is best for the city. They should not ‘expel’ (ἐκβάλλουσιν) this conviction, even when confronted by ‘sorcery or force’ (μήτε γοητευόμενοι μήτε βιαζόμενοι, 412e). Queried by Glaucon about his use of the word ‘expel’, Socrates explains that nobody willingly loses true opinions; this must happen ‘by theft, by sorcery, or by force’ (κλαπέντες ἢ γοητευθέντες ἢ βιασθέντες, 413b). Glaucon says that he does not understand, and Socrates replies that this must be because he is ‘running the risk of speaking tragically’ (τραγικῶς … κινδυνεύω λέγειν, 413b) and goes on to define his terms. Socrates’ jingling language here is strongly reminiscent of Gorgias in his Encomium of Helen, where he argues against blaming Helen for eloping with Paris whether she acted from passion, persuasion, force, or divine necessity.9 There is a humorous connection with Gorgias’ paradoxical argumentation: just as Helen did not willingly elope, no one willingly abandons the truth. The identity of the ‘tragic’ exemplar is less clear. Agathon (famously Gorgianic in his style) may be the intermediary, but precision on this question is less important than Socrates’ insistence on the incursion of tragic style. Adam’s commentary remarks on the use of ‘lofty high-flown metaphorical language such as may well become obscure’.10 Why does Socrates take this risk and alienate, however briefly, his interlocutor? We could say that he is overdramatizing, but what has instigated this lurch towards the tragic (and the idiom of Gorgias, on which see further below)? It seems to be the picture of someone losing the truth, an eventuality that might well seem ‘tragic’ to a philosopher, although the Gorgianic parallels assure us that irony is again at work. Indeed, it might be that Socrates is parodying the kind of bewitching language that corrupts the unwary soul and makes it lose its convictions.11 Perhaps Socrates’ passing mention of the corruption of a potential guardian and his distress at this possibility has rendered him susceptible to metaphor? Later on, when Socrates begins his description of the decline of constitutions in Book 8, he invokes the Muses (in a nod to the beginning of the Iliad)

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DK 82B11.20: πῶς οὖν χρὴ δίκαιον ἡγήσασθαι τὸν τῆς Ἑλένης μῶμον, ἥτις εἴτ’ ἐρασθεῖσα εἴτε λόγωι πεισθεῖσα εἴτε βίαι ἁρπασθεῖσα εἴτε ὑπὸ θείας ἀνάγκης ἀναγκασθεῖσα ἔπραξεν ἃ ἔπραξε. Plato’s reference to ‘sorcery’ must look to Gorgias’ definition of sorcery (γοητεία) in the Encomium as ‘errors of the soul and deceptions of judgement’ (ψυχῆς ἁμαρτήματα καὶ δόξης ἀπατήματα, DK 82B11.10). Adam 1902, vol. 1: 191. I thank Jacqueline Klooster for this suggestion.

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to tell how faction first arises in his ideal city. He speculates on the style the Muses will use: ‘shall we say that they speak tragically to us, using lofty words as if they were serious, talking to us playfully and jokingly as if we were children?’ (545e). As their imagined speech begins, we learn that destruction will happen for everything that has come into existence (546a), a variation of the vicissitude motif so common in lyric poetry. Proclus referred to this passage in a discussion of places where he thought that Plato’s language was ‘inspired’ (ἐνθουσιαστικός), something, Proclus thought, that was a particular characteristic of Plato’s representation of divine speech (although he does not engage with Socrates’ comments on playfulness and seriousness).12 Here again a falling away from the philosophical ideal is associated with tragic and lofty diction, although this time Socrates carefully distances himself from it, putting it in the mouth of the Muses and stressing that it is, in some sense, playful. Yet even if this recourse to heightened diction is marked and distanced, we can still regard it as marking some kind of emotional distress, however much it is fenced with irony.13 These are not the only instances in the Republic where Socrates marks emotions for his internal and external audiences. Unsurprisingly, much of Socrates’ emotion is reserved for the places where he talks about the disrespect in which philosophy is held by the masses. I have already referred above to the passages which address the proper philosophic attitude to angry or resistant interlocutors. Popular resistance expresses itself particularly in the notion that philosophers are either useless or vicious, but of course Socrates’ response (495a–497a) is that conditions are not right in most societies for a philosopher to enter politics. Nothing could save someone who ‘went to the aid of justice’ from the ‘madness’ of the multitude. He would be like a man who has fallen among wild beasts (ὥσπερ εἰς θηρία ἄνθρωπος ἐμπεσών, 496d). This is why the philosopher in contemporary society will keep to himself ‘like a man sheltering under a little wall in a storm from a dust-cloud and driving rain borne by the wind’ (496d). The metaphorical density of this passage is striking (the person among wild beasts, the person sheltering from the storm), particularly since it characterizes true philosophers, among whom Socrates has just numbered himself, citing his ‘divine sign’ as his reason for not entering politics. The discus-

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Procl. In Tim. 41a (= iii.199.30 Diehl), cited by Adam ad loc. (1902, vol. 2: 203). Of course, a full explanation of this phenomenon would have to take into account Socrates’ critique of tragedy in the Republic, as well as his uses of parody (cf. Thesleff 2009: 54, who remarks that Plato’s use of rhetoric in parody is ‘noticed though not so much studied’).

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sion has personal implications, which are reflected in the recourse to metaphor and poetic language. Socrates’ intensity is both intellectual and emotional. The unjust slander of philosophy continues to be a topic in the following pages. Because the environment is hostile, the philosophic nature is twisted and alienated, like a seed sown in foreign soil which is overcome by native growth (497b). The question then arises of how to construct the correct environment. Socrates confesses that he had not addressed this topic sufficiently before, because he was ‘afraid’ that its exposition would be long and difficult and that his interlocutors would attack him (φόβῳ ὧν ὑμεῖς ἀντιλαμβανόμενοι δεδηλώκατε μακρὰν καὶ χαλεπὴν αὐτοῦ τὴν ἀπόδειξιν, 497d). His reluctance here is of a piece with his diffidence earlier in the dialogue as he was urged to start his presentation of the ‘three waves’ of paradox. Still, urged on by his friends, he recognizes that he must proceed, even though he fears that he may be hampered not by a lack of will, but by a lack of ability. He thus once again displays intellectual courage, risking failure because of his commitment to the argument, although we should also register that fear of attack continues to play a part. Now, however, he seems to have the bit firmly between his teeth as he comments on his commitment: ‘You will know my eagerness’, he says, ‘Look right now how eagerly and audaciously I am going to say that the city should engage in this practice [philosophy] in the opposite way from how it does now’ (497e). Again, one is struck by the way Socrates marks his engagement with the project of the discussion, complete with an imperative invitation to observe his zeal. Adeimantus acknowledges Socrates’ enthusiasm: ‘You really seem to me to be speaking zealously (προθύμως)’, although he also thinks that most of his audience, including Thrasymachus, will oppose him even ‘more zealously’ (προθυμότερον, 498c). Socrates forestalls this move to try to involve Thrasymachus in additional wrangling, and instead draws attention to the interaction of style and substance. The many have never seen a real philosopher: It’s nothing wonderful that the many don’t believe what we have said, for they have never seen in real life what I am talking about (γενόμενον τὸ νῦν λεγόμενον). On the contrary they have experienced some words like this made like each other on purpose, not falling together spontaneously as they have now. They have never yet seen a man-made equal and assimilated (παρισωμένον καὶ ὡμοιωμένον) to excellence perfectly in discourse and in deed, to the extent that this is possible.14 498d–499a 14

David Blank points out to me that the datives at the end of the sentence have an instrumental force, so that we might translate ‘assimilated by reason and by action’.

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Adam believes, rightly I think, that this passage is alluding to the jingles of epideictic rhetoric, characterized by paromoiosis (parallelism of sound) and parisosis (parallelism of clause length), and that Plato may be thinking of Isocrates in this passage.15 Isocrates was always disparaging the Athenians for their lack of respect for (his version of) philosophy, so this is reasonable speculation. More important, however, is what is at stake here: the role of heightened stylistic effects in the presentation of the philosophical project. Socrates is pointing out that those who talk about the uses of philosophy have not been successful in producing the kind of philosopher who can make a difference in the life of the polis. The stylistic effects they create are, therefore, vacuous. How is Socrates different? No more has he successfully produced such a man, and his use of the γενόμενον … λεγόμενον jingle is spontaneous rather than designed. He is, however, clear that stylistic effects cannot replace the hard work of philosophy; this is what will create a ‘man made equal and assimilated to excellence perfectly’ (where the Greek words παρισωμένον and ὡμοιωμένον remind us of the sound effects in question). But we can go further. Socrates may be implying that his spontaneous use of sound effects is justified because it forecasts the kind of perfection at which the ideal state (and his discussion of it) should be aiming. The spontaneous effects have arisen because of his engagement with the topic; this passage comes only a few lines after Adeimantus’ statement that Socrates is speaking ‘zealously’ or ‘eagerly’. Even though, as we have seen, he can be suspicious of heightened language, he acknowledges that it may have its place in the philosophical arsenal; his own language has risen to reflect the challenge of educating the philosopher. If it is challenging for the many to believe that a philosopher could be a useful person to have around, how much more ludicrous is the notion of the philosopher king, the content of the ‘third wave’? We have seen how Socrates was ‘afraid’ to introduce the notion and how this fear was marked and overcome in the narrative. The production of such a ruler depends on educating promising minds so that they will be able to attain a vision of the Good, which will inform their political activity. Predictably enough, Socrates’ companions want to hear about what the Good is, but once again he draws back. He does not know what the Good is, and opinion divorced from knowledge is a sorry thing. He uses a fear clause to express his worry that he will not be able to explain, and that he will, for all his eagerness, disgrace himself and become a laughing stock (ἀλλ’ ὅπως μὴ οὐχ οἷός τ’ ἔσομαι, προθυμούμενος δὲ ἀσχημονῶν γέλωτα ὀφλήσω, 506d). This time, indeed, he stands by his fear, puts off the dis-

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cussion of the Good for another time, and instead talks about the ‘offspring’ of the Good in the material world, thus introducing the famous sequence of Sun, Line, and Cave. Socrates’ reservations here are inflected somewhat differently from previous instances of this trope. The fear of laughter now seems to be a more effective deterrent, and this may be because Socrates is serious about not knowing, rather than because, as on previous occasions, the exposition would be difficult and contentious. We note that he marks his eagerness to speak (προθυμούμενος), and this eagerness underlies his upcoming treatment of the sun as a stand-in for the Good (an image that has resonant precedents in the lyric tradition; we might think of the opening of Pindar’s Olympian 1). The language in which Socrates describes the Sun and the Good at 508– 509 is elevated, filled with assertions of supremacy, honour, and inconceivable beauty.16 At 509b he states that the Good is beyond being in rank and power (ἔτι ἐπέκεινα τῆς οὐσίας πρεσβείᾳ καὶ δυνάμει ὑπερέχοντος) and Glaucon comments on the extremity of his language: ‘Glaucon said very laughably “By Apollo! What a miraculous superiority”’ (καὶ ὁ Γλαύκων μάλα γελοίως, Ἄπολλον, ἔφη, δαιμονίας ὑπερβολῆς, 509c). ‘Miraculous superiority’ could also be translated ‘marvelous hyperbole’, and surely both meanings are in play: the Good transcends being, and Socrates’ language is hyperbolic.17 How should we parse his assessment that Glaucon spoke ‘very laughably’? We may assume, first, that Glaucon spoke with a laugh, and perhaps, second, that Socrates is acknowledging his punning language. Are we also meant to think back to Socrates’ prediction that speaking about the Good might make him a laughing stock in spite of his eagerness? Yet Glaucon’s is not contemptuous laughter, but perhaps a recognition that Socrates’ engagement with the supreme topic of the Good has elevated his language.18 What we do know is that the Socratic narrator has used Glaucon’s response, and his narratorial commentary on it to emphasize the extremity of the language and the reaction to it. Commentators talk, with reference to this passage, of how typical it is for Plato ‘jokingly to undercut his own rhetoric at a climactic moment’, or how ‘The dramatic humor of Glaucon’s surprise is Plato’s way of smiling at himself, as he frequently does in the dialogues.’19 Without doubting this assessment, one should stress Socrates’ narratorial role in set-

16 17 18 19

Shorey’s note on this passage in his Loeb translation (1946: 104–105) suggests that it belongs ‘to rhetoric rather than to systematic metaphysics’. So the most recent Loeb translators (Emlyn-Jones and Preddy 2013: 95). Adam’s note ad loc. (1902, vol. 2: 62) insists that ὑπερβολή refers to transcendence rather than exaggeration. For a fuller discussion of the types of Socratic speech and their stylistic markers in the Platonic corpus, see Thesleff 2009: 56–64. Emlyn-Jones and Preddy 2013: 95; Shorey 1946: 107.

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ting up this moment. Plato may well be smiling, but in the first instance it is his Socrates who underlines the humour and thus makes sure we realize that Socratic rapture over the transcendent Good has elevated the style.20 As the discussion of the philosopher-king’s education continues, Socrates has reason to return to the disrespect with which philosophy is regarded and its causes: the frequent unworthiness of its practitioners (535c). It is crucial they select the right kind of people for philosophical education; if they do not, disaster will be the outcome and they will flood philosophy with still more laughter (φιλοσοφίας ἔτι πλείω γέλωτα καταντλήσομεν, 536b). Then, however, he catches himself, commenting that he has made himself laughable (γελοῖον): ‘I forgot’, I said, ‘that we were playing, and I spoke rather intensely, for as I was speaking, I looked towards philosophy and when I saw her unworthily treated with contempt, I think I was annoyed and like someone angry (ὥσπερ θυμωθεὶς) with the guilty parties said what I said too seriously.’ ‘Not, by Zeus’, he said, ‘too seriously for me as a listener’, ‘But for me’, I said, ‘as a speaker.’ 536c

The discussion of the ideal state—and indeed all philosophical discussion—is a kind of serious play, and the tone must remain calm. Note the way Socrates both marks and hedges his description of his intensity: he is ‘like someone angry’ (ὥσπερ θυμωθεὶς). There is an air of detached commentary to this assessment, and one that leaves us in some doubt whether Socrates was actually angry or not. Moreover, as we learn at 604b–c, ‘no mortal affair is worth great seriousness’.21 Even more interesting is the complication of the trajectory of the laughable (γελοῖον). We have seen how the philosopher must face with courage the fear of laughter which may result from making counter-intuitive proposals; only evil is laughable. Speaking without knowledge, as Socrates stresses he does, also risks laughter, and this is more troublesome because being wrong about important matters can mislead others. If the wrong people are made into philosopher-kings, then the state will decay (an evil), and worse, philosophy will be deemed to have been responsible and will be the butt of contemptuous laughter on the part of those inclined to believe that an effective philosophical ruler is impossible. This is the possibility that exercises Socrates, and causes

20 21

See also Van Peer in this volume on the emotional effects of unusual and/or unexpected literary language (the concept of defamiliarization). On play and seriousness in the Platonic dialogues, see Morgan 2000: 164–179.

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him to perform his distress and anger.22 These emotions change the tone of the discussion and he speaks ‘rather intensely’. Yet as soon as he does so he marks it for his multiple audiences. Now it is he who is laughable, and what is laughable here is not evil or philosophy, but tone. His partisan audience disagrees. Glaucon is perfectly happy to see him emote, yet, Socrates rejoins, what is pleasing to an audience is not necessarily correct for a philosophical speaker. We may or may not agree with him, but it is significant that Socrates sees heightened tone and emotion as a potential danger to philosophical discussion.

Conclusion Throughout the Republic, Socrates juggles his fear and his eagerness. He must be coaxed to expand on his ideas about justice. Exaggerated fear of Thrasymachus in Book 1 gives way to different kinds of fear: fear of trouble, fear of ignorance, fear of misleading, fear of making philosophy look ridiculous. In order to face these fears Socrates deploys philosophical courage and develops eagerness for the task at hand. This eagerness, and his engagement, lead on some occasions to heightened language (the use of metaphor, tragic diction, stylistic figures such as parisosis and paromoiosis) and to the surfacing of emotions like anger. The way that these episodes are marked in Socrates’ narrative makes us aware that, for Socrates at least, they must be subject to careful control—a lesson that he wishes to impart to his internal audience and one which also sounds a warning for any external narratees. These are emotions of the thumos, the ‘spirited’ part of the soul that feels anger (439e), is often allied with reason (440e), and is courageous (442b–c). It is no accident that Socrates’ engagement with his subject matter can be described in terms of prothumia. Just as the thumos is subject to the controlling power of reason, so must the philosophical narrator carefully calibrate the extent to which his feelings of distress, fear, anger, and contempt appear in a narrative. If I am correct that the projection of emotion is one cause of Socrates’ heightened language, it is interesting to note that some later reception of Plato objects precisely to this phenomenon. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, in his famous discussion of Plato’s style, approves of his ‘lean’ and ‘simple’ style, but thinks that he often becomes worse when he tries for elaborate and beau22

We might say that Socrates is showing indignation in this passage, although it is unclear whether a classical audience would have agreed. On the complexities of indignation as an emotion directed (in most analyses) against undeserved success, see Konstan 2006: 112–115.

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tiful language. His use of figures—metonymy, allegory, metaphor, Gorgianic sound effects (such as parisosis and paromoiosis)—is especially objectionable (Dion. Hal. Dem. 5–6). He gives as an example of such failure Socrates’ invocation of the Muses at the opening of his first speech in the Phaedrus (237a), and seizes upon Socrates’ comment at the end of that speech that he is ‘not far from dithyrambs’ as an admission that Plato knows he is pushing his style beyond reasonable bounds (Dem. 6–7).23 This is not the place to pursue the weaknesses of Dionysius’ argument (he has his own axe to grind in the ongoing struggle for position that characterized the relationship between philosophy and rhetoric in the early Roman Empire),24 but it is significant that he focuses on places where a drier style of dialectical exchange gives way to something more ‘inspired’ and elaborate. Here Dionysius is, as we have seen, following the lead of Socrates/Plato (though perhaps not quite in the way he thinks), who insistently notes the places where he feels that his language has become elevated or stylistically marked. These are not, I would argue, descents into Dionysius’ ‘tastelessness’ (ἀπειροκαλία, Dem. 23), but reflections of engagement and explorations of its consequences. The rich stylistic textures and emotions of most Platonic dialogues involving Socrates are fundamental to the philosophical mission and its representation. We must examine the ethical implications of Socrates’—and our own—stylistic effects. Plato’s Socrates would stress that such effects need to be carefully controlled by a master stylist who is also a philosopher, and many of us would agree that this condition has been met. Although later generations may have decided that philosophical writing needs to be simple and pared down, we are under no compulsion to agree. Among Plato’s many literary virtues is a stylistic courage that reflects the full range of emotions engaged in philosophical discussion.

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It is likely that Socrates is being ironic here; he is certainly not seriously committed to the content of the speech. Indeed, a full consideration of Socratic emotion would have to discuss the role of irony in much greater detail. Wiater 2011: 310–338. On Dionysius’ objections to Plato’s heightened style (using the Menexenus as an example), see De Jonge 2008: 264–267.

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Bibliography Adam, J., The Republic of Plato, 2 vols. (Cambridge 1902). Blank, D., ‘The Arousal of Emotion in Plato’s Dialogues’, CQ n.s. 43 (1993) 428–439. Cotton, A.K., Platonic Dialogue and the Education of the Reader (Oxford 2014). Emlyn-Jones, C., Preddy, W. (eds. and trans.), Plato. Republic, Volume ii: Books 6–10 (Cambridge, MA 2013). Halliwell, S., Greek Laughter. A Study of Cultural Psychology from Homer to Early Christianity (Cambridge 2008). Hobbs, A., Plato and the Hero. Courage, Manliness, and the Impersonal Good (Cambridge 2000). Jansen, C., ‘Plato’s Phaedo as a Pedagogical Drama’, AncPhil 13 (2013) 333–352. Jonge, C. de, Between Grammar and Rhetoric. Dionysius of Halicarnassus on Language, Linguistics and Literature (Leiden 2008). Konstan, D., The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks. Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto 2006). Morgan, K.A., Myth and Philosophy from the Presocratics to Plato (Cambridge 2000). Morgan, K.A., ‘Plato’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 357–376. Shorey, P. (ed. and trans.), Plato. Republic, Volume ii, Books 6–10 (Cambridge, MA 1946). Thesleff, H., ‘Studies in the Styles of Plato’, in H. Thesleff, Platonic Patterns. A Collection of Studies (Las Vegas [1967] 2009) 1–142. Wiater, N., The Ideology of Classicism. Language, History, and Identity in Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Berlin 2011).

part 5 Hellenistic Literature

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chapter 29

Heracles’ Emotions in Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica Silvio Bär

In Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica,1 Heracles belongs to the group of the Argonauts in the beginning, but he leaves the narrative at the end of Book 1 when he is forgotten by his peers while searching for his lover Hylas, who has been abducted by a nymph. On a metadiegetic level, however, Heracles’ memory is deliberately kept alive throughout the rest of the narrative by way of various allusions, recollections, and encounters with people who have met him previously. Research on the role of Heracles in the Argonautica has traditionally focused on the relation between Heracles and Jason, arguing, essentially, that Heracles acts as a mentor for Jason, but that he simultaneously represents an outdated role model and that he therefore needs to be withdrawn from the narrative as soon as Jason, the modern (anti-?)hero, has acquired sufficient maturity to act as a leader of the Argonauts (his notorious ἀμηχανίη [‘helplessness’, ‘incompetence’] notwithstanding).2 In two recent publications, I have argued that in addition to this, Heracles in the Argonautica should also be interpreted from a metapoetic perspective.3 After his departure from the narrative, the account of his Twelve Labours (dôdekathlos) is inserted as a narrative palimpsest behind the principal narrative. Consequently, the narratee is encouraged to perceive a parallel Heracleis in the background and thus to reflect upon alternative narrative strategies. Furthermore, the primary as well as several secondary narrators present Heracles as a deeply ambiguous, contradictory, and

1 The textual edition of the Argonautica used in this chapter is that by Vian and Delage 1974– 1981. Translations are mine. 2 See e.g. Carspecken 1952: 120; Lawall 1966; Clauss 1993: 176–211 and passim; Pietsch 1999: 100, nn. 3–4; Papadimitropoulous 2006: 42–43; Glei 2008 [2001]: 6–12. I provide a more detailed research overview at Bär 2018: 79–81 (summarized at Bär 2019: 118). On Jason’s ἀμηχανίη, see e.g. Hunter 1988; Jackson 1992; further references at Pietsch 1999: 100, n. 3; Bär 2018: 79, n. 28. 3 See Bär 2018: 73–99, 143–144; Bär 2019: 116–123. Further, see Heerink 2015: 22–52 on a metapoetic reading of the Hylas episode, and Philbrick 2011 on the references to Heracles in Book 2. See in this volume also the contributions of Harder (also on Apollonius Rhodius) and Heerink (on Hercules in Valerius Flaccus).

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even paradoxical character by drawing on numerous aspects that can be linked to (inter alia) the tragic, the comic, and the Stoic tradition of the hero.4 This adds to Heracles’ artificiality (i.e., the idea of Heracles as a Kunstfigur), which, in turn, feeds back into the metapoetic significance of the character. In this chapter, I take my interpretation a step further by looking at Heracles’ emotions and the narrative function they perform in the Argonautica.5 Altogether, there are nineteen Heracles passages in this epic,6 several of which reveal information about the hero’s feelings by way of narratorial and/or actorial characterization. Heracles is introduced into the narrative as arriving in the nick of time, panting and sweating, carrying the Erymanthian Boar on his shoulders, and thus interrupting his dôdekathlos for the sake of the Argonautic expedition (1.122–132). This description evokes the stereotype of the athletic but stupid strongman-hero.7 Simultaneously, it is stated, by way of a narratorial comment, that he joined the expedition ‘by his own choice, against the will of Eurystheus’ (αὐτὸς δ’ ᾗ ἰότητι παρὲκ νόον Εὐρυσθῆος, 1.130). Thus, the passage as a whole does not only present Heracles as a comical figure, but also as a strong-willed, self-determined person. The latter comes to the fore explicitly soon thereafter when he is elected by the Argonauts as their leader, but declines the election and instead suggests Jason, who is thereupon chosen unanimously: […] But he [= Heracles], from where he was sitting, raised his right hand, and he spoke: ‘No one shall allocate this honorary office to me! For I am not going to obey, as much as I am going to prevent anyone else from rising. He himself who has gathered us here shall also command the throng (ὁμάδοιο).’ So he spoke haughtily (μέγα φρονέων); and they gave their approval as he had ordered them, Heracles. […] A.R. 1.343–349

4 On the different types of ‘Heracleses’ and the paradoxes that arise from their juxtaposition, see e.g. Galinsky 1972: 1–39; Feeney 1991: 95–98; Burkert 2011 [1977]: 319–324; Stafford 2012 passim. For further references, see Bär 2018: 16–17, nn. 22–26. 5 There is no comprehensive study on emotions in the Argonautica. On enragement, anger, and strife in Apollonius’ epic, see Manakidou 1998; Mori 2008: 52–90; Harder (this volume). On μῆνις as a factor triggering the Argonautic expedition, see Dräger 2001. 6 See the overview at Bär 2018: 73–79; Bär 2019: 116–118. 7 Heracles the strongman-hero is closely related to the comic Heracles as we find him in Attic comedy; see Pike 1980.

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The fact that Jason is elected solely because he is recommended by Heracles demonstrates that Heracles enjoys undisputed authority among the Argonauts—whereas Jason, ironically, does not.8 Furthermore, Heracles’ hostility is disclosed both by how he expresses himself and through the narratorial presentation of his behaviour and his emotions. For one, he condescendingly calls the Argonauts (who, after all, represent an elite selection of the best heroes of their time) a ‘throng’ (ὅμαδος, line 347),9 and he rudely refers to Jason in the third person while the latter is present. For another, the narrator points out that Heracles speaks while he is sitting (which contradicts good epic practice, according to which speakers should be standing),10 and he qualifies the hero’s speech as ‘haughty’ (μέγα φρονέων). It can thus be noted that Heracles’ grumpy attitude, together with his absolute determination, enables the election of Jason as the leader of the Argonauts and also anticipates Heracles’ later departure, which is going to take place towards the end of Book 1. Heracles’ grumpiness also sets the tone for his further relation with Jason. During their stay on Lemnos (1.609–909), Jason and most of the Argonauts are feasting and having sex with the women of Lemnos—whereas Heracles remains abstentious. This has been interpreted differently, either as a sign of his homosexuality—indeed he is accompanied by his lover Hylas and eschews physical contact with women—or as an indicator of his Stoic qualities, that is, his affective self-control.11 However, after a few days of Stoic acquiescence, Heracles eventually loses his temper and exhorts the Argonauts to set sail. On the same occasion, he insults Jason violently (1.872–878): ‘Let’s go, each one onto his place! But the one over there [= Jason], leave him in bed with Hypsipyle all day long, until he has populated Lemnos with male children and gets great glory!’ Such he scolded the crowd (ὧς νείκεσσεν ὅμιλον); and no one dared

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10 11

See e.g. Beye 1982: 31: ‘Heracles’ perhaps coy insistence that they choose Jason is of course the perfect ironic revelation of his own authority and Jason’s lack of it.’ See also, quite aptly, Köhnken 2003: 21: ‘Jason wird zum Führer der Argonautenexpedition von Herakles’ Gnaden (nicht aufgrund eigener heroischer Vorzüge), und die Argonauten identifizieren sich nicht mehr mit ihm, sondern mit Herakles.’ In archaic Greek epic, the noun ὅμαδος means ‘noise’, ‘din’, but also ‘tumultuous crowd’, ‘throng’ (see LfgrE s.v.). In the Argonautica, it is used another four times in the latter meaning (1.1051; 2.1077; 3.270; 4.198). See e.g. Il. 1.57–58, 68–69; 2.76–77; 9.52; 19.54–55. On the former interpretation, see e.g. Beye 1982: 93–96; DeForest 1994: 63–66; Heerink 2015: 23–24. On the latter interpretation, see e.g. Fränkel 1968: 115.

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to raise his eyes up to him or to address him— but without further ado they set about leaving the assembly, rapidly moving forward. […] A.R. 1.872–87812 Again, Heracles expresses his contempt for Jason by referring to him in the third person in the latter’s presence, and the narrator reinforces that tone by alluding to Heracles’ own word choice from before: by stating that Heracles ‘scolded the crowd’ (νείκεσσεν ὅμιλον, line 875), the narrator uses a synonym of the noun that Heracles previously used in order to disqualify the entire group of the Argonauts (ὅμαδος [‘throng’]; see above). An additional form of insult is achieved by way of intertextuality: Heracles’ attack against Jason recalls Thersites’ invective against Agamemnon at Iliad 2.235–242, and by ridiculing Jason’s sex addiction, Heracles evokes Hector’s rebuke of his brother Paris, the prototypical epic ‘sissy’, for being γυναιμανής (‘mad for women’) at Iliad 3.39 and 13.769.13 Typologically, the juxtaposition of a Hercules Stoicus and a Hercules furens is striking; what is most important, though, is the fact that Heracles’ sudden transition from being insentient to being passionately infuriated once again advances and determines the further course of action.14 The same goes, mutatis mutandis, for Heracles’ departure from the narrative at the end of Book 1. When the Argonauts arrive at the coast of Mysia, they are welcomed hospitably by the local inhabitants; yet Heracles—‘Stoic’ as he is—refuses to eat and rest because he first wants to find a tree from which he can build a new oar as a replacement for the one he has involuntarily broken on the voyage to Mysia (1.1172–1206). This decision, in turn, provokes the further course of action, which marks a turning point for the rest of the narrative. While Heracles is attending to his duty, Hylas is looking for fresh water; on this occasion, a water nymph falls in love with the boy and abducts him (1.1207–1253).15

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For another analysis of this passage, see Harder in this volume, who compares it with the quarrel between Idas and Idmon earlier in Book 1. On the former point, see Dräger 2019 [2002]: 451; Harder (this volume); on the latter, see Bär 2018: 82; Bär 2019: 119. For another example of anger in an—in this case self-proclaimed—Stoic, see Boter’s contribution on Epictetus in this volume. Sudden mood shifts are also found in some of the kings and tyrants in the Histories, on which see the contributions of Rutherford and De Bakker. The same story is treated by Theocritus in his Idyll 13. The question of priority between Theocritus and Apollonius is a notorious one (but not relevant here)—for a survey, see e.g. Mauerhofer 2004: 103–112; Glei 2008 [2001]: 22–23; Köhnken 2008 [2001]: 83–93.

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When Heracles is informed by Polyphemus (another Argonaut) about what has happened, he undergoes, again, a sudden change from a Hercules Stoicus to a Hercules furens as he did before in the assembly on Lemnos. He throws a tantrum and runs off in a frenzy to look for Hylas: Thus he [= Polyphemus] spoke; but when he [= Heracles] heard it, sweat began oozing out from his temples, and black blood was boiling in his entrails, and in his rage, he threw the fir tree to the ground and ran the way where his feet carried him by themselves while he was rushing forward. A.R. 1.1261–1264

At the same time, the other Argonauts—completely unaware of what has just happened—leave Mysia without noticing the absence of Heracles and Hylas before next dawn (1.1273–1309). An argument among the crew about whether they should return and retrieve them is settled by the sea god Glaucus who announces that the departure of Heracles was, in fact, destiny’s will (1.1310– 1325). The Mysian departure scene is in many ways a counterpoint to the Lemnian departure scene. The Argonauts do not wish to leave Lemnos, but they are urged to do so by Heracles, whereas they cannot wait to leave Mysia—so much so that they forget Heracles. In the first case, Heracles’ sudden transition from passive silence to active aggression incites the Argonauts to abandon their own passivity (and their jog trot), whereas in the second case, the same change of behaviour leads to the irrevocable separation between the Argonauts and their best hero. In both cases, Heracles and his emotions are responsible for an effective turning point. As mentioned, Heracles’ memory is subsequently kept alive on a metadiegetic level. However, on their way home through the desert of Libya, towards the end of Book 4, the Argonauts almost meet Heracles again (4.1393–1482). Desperately looking for water, they encounter the Hesperides, whom Heracles happens to have passed by on the previous day. Aigle (one of the Hesperides) recounts how Heracles stole their apples, slew their guardian (a snake called Ladon), and destroyed their dwelling: Truly then, as a very great help for your strains he came hither, the very much dog-like, who deprived the guardian snake of her life, took away the golden apples of the goddesses and went off again—but to us [nothing but] odious pain has been left.

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For, yesterday there came such a man (τις ἀνὴρ), abominable in his outrageousness (ὀλοώτατος ὕβριν) and his appearance, and his eyes were sparking below his ferocious forehead— the merciless (νηλής)! And around his shoulders he was wearing the skin of a giant lion, an untanned one; and he was holding the hefty bough of an olive tree and a bow, with which he shot his arrows against this beast here [= Ladon] and killed it. A.R. 4.1432–1440

Astonishingly, the Hesperides appear to have been completely ignorant about who Heracles actually was, as Aigle’s phrasing (‘such a man’, line 1436) clearly reveals. By giving a voice to a figure who has never heard of Heracles, Apollonius establishes an unorthodox, non-mainstream perspective on the story of the most famous mythical hero.16 Furthermore, in her mixture of embitterment and condescension,17 Aigle provides us with an implicit actorial characterization of Heracles. From her point of view, he is a thief and a murderer, ‘abominable in his outrageousness’ (line 1436) and ‘merciless’ (1438). This description harks back to Heracles’ determination and aggression—character traits that we noted before as relevant to the progress of the narrative development of the Argonautica. While this determination and aggression have proven to be highly detrimental to the Hesperides, they are equally beneficial to the Argonauts because Heracles has knocked a source of fresh water out of a rock, which now saves the Argonauts from dying of thirst (1.1441–1456). In conclusion, it can be noted that Heracles in the Argonautica is portrayed as strong-willed and self-determined, but at the same time also as impulsive, irascible, and even overtly aggressive. Due to his determination, he manages to enter into the narrative, and thanks to his enragement (combined with his undisputed authority) he succeeds in bringing the action forward and in giving it a crucial turn in four instances. This happens for the first time when the leader of the Argonauts is elected, for the second time on the isle of Lemnos when the continuation of the expedition is at risk, and for the third time in Mysia when Heracles facilitates his own removal from the diegetic frame. For the fourth and last time, it happens when the paths of Heracles and the Argonauts almost cross again towards the end of Book 4. There, Heracles’ determina16 17

I provide a comprehensive metapoetic analysis of this passage at Bär 2018: 89–92; Bär 2019: 121–122. Here I am solely concerned with its emotive aspect. On the bitter tone of Aigle’s words, see e.g. Fränkel 1968: 601–602; Hunter 2015: 273.

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tion and his violent temper have negative consequences for the Hesperides, but the same character traits save the Argonauts’ lives. Heracles’ emotions thus perform a clearly recognizable narrative function in the Argonautica by causing a turning point on four occasions. Heracles may be ‘a misfit among the crew’18 of the Argonauts because he represents an obsolete type of hero, but in contrast to Jason and his ἀμηχανίη (‘helplessness’, ‘incompetence’), his agency is essential for the narrative progress of the Argonautica. In other words, Heracles’ character is a determinant of his fate and vice versa: his rage and his anger determine the fact that the Argonauts lose him, but paradoxically, his rage and his anger are necessary for him to be able to actually help the Argonauts later. Heracles’ anger is thus both destructive and helpful.

Abbreviations LfgrE

Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos. Founded by Bruno Snell. Prepared under the authority of the Academy of Sciences in Göttingen and edited by the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae (Göttingen 1955–2010).

Bibliography Bär, S., Herakles im griechischen Epos. Studien zur Narrativität und Poetizität eines Helden (Stuttgart 2018). Bär, S., ‘Heracles in Homer and Apollonius: Narratological Character Analysis in a Diachronic Perspective’, SO 93 (2019) 106–131. Beye, C.R., Epic and Romance in the Argonautica of Apollonius (Carbondale 1982). Burkert, W., Griechische Religion der archaischen und klassischen Epoche (Stuttgart [1977] 2nd edn. 2011). Carspecken, J.F., ‘Apollonius Rhodius and the Homeric Epic’, YClS 13 (1952) 33–143. Clauss, J.J., The Best of the Argonauts. The Redefinition of the Epic Hero in Book One of Apollonius’ Argonautica (Berkeley 1993). DeForest, M.M., Apollonius’ Argonautica. A Callimachean Epic (Leiden 1994). Dräger, P., Die Argonautika des Apollonios Rhodios. Das zweite Zorn-Epos der griechischen Literatur (Munich 2001). Dräger, P. (ed., tr., comm.), Apollonios von Rhodos. Die Fahrt der Argonauten (Stuttgart [2002] 3rd edn. 2019).

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Knight 1995: 131.

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Feeney, D.C., The Gods in Epic. Poets and Critics of the Classical Tradition (Oxford 1991). Fränkel, H., Noten zu den Argonautika des Apollonios (Munich 1968). Galinsky, G.K., The Herakles Theme. The Adaptations of the Hero in Literature from Homer to the Twentieth Century (Oxford 1972). Glei, R.F., ‘Outlines of Apollonian Scholarship 1955–1999’, in Papanghelis and Rengakos (2008) 1–28. Heerink, M., Echoing Hylas. A Study in Hellenistic and Roman Poetics (Madison 2015). Hunter, R., ‘“Short on Heroics”: Jason in the Argonautica’, CQ 38 (1988) 436–453. Hunter, R. (ed., comm.), Apollonius of Rhodes. Argonautica Book iv (Cambridge 2015). Jackson, S., ‘Apollonius’ Jason: Human Being in an Epic Scenario’, G&R 39 (1992) 155– 162. Knight, V., The Renewal of Epic. Responses to Homer in the Argonautica of Apollonius (Leiden 1995). Köhnken, A., ‘Herakles und Orpheus als mythische Referenzfiguren (‘Identifikations-’ bzw. ‘Integrationsfigur’) im hellenistischen Epos’, in B. Aland, J. Hahn, C. Ronning (eds.), Literarische Konstituierung von Identifikationsfiguren in der Antike (Tübingen 2003) 19–27. Köhnken, A., ‘Hellenistic Chronology: Theocritus, Callimachus, and Apollonius Rhodius’, in T.D. Papanghelis and A. Rengakos, Brill’s Companion to Apollonius Rhodius (Leiden 2008) 73–94. Lawall, G., ‘Apollonius’ Argonautica: Jason as Anti-Hero’, YClS 19 (1966) 121–169. Manakidou, F., ‘χόλος, μῆνις, νεῖκος in den Argonautika des Apollonios Rhodios. Reminiszenzen und Umkehrungen der homerischen Epen im hellenistischen Epos’, Philologus 142 (1998) 241–260. Mauerhofer, K., Der Hylas-Mythos in der antiken Literatur (Munich 2004). Mori, A., The Politics of Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica (Cambridge 2008). Papadimitropoulos, L., ‘Alexandrian Adaptations of Heracles’ Myth’, Parnassos 48 (2006) 41–68. Papanghelis, T.D., Rengakos, A. (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Apollonius Rhodius (Leiden [2001] 2nd edn. 2008). Philbrick, R.S., The Ghost of Heracles. The Lost Hero’s Haunting of Argonautica 2 (Lexington 2011). Pietsch, C., Die Argonautika des Apollonios von Rhodos. Untersuchungen zum Problem der einheitlichen Konzeption des Inhalts (Stuttgart 1999). Pike, D.L., ‘The Comic Aspects of the Strongman-Hero in Greek Myth’, AClass 23 (1980) 37–44. Stafford, E., Herakles (London 2012). Vian, F., Delage, É. (eds., tr., comm.), Apollonios de Rhodes. Argonautiques, 3 vols. (Paris 1974–1981).

chapter 30

Away with ‘Angry Young Men’! Intertextuality as a Narratological Tool in the Quarrel Episodes in the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius Annette Harder

This article was inspired by an interest in the ways in which Hellenistic authors use allusions to earlier poetry as a narratological tool.*,1 It seemed worth investigating if these poets use intertextuality also in their presentation of emotions and, if so, how they add further layers of meaning or implicit comments on their own work by inviting the reader to compare emotional words or actions with phrases or scenes from earlier literature. The article has been cast as a case study of anger among the Argonauts in the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, because the theme lends itself very well to comparison with the Iliad, where anger among the Greeks at Troy is a driving force with terrible consequences.2 The focus is on a selection of allusions (also intratextual ones within the Argonautica) in the scenes in which Idas, Heracles, and Telamon angrily address Jason and the other Argonauts. An exhaustive treatment of all the possible allusions would be worth attempting, too, but is beyond the scope and space of the present article. We find roughly two patterns of ‘anger scenes’ in the Argonautica, with small variations. Both begin with a description of the situation followed by direct speech of the angry person. Then in some cases there follows an answer to which the first speaker reacts again (sometimes with brief descriptions of the emotions and acts between the speeches), whereas in other cases the episode is much shorter and the first display of anger is followed only by a non-verbal reaction or by no reaction at all. Sometimes only brief descriptions of anger

* I wish to thank the editors of this volume for their useful comments and Jim Clauss for his useful comments and checking of my English. 1 For further discussion of this technique as used by Callimachus for the purpose of characterization, see Harder 2018: 105–111. 2 On anger in the Iliad, see in general e.g. Most 2003; for emphasis on anger being an evil in the Iliad, see also Harris 2001: 73–74. In this volume, see the contributions of Bowie, Van Emde Boas, Kahane, and Pelling.

© Annette Harder, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_032

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are found, as in 3.367–385, where Aeetes angrily accuses the sons of Phrixus of wanting to seize his power, at which Telamon becomes angry, but is checked by Jason, who addresses Aeetes in a friendly manner. Typical examples of the first pattern are Argonautica 1.462–495; 1.1284–1344; 2.1–29; 4.350–393. The scenes with the short second pattern include Argonautica 1.861–876; 3.556–566; 3.576– 608; 4.212–235. As a group these episodes recall typical scenes of Homer such as the supplication scenes in the Iliad, which find a climax in the battlefield encounter of Achilles and Lycaon.3 It may not be accidental that Apollonius made the speech of Medea in 4.350–393 the last and longest of his angry speeches, with the most dramatic consequences. At first sight the descriptions of anger in the Argonautica are not so different from those in the Iliad. The narrator-text is generally brief (including some evaluating words and sometimes non-verbal signs of anger, similes or bits of embedded focalization) and the anger is presented largely by means of direct or indirect character-speech. Thus Apollonius’ technique resembles, for instance, the presentation of the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles in Iliad 1.9–305, also with much direct speech and relatively little narrator-text. However, Apollonius is different in that he includes many allusions to earlier texts, particularly Homer, which he may have expected his intended readers to know. Concerning Apollonius’ view of anger, various studies show that in the Argonautica it is mostly presented as ineffectual and counterproductive and negatively contrasted with cooperation and harmony. Manakidou (1998), for instance, shows how in contrast with the Iliad, where anger is an important driving force, in the Argonautica a different type of heroes appear, who prefer concord to anger and strife, and how the heroes who are prone to anger (Idas, Heracles, and Telamon) are presented as out of tune with this new type of heroism. In a similar vein Mori states that ‘the Argonauts’ dominant social register is concord, not strife.’4 On 83–84 she observes that ‘Apollonius experiments with the theme of epic anger in several episodes of the Argonautica’ and notices that ‘anger is largely ineffectual in the Argonautica: angry characters are typically rebuked, dismissed, or ignored.’ These conclusions can easily be supported with elements in the text when one reads it at face value. However, one may ask what else Apollonius is conveying to his readers when he alludes to the Iliad.

3 See Griffin 1980: 53–56. 4 Mori 2008: 52.

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A.R. 1.462–495: Idas against Jason and Idmon When Jason is worrying in silence (1.460–461), Idas, called ὑπέρβιος (‘proud’) in 151, attacks him in 462 (μεγάληι ὀπὶ νείκεσεν ‘chided him in a loud voice’),5 asking if he is frightened (464–465), and boasts about his own capacities, while drinking unmixed wine (472–474). Then the other Argonauts shout and Idmon reproaches Idas for speaking ‘outrageously’ (ἀτάσθαλα, 480), suggesting that the unmixed wine makes him self-destructive and that he may end badly through his own fault, like the sons of Aloeus, killed by Apollo for taunting the gods. In 485–486 Idas mocks Idmon as a seer, challenging him to predict his (i.e. Idas’) death and threatening to kill him if he fails (487–491). The narrator caps the speech with χώετ’ ἐνιπτάζων (‘thus he reviled him in his anger’), Jason and the other Argonauts end the quarrel and Orpheus starts a song (492–495). The episode shows Idas as an uncouth boaster, contrasted with the civilized Idmon and the other Argonauts,6 and can be read at face value as an illustration of the characters of the heroes and the preference for harmony among the Argonauts.7 However, allusions to other texts open up further layers of meaning, which would take up considerable space in the Argonautica when given explicitly. Thus, Idas’ attack on Jason recalls the episode of the uproarious Thersites in the Iliad, when he criticizes Agamemnon.8 On a verbal level the use of νεικέω and the emphasis on Idas’ loudness recall Thersites, whose loudness and quarrelling are mentioned in Iliad 2.221 νεικείεσκε (‘he used to quarrel’); 222 ὀξέα κεκλήγων λέγ’ ὀνείδεα (‘shouting loudly he uttered abuse’); 224 μακρὰ βοῶν … νείκεσε (‘shouting loudly he quarrelled’); 243 ὣς φάτο νεικείων (‘thus he spoke, quarrelling’). Finally Thersites is silenced and beaten by Odysseus and the other Greeks laugh at him and praise Odysseus’ action, which will make Thersites refrain from ‘quarrelling with kings’ (νεικείειν βασιλῆας, 277) in the future. Thus, Thersites is evoked as a foil for Idas, as another example of pointless and destructive anger. In 1.466–470 Idas boasts of his strength and states that his spear helps him more than Zeus and that with his help Jason will be successful even if a god should oppose him. This recalls the description of Idas in Iliad 9.558–560 as

5 6 7 8

Translations from the Argonautica are all by Race 2008; translations from Homer are my own. See on Idas in general Fränkel 1964. See also Mori 2008: 81–82. Mori (2008: 77–78) rightly draws attention to this parallel. The Thersites scene is also evoked in the case of Heracles’ anger at the Argonauts for staying too long at Lemnos. See Bär in this volume and also below.

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κάρτιστος ἐπιχθονίων … ἀνδρῶν | τῶν τότε (‘the strongest of the men then living on earth’), who took up his bow against Apollo in a fight over Marpessa. A little later this passage is again referred to in 1.477–478, where Idmon’s indignant question ἦέ τοι εἰς ἄτην ζωρὸν μέθυ θαρσαλέον κῆρ | οἰδάνει ἐν στήθεσσι (‘or is the pure wine swelling the impetuous heart in your chest to ruin’) recalls Iliad 9.553–554 χόλος, ὅς τε καὶ ἄλλων | οἰδάνει ἐν στήθεσσι νόον (‘anger, which would also have made the heart of others swell’) about Meleager’s anger, which makes him withdraw from the battlefield into the bedchamber of his wife Cleopatra, the daughter of Marpessa and Idas. The allusions support the characterization of Idas in the Argonautica as a strong man prone to challenging the gods. The narrator’s description of Idas’ heavy drinking of unmixed wine (1.472– 474 ἦ καὶ ἐπισχόμενος πλεῖον δέπας ἀμφοτέρηισι | πῖνε χαλίκρητον λαρὸν μέθυ, δεύετο δ’ οἴνωι | χείλεα κυάνεαί τε γενειάδες, ‘thus he spoke and, grasping a full cup in both hands, drank the sweet, unmixed wine, and his lips and dark beard were drenched with it’) is reminiscent of Callimachus Aetia fr. 178.11– 12, where heavy drinking is rejected by the narrator and thus characterizes the un-Callimachean aesthetic.9 Here it may have similar programmatic overtones, suggesting that a hero like Idas, who indulges so heavily in drinking, does not belong to a refined Hellenistic epic by a poet whose style suggests that he shares the aesthetic values of Callimachus.10 Idmon’s warning 1.481–484 recalls Odyssey 11.307–320, about Otus and Ephialtes, i.e. the sons of Aloeus, who want to put Ossa and Pelion on Olympus and are killed by Apollo and Leto. Interestingly, in the Odyssey this passage follows a description of the ‘alternate death’ of Castor and Polydeuces, in the fight where Idas and his brother Lynceus were killed, as readers would know from sources like Pindar, where Lynceus is killed by Polydeuces and Idas by Zeus’ lightning (Pi. N. 10.69–71).11 Thus the allusion hints at an implicit prolepsis, as Idmon’s words remind the reader that in fact Idas would be killed like the sons of Aloeus, and Idas’ provoking challenge to Idmon becomes highly ironic. In 1.492–493 προτέρω δέ κε νεῖκος ἐτύχθη, | εἰ μή … (‘and the strife would have gone further, had not …’) the phrasing and the if not-situation recall Iliad 23.490–491 καί νύ κε δὴ προτέρω ἔτ’ ἔρις γένετ’ ἀμφοτέροισιν, | εἰ μή … (‘and the

9 10 11

See Harder 2012 on Callimachus Aetia fr. 178.11–20. On ‘sobriety’ as mark of a shared aesthetic of Callimachus and Apollonius, see Harder 2019b. In Theocritus 22.210–211 Idas is also killed by Zeus’ lightning, when he tries to throw his father’s tombstone at Castor, who has just killed Lynceus, but the date of this poem in relation to the Argonautica is uncertain.

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quarrel of these two would have gone further, had not …’), where Achilles ends a quarrel of Ajax and Idomeneus.12 The peaceful behaviour of Achilles towards the end of the Iliad13 may be compared with that of the Argonauts, who, however, prefer harmony early in the epic (and whose diplomatic solution may also be contrasted with Odysseus’ violent correction of Thersites’ behaviour, discussed above). Thus, the reader of Apollonius’ epic is alerted to an important ideological aspect and difference with Homer.

A.R. 1.861–876: Heracles against the Argonauts In a comparable scene at Lemnos we learn that the Argonauts would have stayed at Lemnos, enjoying themselves with the Lemnian women, if Heracles had not reminded them of their mission. This passage can be connected intratextually with the argument between Idas and Idmon. Similarities in the attributive discourse used to frame both angry speeches point at thematic coherence: the reproach of Idas is introduced in 1.462 with νείκεσεν (‘chided’) and his second speech is concluded in 1.492 with χώετ’ ἐνιπτάζων (‘thus he reviled him in his anger’). In 1.864 Heracles’ angry words are introduced with ἐνιπτάζων μετέειπεν (‘reproached’) and in 1.875 they are concluded with ὥς νείκεσσεν ὅμιλον (‘thus he upbraided the crew’), as it were in a chiastic arrangement with the Idas scene. Besides, the episode of Heracles’ anger on Lemnos also alludes to the Thersites episode in the Iliad. Readers may thus be made aware of a connection between the angry Idas and Heracles as heroes that are less suitable for a modern epic.14 However, although his speech is connected with the angry speech of Idas, Heracles’ anger is much more constructive, as his intervention makes the Argonauts resume their expedition. On a general level the Heracles episode recalls the way in which Odysseus is made to move on after his stay with Circe15 and Calypso in the Odyssey, but there are also several allusions to the Iliad. Again, as said above, an allusion

12 13 14 15

See on this allusion also Clauss 1993: 79–82, who argues that there is a contrast between a man of strength and a man of vision in both passages. See on the way in which anger is appeased in Iliad 23 also Manakidou 1998: 244; Harder 2019a: 124–129. On the metapoetic aspects of Heracles’ leaving the expedition later in Book 1, see in general Heerink 2015, and see also Bär 2018 and, on this Heracles passage, Bär in this volume. Here particularly the role of Eurylochus resembles that of Heracles; see e.g. Clauss 1993: 136–138; Knight 1995: 167–169.

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is made to the Thersites episode in Iliad 2.155–278. There the Greeks at Troy would have gone home, if Hera and Athena had not interfered and Athena had not urged Odysseus to keep the men at Troy by means of friendly words (ἀγανοῖς ἐπέεσσιν, ‘with friendly words’, 180). The presentation of both episodes as an if not-situation, with εἰ μή at the beginning of the line in Argonautica 1.863 and Iliad 2.156, where the whole heroic enterprise is at stake, invites readers to compare the passages. In the Iliad Odysseus obeys Athena and addresses the men of rank in a friendly manner, but the common men more angrily. The men then assemble in an orderly meeting and only Thersites keeps scolding, addressing Agamemnon in Iliad 2.225–242, and is chastised by Odysseus. In Heracles’ address of the Argonauts the rhetorical questions and the suggestion to leave Jason at Lemnos recall the speech of Thersites.16 In Argonautica 1.865–874 Heracles asks the Argonauts whether they are exiled from their country because of murder or seeking marriage away from home or enjoy living and ploughing the earth at Lemnos. He adds that this will bring them neither fame nor the golden fleece and suggests that they all go home and leave Jason in the embrace of Hypsipyle to repopulate Lemnos and win fame in that way. Thersites in Iliad 2.225–242 also begins with rhetorical questions, asking Agamemnon why he is complaining and whether he would want more gold as ransom for Trojan sons or a young woman for himself. He then scolds the Greeks as cowards and suggests that they will all go home and leave Agamemnon at Troy to enjoy his presents. Though the actual words are largely different the urge to leave is similar in Heracles’ address: ‘… ἴομεν αὖτις ἕκαστοι ἐπὶ σφεά· τὸν δ’ ἐνὶ λέκτροις Ὑψιπύλης εἰᾶτε πανήμερον, εἰσόκε Λῆμνον παισὶν ἐπανδρώσηι, μεγάλη τέ ἑ βάξις ἵκηται.’ let each of us return to his own affairs; as for that fellow, let him spend all day long in Hypsipyle’s bed until he populates Lemnos with boys and gains a great reputation A.R. 1.872–874

16

The similarities were noticed by Clauss 1993: 138–140 (who observes that the allusion undermines Heracles’ authority: ‘the image of a Heracles who talks like a hero, but in words that recall Homeric cowards, creates a striking dissonance’); Hunter 1993: 35–36 (who focuses on questions about leadership and heroic status raised by these allusions); Knight 1995: 115, n. 149.

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and in that of Thersites: ‘… οἴκαδέ περ σὺν νηυσί νεώμεθα, τόνδε δ’ ἐῶμεν αὐτοῦ ἐνὶ Τροίηι γέρα πεσσέμεν, ὄφρα ἴδηται ἤ ῥά τί οἱ χἠμεῖς προσαμύνομεν, ἢε καὶ οὐκί …’ let us go home now with the ships and leave him here in Troy to enjoy his gifts, so that he will find out if we were of any help for him or not hom. Il. 2.236–238

In both texts the verb forms εἰᾶτε and ἐῶμεν draw attention to the notion of ‘leaving’. Besides, the syntactical structure is similar: the exhortation takes up three lines in which the cynical proposal to go takes up the part of the first line (until the bucolic diaeresis) and is followed by τὸν δ’ and τόνδε δ’, emphatically and insultingly referring to the leader as ‘him’ who must be left behind. The position of the subordinate clause about the effects of staying behind in the next line is also the same in both passages, again at the bucolic diaeresis. A schematic overview of the points of contact between the episodes of Thersites, Idas, and Heracles shows the intricate connections.

Iliad

Argonautica

Expedition at stake (if not-situation) Intervention of Odysseus Friendly words and scolding of Odysseus Odysseus: ‘don’t go home’

Expedition at stake (if not-situation) Intervention of Heracles Scolding of Heracles Heracles: ‘go home’ (but intending and achieving the opposite, like Agamemnon in Iliad 2) Heracles: rhetorical questions; ‘go home’ Heracles: ‘leave Jason at Lemnos’ Loud scolding and quarrelling of Idas, responsible scolding of Heracles Idas: no result Heracles: desired result achieved

Thersites: rhetorical questions; ‘go home’ Thersites: ‘leave Agamemnon at Troy’ Loud scolding and quarrelling of Thersites, responsible scolding of Odysseus Thersites: no result Odysseus: desired result achieved

By connecting his two anger scenes in Book 1 with the much longer episode in the Iliad Apollonius reminds his readers of various aspects of constructive

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and un-constructive anger (with good and bad results) and of the importance of anger being the result of good intentions of a responsible character. Particularly the similarities between Heracles’ and Thersites’ urge to go home draw attention to these points.17 All this could have been said explicitly, but by means of the allusions the narrator achieves brevity and stimulates his narratees to evaluate the narrative for themselves.

A.R. 1.1284–1344: Telamon and Jason The next anger scene is 1.1284–1344. Here the Argonauts have just discovered that they have left Heracles, Polyphemus, and Hylas behind and a fierce quarrel follows (κρατερὸν νεῖκος, ‘fierce strife’, 1284; κολωιὸς | ἄσπετος, ‘a great uproar’, 1284–1285). Telamon is struck with anger (χόλος, 1289) and accuses Jason of leaving Heracles behind on purpose because he was jealous. He wants to go back to search for Heracles and rushes at the helmsman Tiphys with angrily flashing eyes (1297), but the sons of Boreas stop him and the sea-god Glaucus predicts the fates of Heracles, Polyphemus, and Hylas following their accidental abandonment by the Argonauts. In 1.1329–1335 Telamon is reconciled with Jason, apologizing for his foolishness (ἀφραδίηισιν, 1332)18 and rash words. Jason acknowledges that Telamon abused him, but promises that he will not nurse ἀδευκέα μῆνιν (‘bitter wrath’, 1339), because Telamon was not angry because of possessions, but on behalf of a friend. This instance of fierce but ‘noble’ anger caused by good intentions recalls the justified anger of Heracles at Lemnos and the sequel shows that quarrels can be resolved and anger can be forgiven.19 Several allusions to the Iliad again help to characterize the Argonauts as more given to harmony and reconciliation than the Homeric heroes, even in the case of an impetuous character like Telamon. In Telamon’s conciliatory speech 1.1334–1335 ἀνέμοισιν | δώομεν ἀμπλακίην (‘let us cast that mistake to the winds’) recall the reconciliation between Aga17

18 19

For similar conclusions, see Manakidou 1998: 258: ‘Herakles vertritt die positive Seite des traditionellen Heldentums, während Idas für die negative steht’; Mori 2008: 77–78 about Thersites and Idas: ‘neither man has any followers; both do little to benefit their companions. The high-minded … Heracles, by contrast, continues to aid the Argonauts … even after his disappearance.’ This recalls Argonautica 1.91–94 ἀφραδίηι about Telamon and Peleus killing their brother Phocus. See for further discussion in connection with Aristotle’s views on anger as well as the Homeric precedents Mori 2008: 82–90; on this passage and the allusions to Homer also Clauss 1993: 198–210.

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memnon and Odysseus in Iliad 4.336–363, when Odysseus had been angry about an unjustified reproach of Agamemnon that he was slow to fight, but quick to join in meals. There Iliad 4.363 τὰ δὲ πάντα θεοὶ μεταμώνια20 θεῖεν (‘may the gods make it all blown away by the winds’), which concludes Agamemnon’s apology, may have inspired Telamon’s words. Agamemnon’s behaviour here is very much in contrast with that in his quarrel with Achilles in Iliad 1, of whom the next few lines may remind the reader, when Jason accepts Telamon's apology: ‘… ἀλλ’ οὐ θήν τοι ἀδευκέα μῆνιν ἀέξω, πρίν περ ἀνιηθείς· ἐπεὶ οὐ περὶ πώεσι μήλων οὐδὲ περὶ κτεάτεσσι χαλεψάμενος μενέηνας, ἀλλ’ ἑτάρου περὶ φωτός. ἔολπα δέ τοι σὲ καὶ ἄλλωι ἀμφ’ ἐμεῦ, εἰ τοιόνδε πέλοι ποτέ, δηρίσασθαι’ but I shall not for long harbour bitter wrath against you, although before this I was pained, because it was not over flocks of sheep or over possessions that you flared up in anger, but for a man who was your comrade. Indeed, I hope that you would oppose another man as well on my behalf, if a similar situation ever arose. A.R. 1.1339–1343

Here μῆνιν recalls Iliad 1.1 (μῆνιν … Ἀχιλῆος), the wrath of Achilles as the main subject of the Iliad. In contrast with Achilles Jason emphatically states that he will nurse no wrath. By adding that Telamon was not angry about animals or possessions, but on behalf of a friend he also legitimizes his anger as evidence of loyalty, contrasting it with the disastrous anger of Agamemnon and Achilles about Briseis as a ‘possession’.21 The lines also recall Iliad 22.159–161, where Achilles is chasing Hector and their speed is explained: ἐπεὶ οὐχ ἱερήιον οὐδὲ βοείην ἀρνύσθην, ἅ τε ποσσὶν ἀέθλια γίγνεται ἀνδρῶν, ἀλλὰ περὶ ψυχῆς θέον Ἕκτορος ἱπποδάμοιο

20 21

On the word being etymologically connected with ἄνεμος, see Frisk 1960–1970, 2.217 s.v. See also Manakidou 1998: 251; Mori 2008: 87–89.

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because they were not competing for a sacrificial animal or a bull’s hide, which are prizes for men in a running match, but they ran for the life of the horse-taming Hector hom. Il. 22.159–161

As in the allusion to Thersites’ speech (discussed above) here too the pattern in Apollonius (‘not …, but …’) is similar to that in the Iliad. By recalling two angerdriven scenes of the Iliad Apollonius again draws attention to the difference between his heroes and those of Homer, casting the Argonauts as focused on harmony rather than strife and distinguishing between justified and unjustified anger. Jason’s concluding words (1.1342–1343) recall Iliad 6.329–330 σὺ δ’ ἂν μαχέσαιο καὶ ἄλλωι, | ὅν τινά που μεθιέντα ἴδοις στυγεροῦ πολέμοιο (‘you would find fault also with another man, whom you saw backing out of the hateful war’), where Hector reproaches Paris for not taking part in the battle and states that Paris himself would also be angry if he saw someone else abstain from fighting. The difference between these passages is well analysed by Fränkel, who observes that while in the Iliad Paris is supposed to simply take over Hector’s role as he must share his view, in the Argonautica Telamon is supposed to display the same fierce loyalty as he showed for Heracles also for Jason if someone else should attack him.22 Thus, the Iliadic phrase is subtly modified and the emphasis is turned from shared criticism of others to loyalty to one’s friends.23

A.R. 3.556–566: Idas against the Argonauts When the Argonauts have arrived in Colchis, Argus advises them to get help from Medea (3.475–483). Bird omens seem to support the advice (3.545–554). The Argonauts agree, but Idas angrily addresses them, because they rely on Aphrodite and bird omens instead of fighting. The Argonauts only mutter a little, but do not answer Idas, who sits back in anger (3.556–566). This brief scene has various links to other passages. First, there are connections to earlier episodes: 3.557 δείν’ ἐπαλαστήσας μεγάληι ὀπί (‘venting his terrible anger in a loud voice’) recalls Idas’ loudness in 1.462;24 in 3.558–563 the angry questions with their implications of weakness and cowardice recall the questions of Idas and Heracles in 1.464–465 and 22 23 24

Fränkel 1968: on 1337–1344. Argonautica 3.382–385 and 3.515–516 show glimpses of this loyalty. Cf. also A.R. 3.369 about Aeetes’ anger.

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1.865–868; 3.566 χωόμενος (‘angry’) recalls 1.492 χώετ’ of Idas’ anger, also concluding the episode. The connection with Thersites is also brought to mind again, as in 3.558 γυναιξὶν ὁμόστολοι (‘shipmates of women’) the reproach of feminine behaviour recalls Iliad 2.235, where Thersites addresses the Greeks as Ἀχαιίδες, ὀυκέτ Ἀχαιοί (‘Greek women, not Greek men’). Thus, Idas appears as consistent in his behaviour, given to destructive anger and showing a lack of understanding of the right way to make the expedition a success as opposed to the sensible Argonauts. The episode also recalls two passages about the rejection of bird omens in Homer. The first is Iliad 12.230–250, where Hector rejects a bird omen and goes on to attack the Greek ships (thus creating the conditions for his death at the hand of Achilles). The second is Odyssey 2.146–207, where Eurymachus mocks a bird omen (thus helping to create the conditions for his death with the other suitors). Both passages suggest that Idas’ plea for fighting must be mistaken and hint at a bad outcome of the expedition if it were to be followed. Towards the end of Idas’ speech his mock advice in 3.562 μηδ’ ὕμμιν πολεμήια ἔργα μέλοιτο (‘let not deeds of war concern you’) recalls Hector’s last words to Andromache in Iliad 6.492–493 πόλεμος δ’ ἄνδρεσσι μελήσει | πᾶσι, μάλιστα δ’ ἐμοί (‘the war will concern all men, but me most of all’), again reminding the reader of the Iliadic hero, who relied on fighting and died. Idas’ sarcastic last words in 3.563 παρθενικὰς δὲ λιτῆισιν ἀνάλκιδας ἠπεροπεύειν (‘but seducing defenceless girls with entreaties’) allude to Iliad 5.349 ἦ οὐχ ἅλις ὅττι γυναῖκας ἀνάλκιδας ἠπεροπεύεις (‘is it not enough to seduce defenceless women’), where Diomedes mocks Aphrodite, whom he has just wounded, for entering the battlefield. The sequel in Iliad 5.406–415, where Dione comforts Aphrodite, saying that those who fight the gods may not live long and that such a fate may await Diomedes, suggests a bad outcome for him too, though we hear nothing about this in the Iliad.25 Taken together the references in this densely allusive passage point out that hybris and violence are dangerous, particularly when one ignores omens or fights against the gods, including Aphrodite on whose help the Argonauts now depend. Thus, the Argonauts’ appeal to Medea for help is underlined as wise, and their success may be foreshadowed. Twice again Idas’ futile anger is mentioned in passages that underline that he is alone in his opinion about Medea: 3.1170, where he sits apart δακὼν χόλον (‘biting back his anger’), when the other Argonauts rejoice after Jason has met Medea, and 3.1252–1253, where the Argonauts test Jason’s spear, sprinkled with Medea’s charm, and Idas hits it hard with his sword τοῖς ἄμοτον κοτέων (‘nursing his implacable grudge against them’).

25

Elsewhere in the epic tradition Diomedes returns home safely; cf. Od. 3.180–182.

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An End to Anger Two aetiological episodes suggest that towards the end of the Argonauts’ journey scolding and strife have finally changed into innocent jesting and competition into games. These are the episodes of the scurrilous ritual at Anaphe (4.1719–1730) and of the hydrophoria at Aegina (4.1765–1772). Both passages recall the earlier quarrels among the Argonauts as well as the Iliad, so that the reader may read them against that background. In 4.1719–1730 the Argonauts at Anaphe, lacking proper materials for sacrifices, make libations of water to Apollo. When Medea and her Phaeacian servants laugh at them the heroes mock them: τὰς δ’ αἰσχροῖς ἥρωες ἐπεστοβέεσκον ἔπεσσιν | χλεύηι γηθόσυνοι· γλυκερὴ δ’ ἀνεδαίετο τοῖσιν | κερτομίη καὶ νεῖκος ἐπεσβόλον (‘the heroes enjoyed their jesting and scoffed at them with obscene language. And pleasant insults and scurrilous taunts were kindled among them’, 1725–1727). Here κερτομίη recalls Idas’ address of Idmon in 1.486 κερτομίοισιν, and νεῖκος recalls the quarrel-scenes in 1.462; 492; 875; 1284. Besides, the use of ἐπεσβόλον (‘scurillous’) again recalls the Thersites scene, as in Iliad 2.275 the Homeric hapax ἐπεσβόλον is used of Thersites when the Greeks praise Odysseus for silencing him.26 The verb δηριάομαι, used to describe the ongoing ritual at Anaphe27 and the competition at Aegina of the Argonauts and of the later performers of the ongoing ritual,28 recalls the episodes of the serious anger of Idas and Telamon in 1.493 δηριόωντας and 1343 δηρίσασθαι.29 Also at a general level the relaxed attitude at the end of the Argonautica is reminiscent of the end of the Iliad, where at the funeral games for Patroclus there is a comparable relaxed atmosphere among the Greeks.30

26

27 28 29 30

Hunter (2015, on AR 4.1727) aptly remarks about the Thersites episode: ‘there is a pointed contrast between that angry scene and the light-hearted Argonautic exchange’. The epithet also connects the episode with Callimachus Aetia fr. 21.11 ἐπεσβολίησι about the same ritual; see Harder 2012 ad loc. A.R. 4.1729 δηριόωνται (‘hurl … taunts’). A.R. 4.1767 δῆριν ἀμεμφέα δηρίσαντο (‘contended in a friendly competition’), of the Argonauts, and 1772 δηριόωνται, of the performers of the ongoing ritual. Cf. also the Amycus episode in Argonautica 2.16 and 89. See Harder 2019a: 124–129.

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Conclusion Apollonius’ use of allusions in the episodes where Argonauts are angry with each other is very sophisticated. He evokes Homeric characters as a foil and thus draws attention to his heroes’ roles and characteristics and invites his readers to consider the differences and similarities. Sometimes the allusions hint at an implicit prolepsis, as they foreshadow a certain sequel of the events. Often the allusions in the character-text can also be considered ironic, as they show the narratee things that the characters themselves are not aware of and offer hints of the character’s position in the history of literature from an ideological or programmatic point of view. The reader who is aware of the allusions is thus invited to think about the text at various levels, including issues that go beyond the actual narrative and place the epic in a cultural and historical context. This treatment of allusions does not seem to aim at making the reader deeply involved with the angry feelings as such, but rather at making him consider these emotions from an ideological or programmatic point of view. At an ideological level many allusions draw attention to the role of various kinds of anger within groups and implicitly plead for harmony. This fits in with the more explicit passages about homonoia among the Argonauts (who found a temple for Concord in 2.714–719) and the way in which quarrels are resolved. At a programmatic level the allusions give the treatment of emotions a context within the literary tradition. This means that the narrative is also about views on the proper kind of Hellenistic epic poetry in which an old-fashioned quarrelsome character can no longer be the hero. The primary narrator does not speak about all this. He keeps his anger scenes brief and is sparing with explicit comments. Even so he offers the well-read and active narratee an intriguing ‘metanarrative’ about epic poetry by adding a great deal of information between the lines and alerting him to ideological and programmatic issues.31 By means of allusions the heroes are shown to be part of a literary tradition in which heroic characters and values are not constant, but may change over the course of time in accordance with views on communication, politics, and leadership. The reader is thus reminded of the fact that a modern epic poet is in tune with these developments and has no sympathy for ‘angry young men’.

31

Compare Whitmarsh in this volume on the metanarrative use of certain emotions in the Greek novels, and see also Bierl on metatheatricality in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound.

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Bibliography Bär, S., Herakles im griechischen Epos. Studien zur Narrativität und Poetizität eines Helden (Stuttgart 2018). Clauss, J.J., The Best of the Argonauts (Berkeley / Los Angeles / Oxford 1993). Fränkel, H., ‘Ein Don Quijote unter des Argonauten des Apollonios’, MH 17 (1964) 1–20. Fränkel, H., Noten zu den Argonautika des Apollonios (Munich 1968). Frisk, H., Griechisches etymologisches Wörterbuch (Heidelberg 1960–1970). Griffin, J., Homer on Life and Death (Oxford 1980). Harder, M.A., Callimachus. Aetia (Oxford 2012). Harder, M.A., ‘Callimachus’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018) 100–115. Harder, M.A., ‘From Scamander to Demeter: Allusions to Homer in the Sixth Hymn of Callimachus’, in J.J.H. Klooster, M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, G.C. Wakker (eds.), Callimachus Revisited. New Perspectives in Callimachean Scholarship (Leuven / Paris / Bristol 2019) 121–145. [2019a] Harder, M.A., ‘Aspects of the Interaction between Apollonius Rhodius and Callimachus’, Aevum Antiquum 19 (2019) 9–34. [2019b] Harris, W.V., Restraining Rage (Cambridge, MA / London 2001). Heerink, M., Echoing Hylas (Madison / London 2015). Hunter, R.L., The Argonautica of Apollonius. Literary Studies (Cambridge 1993). Hunter, R.L., Apollonius Rhodius. Argonautica Book iv (Cambridge 2015). Knight, V. The Renewal of Epic (Leiden / New York / Cologne 1995). Manakidou, F., ‘Cholos, menis, neikos in den Argonautika des Apollonios Rhodios’, Philologus 142 (1998) 241–260. Mori, A., The Politics of Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica (Cambridge 2008). Most, G.W., ‘Anger and Pity in Homer’s Iliad’, in S. Braund, G.W. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger (Cambridge 2003) 50–75. Race, W. Apollonius Rhodius. Argonautica (Cambridge, MA / London 2008).

chapter 31

Theocritus and the Poetics of Love Jacqueline Klooster

Introduction: Poetics of Love as Distinctive for Theocritus In this paper I look at ‘love’ as a constituent of Theocritean poetics. Love here translates the Greek word ἔρως and its connotations of desire and longing, i.e. passionate love;1 not ‘companionate love’ or intimacy, to use the modern psychological distinction.2 Love is not considered an emotion as such in modern psychology, but rather a syndrome, i.e., ‘an organized set of responses (behavioral, physiological, and/or cognitive).’ The love syndrome includes the following features: ‘(a) idealization of the loved one; (b) suddenness of onset (‘love at first sight’); (c) physiological arousal; and (d) commitment to, and willingness to make sacrifices for, the loved one.’3 Yet, as anyone knows, and as is often described in Theocritus’ poetry, in the course of this syndrome, a great many emotional responses occur, ranging from joy to sadness, anger, and fear. I will argue that love and its accompanying emotions are a structural feature of Theocritus’ poetics. On the one hand, his poetry posits a generative connection between the experience of love and the making of poetry: those who fall in love are inspired by their feelings to sing about the sensation. But the connection also goes the other way, often at the same time: poetry/song in Theocritus is also therapeutic. It can alleviate psychological pain by allowing the singer to let off some steam and come to grips with his/her feelings, or it can heal the wounds of rejection and unrequited love through artistic distancing, making a poem out of a syndrome—what in

1 Theocritus uses Eros both to indicate the god Eros and the concept desire. According to a search on the TLG, in the Theocritean corpus the word Ἔρως and its cognates feature 60 times, while ἵμερος and cognates feature 10 times and derivations from φιλέω 179, but these also include names such as Philinos and Philinna. Theocritus also frequently uses forms of the verb φιλέω; the range of this verb extends from ‘appreciate; feel friendship for’ to ‘love, be in love with’. For an investigation of the emotions related to the word φιλέω, see especially Konstan 2006: 169–184, who, however, bases himself mainly on Aristotle’s Ethics and Rhetoric, and thus focuses more on the social aspect, i.e. ‘friendship/mutuality’, not romantic/erotic desire; for a description of the concept Eros, the brief introduction of Hunter 2004: 15–20 is useful. 2 Sprecher and Regan 1998: 163–185. 3 Averill 1985: 99.

© Jacqueline Klooster, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_033

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Freudian terminology is called ‘sublimation’.4 Indeed, it is no exaggeration to say that this twofold connection is central to Theocritus’ poetics, although the relations between love and poetic expression differ in the various poems. Anyone who has read Theocritus is aware of the most obvious and often discussed examples: in Idyll 11, the Cyclops is explicitly said to have found a remedy (pharmakon) against love in song (song as a therapy); something similar happens in 2, 3, 7, and 10, as will be discussed below. In Idyll 1 on the other hand, the mysterious Liebestod of the mythical herdsman Daphnis turns him into a canonical subject of bucolic song (love is an inspiration for song, although the personal feelings of the singer are not directly involved); something similar happens in 13. As we can see, then, the conjunction of love and poetry is central to numerous poems, while also being obliquely present in many more. Other scholars have of course also noticed the importance of love for the Idylls,5 and many studies look at individual Idylls to understand the link between Eros and poetry.6 My specific contention is that a recognition of this link helps shed greater light on some debated interpretive questions in the programmatic Idylls (1, 6, 7). It is a pleasure to include this piece on Theocritus in a tribute to Irene de Jong, under whose joint supervision (together with Marietje van Erp Taalman Kip) I first started working on this poet. I am very grateful for the opportunity and encouragement I have received from Irene, both during my PhD and in later years, to contribute to the narratological analysis of both Theocritus and Apollonius.

Poetics of Love in Previous and Contemporary Authors? Is love a dominant topic of Greek poetry before Theocritus? That of course depends on how we choose to read it. It is even possible, as Horace Epist. 1.2.6 proves, to classify the Iliad as a fabula qua Paridis propter narratur amorem (a story told because of the love of Paris), although most ancient readers would probably consider such a reading deliberately skewed. The Odyssey likewise places the loyalty of Penelope and Odysseus centre stage, but to claim that

4 Freud describes sublimation as the transformation of a sexual aim into a non-sexual one in Civilization and its Discontents. He holds that ‘sublimation is what makes it possible for higher psychical activities, scientific, artistic, or ideological, to play such an important part in civilized life.’ (1930: 97). 5 E.g. Furusawa 1984, Schmidt 1987, the (unpublished) dissertation of Grant Samson 2013. 6 See throughout in the notes.

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the Odyssey is a poem about marital love sounds odd. All the same, love and desire form a frequent and often central topic in pre-Hellenistic poetry, especially in such personal genres as archaic lyric monody (Sappho, Alcaeus, Ibycus, Anacreon, and the Anacreontea) and New Comedy (Menander).7 Love and its excesses also occasionally feature as a theme in choral lyric (Pindar) and classical Athenian drama (both tragedy and comedy). On the whole, however, love is not often explicitly made out to be a generative force of poetry or a disease to be healed by poetry in quite the same way as this happens in Theocritus.8 The dithyramb by the classical poet Philoxenus (about Polyphemus in love)9 on which Theocritus based his 11th Idyll in fact appears to be one of the few pre-Hellenistic works to put the generative connection between love and song central. When we look at Theocritus’ Hellenistic contemporaries, on the other hand, we observe that in choosing love as one of his main topics, Theocritus fits the well-known trends of his era. Callimachus and Apollonius, but also epigrammatists such as Asclepiades and Nossis give a much more central position in their poetry to all the variations of the feeling than earlier poets. Some even express the idea that love and poetry are closely connected or indeed that the one generates the other, or, conversely, that poetry cures love. A case in point is the (fragmentarily preserved) elegy Leontion (CA 7) by Hermesianax, where it is claimed that all great poets wrote their works because they were inspired by love. Thus, Homer was in love with Penelope and wrote the Odyssey, and so on. Another example is Callimachus’ epigram 46 Pf. which seems to react to Philoxenus’ dithyramb on Polyphemus or Theocritus’ 11th Idyll in which the Cyclops learns to handle his love by singing, as will be discussed in more detail later on.

Defining the Poetics of Love in Theocritus To return to Theocritus, my main question is: how exactly does the relation between love and song work out in the Idylls, and how is it made central to 7 On Sappho’s love poems see Lardinois in this volume. 8 The only true parallel appears to be Plato, in particular Symposium (208e1–209a8), where we encounter the idea that the right kind of erôs felt for Forms of the Good and the Beautiful will lead some men to leave behind beautiful, immortal children, such as poetry, laws and the like. A good overview of Love as a theme in pre-Theocritean Greek poetry and philosophy can be found in the dissertation of Grant Samson (2013), who moreover discusses the relation between the philosophy of desire and Theocritus’ Idylls. 9 For fragments and testimonia see the Loeb edition of Campbell 1993.

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Theocritus’ poetics? As noted, love is a central theme of the Idylls. In only four of the 22 authentic Idylls is the topic not mentioned (16, 22, 24, 26). Sometimes it is present in such an indirect way that it is negligible, as in 22 where the Dioscuri are said to have stolen the brides of the Apharetids (22.137–138). But while of course a marriage-theme may have an erotic side in poetry, Lynceus here focuses on social alliances rather than on desire for the brides (22.145–166). Interestingly, of the spurious Idylls imitating Theocritus, 8, 9, 19, 20, 23, and 27 all have love (and song) as their topic, and only 21 and 25 do not. This shows that the theme of love (and song) was perceived by imitators as typically belonging to Theocritus. In the 18 authentic Idylls that remain, love is either emphatically present or indeed the central theme, with 12 explicitly stipulating a connection between love and poetry.10 These connections between love and song are implicitly present in the 6 remaining Idylls, which do not centre on the theme (4, 5, 12, 14, 29, 30). Thus, in Idyll 5, where Lacon and Comatas compete in a singing match, the description of their love objects and their relationship with them is a dominant topic of the competition, although it is not stated that they sing because they are inspired by love. These poetics of love could be phrased as follows: 1) 2) 3)

Love inspires one to sing (sometimes to persuade the object of desire; i.e., a serenade) (generative); singing counteracts one’s own feelings of love (therapeutic); singing about someone else’s experiences in love is generative/therapeutic at a remove/sublimating.

Typically, a single Idyll would elaborate one of these themes, but a combination of all the above also occurs. It may be noted that ‘love’ is usually ‘unhappy love’, mostly because it is unrequited. In the Idylls that feature unhappy love as main theme, a form of happy love (i.e., requited) is often also mentioned, usually by way of contrast. In Idyll 3 the nameless goatherd goes to serenade the nymph Amaryllis, who pays no attention to him at all. To persuade her, he starts singing about happy male mortals who rejoiced in the love of a goddess or nymph (3.40–51). When this elicits no response, he dejectedly leaves. The poems featuring happy love on its own terms are rare; Idyll 17 hymns the reciprocal marital love of the Ptolemaic royal couples, presumably as a matter of royal ideology; 28 praises the marital love between Nicias and his wife. In Idyll 18, a chorus of young girls celebrates the love between Helen and Menelaus

10

Id. 1; 2; 3; 6; 7; 10; 11; 12; 13; 15; 17; 18; 28.

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in an epithalamium. While the girls describe this love as ‘happy’, irony might be intended, depending on which version of Helen’s myth we follow. The most notable exception is 12, which voices the elation of a lover whose love is reciprocated by a boy. Clearly, for Theocritus (and surely this observation can be generalized) unhappy love and its accompanying emotions is a more inspiring and fruitful poetic topic than the satisfaction of the happy couple. I follow his lead in this paper and look into the ways in which unrequited love is made poetically productive.

Poetics of Love in Individual Idylls Singing to Persuade an Unattainable Object or Coming to Grips with Love (3; 11; 10) Let us now look in more detail at the connection between love and song; how is this configured throughout the Idylls? As we saw, the principal inspiration for song is unrequited love, i.e., love for an unattainable object, but this can be configured in different ways. To begin with, a character may be trying to win over with song the unattainable object of his affection, as in 3 and 11, where the goatherd and the Cyclops respectively try to woo Amaryllis and Galatea (rule 1: Love inspires one to sing). In these poems, the songs consist of: 1) 2) 3) 4)

5)

Praise of the beloved (3.6, 18; 11.19–21, 30); lament over previous lack of response (3.6–9, 12, 15, 24–33; 11.19, 22– 24, 29); elaboration on the wish for reciprocation, including fantasies of what might be (3.12–14, 19–20, 39, 40–51; 11.42–44, 54–62, 63–66); survey of the perceived attractions/lack of attractions of the singer himself, including the looks of the lover and the promise of gifts (3.8, 10–11, 22–23, 34–36; 11.30–49, 50); resignation/frustration at the lack of response (3.52–54; 11.67–71, 72– 79).

In Idyll 3 there is no external narrator to comment on the song or the situation (it is a ‘mime’), whereas in Idyll 11 there is, but situations and songs are still quite similar, which raises the question of whether the relation between song and love is also the same. In 3, the goatherd announces that he is going to serenade the nymph Amaryllis (3.1–2). When she does not respond to his words, he decides to sing her a song about female divinities and their human

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lovers (3.40–51). When this too remains without effect, his closing words express childish anger and disappointment. My head is hurting, but you don’t care. I’m not going to sing anymore, I’ll just lie where I fell down and mark you: the wolves will eat me. I hope that’ll go down your throat sweet like honey. theoc. 3.52–5411 In 11, a narrator addresses Nicias, a doctor and a poet, telling him that ancient Polyphemus had found the pharmakon against love in poetry, and often sat singing of his love for Galatea, while his flock went home unattended (1–18). After singing about his love at length again without eliciting any response from the nymph (19–69), Polyphemus ends up almost as frustrated as the goatherd in 3, blaming his mother for not intervening on his behalf: I will tell her that my head and both my feet are throbbing, so that she will be vexed, for I too am vexed. theoc. 11.70–71

But Polyphemus’ final self-address shows more resilience than that of the goatherd in Id. 3, as the narrator confirms: ‘O Cyclops, Cyclops, where have your wits flown off to? If you would weave baskets and gather young sprouts to bring to the lambs, you’d certainly have better sense. Milk the one that’s at hand. Why are you pursuing the one that flees? You’ll find another, and perhaps even more beautiful Galatea. Many girls invite me to play with them at night, and they all giggle whenever I lend them an ear. It’s clear that on land even I appear to be someone.’ So, in that way Polyphemus would shepherd his love, making his music, and he fared better than if he had paid gold. theoc. 11.72–81

If we connect these words with the narrator’s earlier statement that Polyphemus found a pharmakon against love, it seems inescapable that, despite the long debate raging over this question, Polyphemus has actually found a palliative for his love in song, even if perhaps it is not the ‘final cure’,12 and even 11 12

All translations are my own, unless otherwise noted. The imperfect ἄειδε and the imprecise τοιαῦτα in line 18 indicate that this was not the first nor the last time he sang.

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if it consists partly of a symptom of his love,13 and demonstrates a deluded belief in his own attractions to the opposite sex.14 Comparison with Idyll 3 shows this clearly: the goatherd does not feel better after singing, only more frustrated; Polyphemus does feel better, as the narrator says. This constitutes the main difference in the way the relation between love and song is presented in these two poems. In 3, song is a symptom of love and also an unsuccessful attempt to win over the beloved, but in 11, song is shown to be, miraculously, three things at the same time: a symptom of unrequited love, an unsuccessful attempt to win over the beloved, but also a beneficial outlet of the frustrations accompanying unrequited love. The irony of the poem thus consists in the fact that Polyphemus accomplishes something entirely different (a cure for his own love by hilarious poetry) than he hopes to accomplish (winning over Galatea by beautiful poetry). If we extrapolate, perhaps this means that there is still hope for the lover of Idyll 3: he may eventually get rid of his passion by singing. We may moreover note that on the level of the narrator, Idyll 11 is also about ‘singing about someone else’s experiences in love’ (possibly to come to grips with one’s own feelings and/or to convince the object of desire). The poem, in an ironic way, uses the example of Polyphemus to reflect on the general experience of love. In that sense ‘singing about love’ here (as in 13) is really just like singing about other truths from experience, which are then illustrated by mythical examples, as traditionally happens often in choral lyric. In the mimetic Idyll 10, finally, the harvester Bucaeus is singing, but not in the presence of his admired Bombyca, the flute girl, so he is not trying to woo her—indeed we may wonder if he has ever spoken to her. Accordingly, his song basically restricts itself to praise of the beloved, and fantasies of paying tribute to her. Like Idyll 3, this poem has no narrative frame, but there is an interlocutor present, Milon, who comments on the situation and on the song of Bucaeus, and thus fulfils the function of a reflecting voice. Indeed, Milon is the one who initially encourages Bucaeus to sing, stating that it will do him good and make his work easier: And begin with some love song about the girl. You’ll work more pleasantly that way. Indeed, you used to be musical before. theoc. 10.22–23

13

14

From the scholia to Theocritus we know that Nicias, Theocritus’ friend to whom this poem is addressed, responded with the words: ‘That was very true, Theocritus, the loves often make a poet of one who was not musical before’. (SH 566) For discussion of the question, see e.g. Holtsmark 1966; Schmiel 1974/5; Goldhill 1988; Giangrande 1990; Farr 1991; Hunter 1999 ad loc.; Lühnken 2000; Faraone 2006.

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Again, we find the combination of the two ideas that 1) feelings of love inspire one to sing and 2) one sings to counteract or come to grips with one’s own feelings of love. Idyll 2: Coming to Grips with Love, Again Even though the ‘poetics of love’ are not addressed explicitly in Idyll 2, it is clear that they underlie the configuration of love and poetry presented there. In this mime (no narrative frame) the urban young woman Simaetha has fallen for the unreliable Delphis. After their brief affair, which she had initiated, he has suddenly stopped visiting her, and she therefore now states she wishes to bind him with love magic and spells and drag him to her house. The structure of the Idyll encompasses a complicated ring composition: 0 Prologue: I will bind Delphis with spells (1–3); A I haven’t seen him in 12 days; he must have someone else (4–7); B I will go to the palaestra tomorrow and scold him; first I will bind him with my powerful magic (8–16); C Binding spells proper (17–63); C’ Simaetha tells her story to Selene (64–144); A’ Someone has told me Delphis is in love; I haven’t seen him in 12 days: he has someone else (145–158); B’ I will bind him with spells, and if that doesn’t work, I have powerful drugs to kill him (159–162); 0’ Farewell to Selene: I will bear my load as I have undertaken it (163– 166). Even to a reader not versed in ancient magic, it seems clear that Simaetha’s attempt at magical spells is certainly not going to work in the way she hopes, and it seems that even Simaetha herself knows this at some level (B’).15 But at least the magical curses directed at Delphis (may he burn, may he melt, may he whirl about) furnish an outlet for (and form a reflection of) her own hurt feelings.16 In the second part Simaetha recounts her affair to the Moon (Selene, 65–166). As we can see from the scheme (A>A’), she now fully admits to herself that Delphis is in love with someone else. This painful realization causes a renewed flare-up of her powerless desire to remedy the situation or avenge 15

16

On the connection with ancient love magic, see: Segal 1973: 32–43; Rist 1975: 103–111; Pfeijffer 1999: 69–75; Fernández Fernández 2002: 91–102; Hordern 2002: 164–173; Petrovic 2004: 421–444. So e.g. Griffiths 1979: 81–88; Parry 1988: 43–55.

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herself with magic (B’). However, she now also admits that the binding spells may not work. We might say she is incorrigible, since her subsequent wish to ‘kill’ Delphis by powerful drugs (B’) seems as unrealistic as her initial ‘powerful love-magic’. However, finally the imagery of peace and quiet at the poem’s end seem to indicate that despite her anger and disappointment, Simaetha has attained some modicum of realism and resignation, and that she realizes she must cope with her feelings, i.e., that she will not change them, or the feelings of Delphis, for that matter, by any ‘magic’: Farewell now; turn your steeds towards the Ocean, Lady: and I shall continue to bear my load as I have undertaken it. Farewell, Selene of the gleaming throne, and farewell you, the other stars, companions of the chariot of carefree night. theoc. 2.163–166

We may conclude, with Frederick Griffiths, that there is some power in words, then, even if they can’t do actual magic.17 In this sense, Simaetha is like the Cyclops in 11: while she hopes and believes to be doing one thing (in this case, magically drawing back Delphis to her love) she is actually doing something else, namely reconciling herself to her actual situation. Complicating and ironizing this message, as Griffith also notes, is the fact that the markedly highflown and poetic phrases Simaetha uses to recount her rather mundane story (2.163–166) imply that it may actually have been poetry in the first place that inspired her wrongheaded ideas about love. The Poetics of Love in the Programmatic Idylls 1, 6, 7 The Idylls discussed so far are relatively simple in structure and interpretation, but in Idylls 1, 6, and 7, arguably the most programmatic poems of the corpus, the poetics of love are expressed in more complex ways. In Idyll 6, the sophistication lies particularly in the framing of the poem by the narrator, and the role play that the two characters engage in. 1–5: Narrator: Aratus, Damoetas, and Daphnis herded and sang together once; Daphnis started; 6–19: Daphnis acts as praeceptor amoris to Polyphemus (inviting Damoetas to take on the role of Polyphemus). He tells him Galatea is pelting his flock with apples to be noticed;

17

Griffiths 1979: 81–88.

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20: Narrator: then Damoetas sang; 21–41: Damoetas answers as Polyphemus: he is aware of this, and he is playing hard-to-get; 42–46: Narrator: they exchanged kisses and instruments; neither won, both were invincible. Reading this Idyll, we are made to wonder: is Daphnis, in his role of Polyphemus’ interlocutor, telling the truth about Galatea? Is Damoetas sincere, as Polyphemus? And what’s more, is Polyphemus correct in assuming that his standoffishness will pique Galatea’s interest? Since there is no external narrator’s comment on their utterances, we remain in the dark. What we may confidently state, however, is that this Idyll is once more an example of the third rule of the poetics of love as laid out above: it is an example of singing about someone else’s experiences in love, and as such is generative of poetry. It may well be therapeutic at a remove also, although we cannot be sure of that (3). On the narrator level, ‘persuading the object of desire’ (2) also seems relevant here. In the body of the Idyll, it may well be that in their role play, Damoetas and Daphnis are really testing the waters about their own possible relation, as has been proposed.18 And by addressing Aratus in the frame, is the narrator, perhaps, doing the same? Theocritus’ first, programmatic Idyll also ‘sings about someone else’s love’: it tells the mysterious love and death of the herdsman poet Daphnis (is he the same as his namesake in Idyll 6? It seems likely, but we cannot be sure).19 In this Idyll, the shepherd Thyrsis is asked to sing a song that he has apparently successfully sung before, The Sufferings of Daphnis (Tὰ Δάφνιδος ἄλγεα, 19). In the song, we hear how the cowherd Daphnis dies for love, while deities, animals and humans visit him and mourn him. It remains remarkably unclear what exactly causes his suffering and eventual death—with whom was he so in love; why was this such an unhappy love; what happened—or didn’t happen— between him and ‘the girl’? The only thing that is certain is that it is an unhappy love story. The scope of this paper does not allow me to go into the details of the very extensive scholarly discussion about whether or not we can hope to solve the mysterious ellipses of this story by referring to existing versions of the Daphnis myth.20 18 19 20

For this discussion, see Bowie 1996: 91–100. Further mentions of the Daphnis myth reoccur in Idylls 5 and 7. See e.g. Schmidt 1987; Stanzel 1995: 40–41; Hunter 1999: 245. See Hunter 1999: 63–68 with ancient sources and bibliography on this issue.

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There are two crucial elements in the song about Daphnis’ unhappy love in Idyll 1. One is that it is presented as a sort of foundational myth for bucolic poetry, in what is clearly a programmatic poem.21 This means that ‘to sing about someone else’s experiences in love’ is presented as central to Theocritus’ poetics. The second relevant issue is that Daphnis does not sing about his own feelings, and he dies. So far, we have seen that Theocritus’ characters are often in some way able to manage/get a grip on their feelings by singing about them; we could say that their poetic raison d’être lies in their songs about their experience of love. What’s more, none of the characters we have so far encountered actually dies as a result of his/her unrequited love, even if they do make such claims (e.g., the Goatherd in 3). So why is Daphnis here represented as dying? As Aguirre de Zárate has proposed, the answer might actually be: because he doesn’t sing about his love, even though he is presented by others as well as by himself as ‘a poet’.22 Indeed, Daphnis’ remarkable silence is pointed out in Thyrsis’ song.23 Daphnis never speaks to the gods Hermes and Priapus, or to his human visitors. Only when Aphrodite ultimately provokes him, does he lash out against her, but even though he speaks at this point, he still remains silent about his own experiences. I submit that a metapoetic reading could effectively explain Daphnis’ silence by relating it to the elliptic way in which the story about his love is told: we don’t know exactly what happened to Daphnis. But we do know that Daphnis could not cure himself, and dies. This happens, we might assume, because he didn’t sing about his feelings. And this, in turn, might actually explain why we don’t know—and cannot know—what really happened to him. All a bucolic singer like Thyrsis (and hence Theocritus) can do, is offer up the song about Daphnis’ love as it looked from the outside, as a way to reflect on the poetics of love. Daphnis’ love-death shows, by its negative example, that making poetry out of love is in fact crucial; its failure to do so destroys the singer.24 Theocritus’ poetics of love culminate with a sophisticated twist in Idyll 7. In this enigmatic masterpiece a narrator reminisces about a meeting between his younger self, Simichidas, and the mysterious herdsman poet Lycidas, once upon a time in Cos. It has been noted that the poem shows traits of Hesiod’s initiation by the Muses.25 The two poets walk part of the road together and

21 22 23 24 25

For Idyll 1 as programmatic see e.g. Cairns 1984, Hunter 1999: 60–61, Klooster (2021). Aguirre de Zárate 2012: 13–41. Id. 1.92. For metapoetic readings, compare in this volume Bär (on Apollonius) and Heerink (on Valerius Flaccus). See on this: Van Groningen 1959: 24–53; Kambylis 1963; Cameron 1963: 291–307; Williams

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exchange songs: this specific setting alerts the narratee to the metapoetical function of this passage. In their friendly singing contest, Lycidas sings about his passion for Ageanax. The structure of his song is as follows: 52–62: If Ageanax reciprocates my passion, I wish him good voyage over the sea; 63–72: when he leaves, I will drink deeply remembering him, and will listen to Tityrus’ songs; these songs will tell of: a) the unhappy fate of the cowherd Daphnis wasting away from love; b) the happy fate of goatherd Comatas who was saved from a terrible fate by his musical art; 73–89: (Apostrophe) Ah, divine Comatas, I wish I could be with you! What this basic rendition of the song shows, is that it takes desire as its starting point, indeed as its excuse, we might almost say. We hear remnants of the wish for reciprocation, but the overwhelming sense is that the future reminiscing about Ageanax while listening to songs is more attractive than the actual consumption of desire, and this is apparently stated before the affair has even started. Indeed, the fact that the beloved Ageanax is nowhere directly addressed or even praised in the poem, whereas the legendary goatherd-poet Comatas, present in the embedded song of Tityrus, is, makes clear in which direction Lycidas’ song tends: towards poetry and emotional calm. This is confirmed by the fates of the two legendary herdsmen in the songs embedded in Lycidas’ song: Daphnis wastes away from unrequited love, whereas Comatas’ life is saved by the Muses. By his poem, Lycidas shows that he can turn 1) his own feelings of love into poetry (generative), and 2) cure his love by singing of it (therapeutic), and 3) can cure it also by singing of the loves of others, like Daphnis (therapeutic/sublimation). Whether or not his poem would be a successful means of seducing Ageanax becomes immaterial: Ageanax is ultimately no more than an excuse for poetry. Lycidas is in my opinion the key to Theocritus’ poetics of love. In Freudian terms, we could say that he has successfully sublimated his feelings of love and turned them into art. Lycidas’ song is contrasted with the song of Simichidas (96–127), which seeks to echo Lycidas’. It would go too far to discuss it in detail here, but if we look at the outline, we notice that Simichidas sings of another person’s love (the love of his friend Aratus for Philinnus), but only to ridicule it and to convince Aratus to

1971: 137–145.

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drop his interest in the boy. It doesn’t appear that Simichidas needs to come to grips with his own love life, which he briefly and superficially describes as satisfactory (7.96–97: he loves Myrto as much as goats love the spring). This illustrates that he doesn’t quite understand the poetics of love yet: the song is not about his own feelings, but it is not really about the feelings of Aratus either; lastly, it is not about the relation between love and poetry, although it claims to be about both. It is clear, with hindsight, who successfully personifies the poetics of love in this Idyll and who does not—or not yet, in any case.

Conclusion In this paper I have tried to show that there is a clear pattern which I term the ‘poetics of love’ discernible in Theocritus’ Idylls. If we recognize the workings of this poetics, we understand better why Daphnis in Idyll has to die from love (because he cannot sing about it), and why the song about his sufferings is so incomplete (because he did not sing about his experience). In Idyll 7, we understand better on which grounds the song of Lycidas should be considered much more mature and perfected than that of Simichidas, and why Lycidas should be considered the ultimate bucolic singer.

Bibliography Acosta-Hughes, B., Arion’s Lyre. Archaic Lyric into Hellenistic Poetry (Princeton 2010). Aguirre de Zárate, S., ‘El Mito de Dafnis en el Idillio 1 de Teocrito. Posibles Interpretaciones’, REC 39 (2010) 13–41. Averill, J.R., ‘The Social Construction of Emotion: With Special Reference to Love’, in K.J. Gergen, K.E. Davis (eds.), The Social Construction of the Person (New York 1985). Bernsdorff, H., ‘Polyphem und Daphnis: Zu Theokrits sechstem Idyll’, Philologus 138 (1994) 38–51. Bowie, E.L., ‘Theocritus’ Seventh Idyll, Philetas and Longus’, CQ 35 (1985) 67–97. Cairns, F., ‘Theocritus’ First Idyll: The Literary Programme’, Wiener Studien 97 (1984) 89–113. Cameron, A., ‘The Form of the Thalysia’, in Miscellanea di studi alessandrini in memoria di A. Rostagni (eds. anonymous) (Turin 1963) 291–307. Faraone, C.A., ‘Magic, Medicine and Eros in the Prologue to Theocritus’ Id. 11’, in M. Fantuzzi, T. Papanghelis (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Greek and Latin Pastoral (Leiden 2005) 75–90.

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Farr, J. ‘Theocritus: Idyll 11.’ Hermes 119 (1991) 477–484. Fernández Fernández, Á., ‘Dos prácticas de encantamiento amoroso. El PGM iv (296– 404) y el Idilio ii de Teócrito’, in J. Peláez (ed.), El dios que hechiza y encanta. Magia y astrología en el mundo clásico y helenístico. Actas del I congreso nacional, Córdoba 1998 (Cordoba 2002) 91–102. Furusawa, Y., ‘Eros als Hauptthema der Bukolik Theokrits’, JCS 32 (1984) 54–65. Giangrande, G., ‘The Cure for Love in Theocritus’ Idyll xi’. AMal 13 (1990) 5–9. Goldhill, S., ‘Desire and the Figure of Fun. Glossing Theocritus 11’, in A. Benjamin (ed.), Poststructuralist Classics (London / New York 1988) 79–105. Goldhill, S., The Poet’s Voice. Essays on Poetics and Greek Literature (Cambridge 1991). Grant Samson, L. The Philosophy of Desire in Theocritus’ Idylls (PhD Iowa City 2013). Griffiths, F.T., ‘Poetry as Pharmakon in Theocritus’ Idyll 2’, in G.W. Bowersock et al. (eds.), Arktouros. Hellenic Studies presented to B.M.W. Knox on his 65th birthday (Berlin 1983) 81–88. Groningen, B.A. van, ‘Quelques problèmes de la poésie bucolique grecque’, Mnemosyne 11 (1959) 24–53. Holtsmark, E.B., ‘Poetry as Self-Enlightenment: Theocritus xi’, TAPhA 97 (1966) 253–259. Hordern, J.H., ‘Love Magic and Purification in Sophron, PSI 1214a, and Theocritus’Pharmakeutria’, CQ 52 (2002) 164–173. Hunter, R.L., Theocritus, a Selection (Cambridge 1999). Hunter, R.L., The Argonautica of Apollonius of Rhodes (Cambridge 2004). Kambylis, A., Die Dichterweihe und ihre Symbolik. Untersuchungen zu Hesiodos, Kallimachos, Properz und Ennius (Heidelberg 1965). Klooster, J.J.H., ‘Theocritus’ Programmatic Idylls’, in E. Sistakou, P. Kyriakou, A. Rengakos (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Theocritus (Leiden 2021), 364-386. Konstan, D., ‘Love’, in D. Konstan, The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks (Toronto 2006) 169–184. Lühnken, H., ‘Heilender Gesang? Überlegungen zu Theokrits elftem Idyll’, GFA 3 (2000) 1–11. Parry, H., ‘Magic and the Songstress. Theocritus Idyll 2’, ICS 13 (1988) 43–55. Petrovic, I., ‘Pharmakeutria ohne pharmakon. Überlegungen zur Komposition des zweiten Idylls von Theokrit’, Mnemosyne 57 (2004) 421–444. Pfeijffer, I.L., ‘First Person Futures in Theocritus’ Second Idyll and Magical Texts’, in I.L. Pfeijffer, First Person Futures in Pindar (Stuttgart 1999) 69–75. Rist, A.T., ‘The Incantatory Sequence in Theocritus’ Pharmaceutria’, Maia 27 (1975) 103– 111. Schmidt, E.A., Bukolische Leidenschaft oder über antike Hirtenpoesie (Frankfurt 1987). Schmiel, R.C., ‘Theocritus 11. The Purblind Poet’, CJ 70 (1974/5) 32–36. Segal, C., ‘Simaetha and the Iunx’, QUCC 15 (1973) 32–43. Sprecher, S., Regan, P.C., ‘Passionate and Companionate Love in Courting and Young Married Couples’, Sociological Inquiry 68 (1998) 163–185.

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Stanzel, K.H., Liebende Hirten. Theokrits Bukolik und die alexandrinische Poesie (Stuttgart 1995). Williams, F., ‘A Theophany in Theocritus’, CQ 21.1 (1971) 137–145.

chapter 32

Characters, Emotions, and Enargeia in Second Maccabees Jan Willem van Henten

Second Maccabees* presents itself to the reader as a summary of five Books by Jason of Cyrene (2:23)1 about whom we know next to nothing.2 The ‘epitomist’, whom I identify for the sake of convenience with the narrator, turned Jason’s Books, together with other materials, into one coherent work. Its main section is a history of Judea that focuses on the oppression by the Seleucids and the gradual liberation from them under the leadership of Judas the Maccabee (chapters 3–15, covering roughly the period of 180–160 bce). This history is preceded by festive letters from the Jews in Jerusalem to their fellow Jews in Egypt (1:1, 10) inviting them to join the celebration of the new festival of the purification of the recaptured Temple (1:1–2:18). The recapture and the foundation of the festival connected with it are narrated in 10:1–8.3 The prologue to the history in 2:19–32 explains to the narratees what kind of narrative they can expect: the narrator will not focus on detailed accounts but will, instead, highlight the ‘outlines’ of the story: ‘we do our best to present the outlines of the epitome’ (τὸ δὲ ἐπιπορεύεσθαι τοῖς ὑπογραμμοῖς τῆς ἐπιτομῆς διαπονοῦντες, 2:28). The narrator aims to illustrate the message of the story by highlighting selected events as examples of the points he wants to make to the benefit and pleasure of the readers (2:25, 27; 15:39).4 The narrator uses several key terms in the prologue to indicate that the summary that will follow will focus on visual presentations of the events. Though he uses the metaphor of building a house, the narrator points out that the history in chapters 3–15 should not be compared with the work of the architect who is responsible for the building of the house itself, but rather with the decorator who paints in encaustic and with living figures

* I warmly thank Alastair Henderson for improving my English. 1 Discrepancies between the prologue (2:19–32) and the historical section (3:1–15:37) render credibility to this note, Geiger 1984: 6; Van Henten 1997: 22–23; Schwartz 2008: 175–176; Doran 2012: 5–13. Differently: Richnow 1967: 41–42; Zwick 2001: 143–145. 2 With Schwartz 2008: 25, 175; cf. Mittmann-Richert 2000: 48; Siegert 2016: 415–423. 3 Van Henten 2011. 4 Van Henten 2017: 94–95.

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(2:29).5 This implies once again that the narrator aims at highlighting the main points of the story and illustrating them by vivid descriptions, a practice which comes close to the purpose of ἐνάργεια (vividness, vivid description) that is prominent in ancient reflections about rhetoric and the recommended way of writing history.6 Allan, De Jong and De Jonge contend that the central idea of ἐνάργεια is ‘that the story world appears so clearly to the listener that he experiences the illusion of being present at the events reported in the narrative’. The consequent effects of seeing or hearing the events often result in the emotional involvement of the narratees.7 A key word in 2 Maccabees’ prologue, ψυχαγωγία (‘diversion’, ‘persuasion by vibrant presentation’, 2:25) supports the observation that the narrator indeed aims for this kind of engagement of the narratees with the narrated events.8 Characterization is an important narratorial tool in 2 Maccabees, because the narrator uses the main characters in the story as either positive or negative models.9 This is made explicit in the martyrdom of the old scribe Eleazar, who is called a model (ὑπόδειγμα) for young Jews (6:28, 31). The black-andwhite picture of the characters does not coincide with a distinction between Jews and non-Jews, because certain non-Jews are characterized positively and several Jews appear to be wicked persons. To the first category belong King Seleucus iv and, for the first part of his rule, also King Antiochus iv; to the second belong the wicked high priests Jason, Menelaus, and Alcimus and their associates, Lysimachus and Simon. This stereotypical manner of characterization is also applied to the major positive characters; the high priest Onias iii, the Maccabean martyrs and the major military protagonist, Judas the Maccabee (below). The salient point for these characterizations is faithfulness to the God of Israel and to the laws revealed to Moses (for instance 4:16–17; also 5:17– 20; 6:12–17). This makes sense from the perspective of the religious views of the narrator and the purpose of the Book, which imply an omniscient and omnipresent God who rewards faithfulness to him and who punishes wickedness.10

5 6 7 8

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10

Ἐγκαίω is a hapax legomenon in the Septuagint. LSJ 469 s.v. 4 gives ‘painting by mixing the colours with wax’ as meaning; ζωγραφέω ‘painting from life’, LSJ 758 s.v.; cf. 4Macc. 17:7. Lausberg 1998: 359–361; Walker 1993; Webb 2009; Allan et al. 2017. See also below. Allan et al. 2017: 36. See also Allan in this volume (on immersion). Discussion in Doran 2012: 69–70. Schwartz 2008: 72 and 177 opts for ‘arousing the imagination’ as interpretation of ψυχαγωγία. See also Schmitz 2012. For ψυχαγωγία in Plato, see Finkelberg in this volume. With Koen De Temmerman and Evert van Emde Boas I define ‘character’ ‘as the relatively stable moral, mental, social and personal traits which pertain to an individual’, cf. De Temmerman and Van Emde Boas 2018: 2. This image of God is already found in the first festal letter with its double call upon the

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Several elements seem to lead to what I would like to call the emotional paradox in 2Maccabees: the narrator’s stereotypical manner of characterization, the deliberate use of the behaviour of the main characters in the story to highlight events in order to illustrate selective points, with the intention of involving the narratees. The characters themselves are often flat and they either show no emotion or they control their emotions. The so-called Maccabean martyrs, whose martyrdoms form the main turning point in the story (6:18– 7:42), accept their cruel tortures without complaint. The anonymous mother of the seven even relinquishes her motherly love for the higher cause of faithfulness to God and the ancestral laws (chapter 7). If there are emotions involved in the actions of the main characters, they are mostly one-dimensional, as in the case of Antiochus iv, who is angry beyond control (chapter 9). The narrator, however, appears to want to evoke emotions among the narratees by attempting to visualize important events and dramatize them in ways that obviously expect a response from them. In the remaining part of this paper, I will first discuss the ways in which emotions are connected with the main characters in the story and then analyse how the narrator seems to attempt, in line with the well-known concept of ἐνάργεια, to engage the narratees by evoking their emotions.

Characters and Emotions Most characters in 2Maccabees are static, in line with the Platonic-Aristotelian notion of a stable and adult character, which is the result of the confluent effects of inborn nature, habituation, and reasoned choice.11 Two important and fully positive characters in 2Maccabees, the ninety-year-old scribe Eleazar and the high priest Onias, appear to be virtuous persons from their childhood (ἐκ παιδός, 6:23; 15:12). Judas the Maccabee, the liberator of Judea and main protagonist in chapters 8–15, does the right things because he is mainly motivated by faithfulness to God and the laws (for instance 2 Macc. 13:10). He encourages his soldiers to fight for a cause that reminds one of the motivations of the martyrs in 6:18–7:42. The soldiers know that they should place all their hope in God (8:16–20; 15:7–19, 22, 27; cf. 6:30; 7:14, 20, 40) and be willing to sacrifice their lives

11

narratees ‘to worship him [God] and to do his will with a strong heart and a willing spirit [and] … open your heart to his law and his commandments’ (2Macc. 1:3–4), Schmitz 2012. On character (ἦθος) as formed by habit (ἔθος), see De Temmerman and Van Emde Boas 2018: 10 with references.

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for the laws and their country (8:21; cf. 13:10, 14 and 15:30 with 6:28; 7:2, 37 and 14:38). Judas’ own total commitment to his Jewish fellow-citizens is emphasized in 15:30, which describes him as ‘the man who was ever in body and soul the defender of the citizens, the man who maintained his youthful goodwill (εὔνοια) toward his compatriots …’12 Judas clearly functions as a model in the story, as the martyrs do, but a search for emotions in the Judas passages yields no results. The same is true of the martyrdoms (6:18–7:42) and the brief narrative about the elder Razis, who kills himself in a horrifying way in order to avoid arrest (14:37–46, below). Actorial characterization highlights Onias’ prudence or self-control (σωφροσύνη) and his great orderliness (εὐταξία, 4:37). The mother of the seven boys, for example, is as courageous as Judas’ soldiers.13 Her admirable behaviour is, without doubt, shown in her response to the gruesome fact that she was forced to watch all of her sons being tortured to death (chapter 7). She controls her maternal love and bears this with courage (εὐψύχως ἔφερεν) ‘because of her hope in the Lord’ (7:20). She even actively encourages her sons not to obey the king and eat a piece of pork during a ritual meal.14 The mother shares her motive of faithfulness to God with her sons. The next verse explains the behaviour of the mother by stating that she was ‘filled with a noble spirit’ (γενναίῳ πεπληρωμένη φρονήματι, 7:21), which may be understood in a patriotic sense because it is connected with her use of their ancestral language when she encourages her sons.15 2 Maccabees 7:21 offers a second explanation for the mother’s astonishingly brave behaviour, apart from her trust in God (7:20): ‘… she reinforced her woman’s reasoning with a man’s courage (τὸν θῆλυν λογισμὸν ἄρσενι θυμῷ διεγείρασα)’.16 The mother, therefore, controls her parental emotions like a man.

12

13

14

15 16

Cf. 14:37 about Razis. Devotion to one’s own people is a topos in classical and Hellenistic Greek literature, see, e.g., Aesch. Th. 1007; Xen. An. 4.7.20; Lycurg. Leocr. 101; Luc., Dem.E. 41. 2 Macc. 14:18: ‘Nevertheless, Nicanor, hearing of the valour of Judas and his troops and their courage (εὐψυχία) in battle for their country …’ Cf. 1Macc. 9:14; 3Macc. 7:18; 4Macc. 6:11 and 9:23; LXX Prov. 30:31. The specific phrase that expresses that the mother’s trust was in the Lord echoes the vocabulary of the Septuagint version of LXX Ps. 145:5: ἡ ἐλπὶς αὐτοῦ ἐπὶ κύριον τὸν θεὸν αὐτοῦ. The praise for the mother in 4 Macc. 17:4 contains a similar phrase: ‘maintaining firm an enduring hope in God.’ Cf. LXX Ps. 21:10; 70:5. Cf. Hdt. 8.144: ‘the spirit of the Athenians’ (τὸ Ἀθηναίων φρόνημα). Cf. Philo concerning Augustus’ wife Livia in Leg. 319–320. Cf. Philo, Prob. 117; De leg. all. 2.24–25 and Cher. 41.

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The exception to the static characters in 2Maccabees concerns one of the main antagonists in the story, Antiochus iv Epiphanes, who succeeds Seleucus iv as Seleucid King. Antiochus clearly is a dynamic character, who also shows emotions.17 He is first presented as a morally good person, who is rightly indignant about the murder of the high priest Onias (4:36–38): ‘So, Antiochus, his heart troubled by grief, turned to compassion (ἐπιλυπηθεὶς καὶ τραπεὶς ἐπὶ ἔλεος), weeping (δακρύσας) because of the prudence and great orderliness of the deceased [i.e., Onias], and with a burning temper (πυρωθεὶς τοῖς θυμοῖς), immediately stripped off Andronicus’ purple stripe [Andronicus is the murderer of Onias].’ In chapter 5, however, he changes into a tyrant and persecutor of the Jews during his campaign against Egypt, because he interprets Jason’s attempt to take over the high priesthood—undertaken because the king was thought to have died (5:5)—as a rebellion by the Jews (5:11): ‘When the king became aware of the events, he perceived them as if Judea was in a state of rebellion. Hence, he broke up his camp and marched forth from Egypt, and he captured the city as booty in a war, having the spirit of a wild animal (τεθηριωμένος τῇ ψυχῇ).’ Whether the perfect participle τεθηριωμένος is taken as a description of Antiochus’ state of mind or as the outcome of a change of mind,18 his ferocious punishment of the Jews is described with a vocabulary that associates him with the ferocity of a wild animal.19 He becomes a wicked character from this point in the narrative, although not to the end, and the narrator associates him not only with wild animals, but also with tyrants and barbarians (5:11, 22; 7:27; 9:7), which implies that he expresses the emotions of these stereotypes. The same is true of other wicked characters in the story. The narrator characterizes Menelaus, who took over the high priesthood from Jason in 4:25 as follows: ‘he had the temper of a cruel tyrant and the wrath of a savage animal (θυμοὺς δὲ ὠμοῦ τυράννου καὶ θηρὸς βαρβάρου ὀργὰς ἔχων).’20 Antiochus also displays the characteristics of the tyrannical stereotype, some of which imply the typical (emotional) behaviour of a tyrant: cruelty (7:27), anger and rage (7:3, 39; 9:4), arrogance (5:21; 9:4), suspicion (7:24), godlessness (10:10), and a barbaric attitude (5:22, see the next section). In short, Antiochus and other wicked characters also appear to be presented in a stereotypical way, but, unlike the positive characters, they show their emotions, which are of course negative. This implies that the absence of emotions and the presence of negative emo-

17 18 19 20

Schmitz 2012. Schwartz 2008: 249 translates ‘Accordingly, his spirit maddened like a beast’s’. See also 2 Macc. 9:7 about Antiochus and 4:25 about Menelaus. The verb θηριόω is a hapax legomenon in the Septuagint. Cf. the adjective θηριώδης in 10:35 and 4Macc. 12:13. Cf. 2 Macc. 15:2 concerning the Seleucid commander Nicanor.

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tions both serve as means to characterize someone in the story: good characters control their emotions and put their trust upon God; bad characters are incapable of controlling their emotions.21

Visualization, Dramatization and ἐνάργεια We have already observed that the narrator aims at visualizing and dramatizing certain episodes and at involving the audience and evoking their emotions. Although the narrator does not use the word, one could argue that he wishes to achieve ἐνάργεια (vivid description) by creating a visual presence, bringing, as it were, the event described before the eyes of the narratees and triggering their emotions in this way.22 Plutarch implies that Thucydides aimed at achieving such an effect: ‘The most effective historian is he who, by a vivid representation of emotions and characters, makes his narrative like a painting.23 Assuredly, Thucydides is always striving for vividness (ἐνάργεια) since it is his desire to make the reader a spectator, as it were, and to produce vividly in the minds of those who peruse his narrative the emotions of amazement and consternation which were experienced by those who beheld them.’ (De glor. Ath. = Mor. 347A; transl. Babbitt LCL).24 2Maccabees seems to reflect a similar purpose in some of its passages, when the pace of the narrative slows down and the narrator focuses on the consequences of an event, which are often shown through what happens to the bodies of the characters involved.25 These bodies can function as the location of a conflict (cf. the martyrdoms in 6:18–7:42; 14:37–46) or they can exemplify the punishment of wicked characters (5:9–10; 9:1–18; 13:4–8; 15:28–35; cf. 3:24–29). They are also meant to evoke the emotions of the narratees and appeal to them not only to be spectators of the narrated events but also to side with the protagonists or share disgust for the enemies.26 I will briefly discuss four of these passages: (3:14–21; 7:1–5; 14:37–46 and 9:1–18). 21 22 23 24

25

26

For the ability to control one’s emotions compare the contributions of De Bakker (on Herodotus) and Huitink (on Xenophon’s Cyropaedia) to this volume. Cf. Luc., Hist. Conscr. 51; Longin., Subl. 1.25; Walker 1993: 353; Webb 2009: 87–110. Cf. Sardianus, Commentarium p. 217 lines 3–6, Webb 2009: 83. Walker 1993: 360. Cf. D.H. Lys. 7; Plut., Arat. 8.1–2; Webb 2009: 22; Huitink 2019: 209–213. Compare also Rood’s discussion in this volume of the naval battle in Syracuse Harbour in Thuc. Book 7. For connections between ἐνάργεια and embodiment, see Grethlein and Huitink 2017, and Huitink 2020. For emotions expressed through the action of the body and the symbolism of the body in biblical literature, see Müllner in this volume. Van Henten 2016 and for an enactivist approach to ἐνάργεια Grethlein and Huitink 2017: 85–88; Huitink 2018; Huitink 2019; Huitink 2020.

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The Response to Heliodorus’ Attempt to Plunder the Temple (3:14–21) Chapter 3 describes the attempt to plunder the Jerusalem Temple by the king’s representative Heliodorus. The response to this sacrilegious act is depicted in a series of five brief scenes, which together show the immense ‘agony’ (ἀγωνία, 3:14) of various groups of Jerusalemites in dramatic terms: the priests, the High Priest, the men, the married and the unmarried women (3:15, 16–17, 18, 19, 19–21). The key word ἀγωνία reoccurs in the scene about the High Priest Onias (3:16): ‘Who would see (ἦν δὲ ὁρῶντα) the outward appearance (τὴν ἰδέαν) of the high priest was mentally hurt. For his looks and the change of his colour (ἡ γὰρ ὄψις καὶ τὸ τῆς χρόας παρηλλαγμένον) showed his mental agony.’27 The narrator invites the narratees, as it were, to be present and participate in the agony of the High Priest, which is also apparent from his changed looks. This becomes even more dramatic in the next verse: ‘A sort of terror and bodily trembling (δέος τι καὶ φρικασμὸς σώματος) had completely come over the man, which made the pain that existed in his heart very clear for the onlookers (δι’ ὧν πρόδηλον ἐγίνετο τοῖς θεωροῦσιν τὸ κατὰ καρδίαν ἐνεστὸς ἄλγος, 3:17).’ Other elements of the population move to public areas in crowds, the married women in sackcloth below their breasts, and all of them supplicating God (3:18–20).28 The conclusion of these multiple scenes calls upon the narratees to show compassion for the terrified Jerusalemites and perhaps even invites them to share their emotions: ‘One could only have pity for (ἐλεεῖν δ’ ἦν) the prostration of the mixed multitude …’ (3:21–22). The Beginning of the Martyrdom of the Seven Sons and Their Mother (7:1–5) The narrative slows down considerably in the descriptions of the martyrdoms, with the martyrs’ bodies becoming the location of a power struggle between them and Antiochus.29 The martyrdom of the mother and her seven sons invites the narratees to visualize the events through references to the mother who is forced to observe the execution of her sons (cf. the repetition of συνοράω in 7:4, 20). The narrator goes to the extreme with the detailed description of the mutilation and tortures inflicted on the first son (7:1–5), whose tongue is cut out, who is scalped in the way of the Scythians (περισκυθίζω; cf. 7:7),

27 28 29

Cf. 2 Macc. 3:21: ‘… the high priest, whose agony was terrible’ (τοῦ μεγάλως ἀγωνιῶντος ἀρχιερέως). Wearing sackcloth (3:19) is a conventional Israelite/Jewish sign of mourning, but usually expressed by males (Gen. 37:34; Is. 15:3; Jon. 3:6; Est. 4:1; 2Macc. 10:25), Doran 2012: 85. Van Henten 2009.

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whose limbs are cut off, and who is finally cooked and fried in pans. Antiochus succeeds in eliminating all personal features of this first young man, which becomes shockingly apparent because of the detailed description. Nevertheless, Antiochus suffers a defeat, because when the fumes from the pans spread around (7:5), the other martyrs encourage each other also to die nobly (7:5–6). The gruesome detail is intended really to shock the narratees and also to call upon them to side against Antiochus.30 The Suicide of Razis (14:37–46) The heroically horrifying suicide of the elder Razis no doubt also impresses and shocks the narratees (14:37–46). Razis is characterized in most honourable terms as someone ‘who loved his compatriots’ (ἀνὴρ φιλοπολίτης, 14:37).31 He is called ‘father of the Jews’ (πατὴρ τῶν Ιουδαίων) because of his goodwill (εὔνοια, 14:37). The Seleucid commander Nicanor wants to teach the Jews a lesson by arresting Razis with a ridiculously large group of more than 500 soldiers. They hunt him down in a tower or fortified place (πύργος, 14:41). Razis prefers to die nobly, which confirms his noble birth (εὐγένεια, 14:42).32 His heroic suicide turns Nicanor’s soldiers from being a brutal snatch squad into a crowd of spectators that has lost all control over the subsequent events (14:43–46). He first tries to kill himself with the sword in order to prevent the soldiers from taking him alive (14:41). In his next action he tries to hit the enemies with his body parts. He throws himself headlong from the tower into the crowd (14:43), but the crowd sees him coming down and gets out of the way. He rises from his fall in ‘blazing anger’ (πεπυρωμένος τοῖς θυμοῖς, 14:44), probably because he is still alive, and walks through the crowd while the blood spouts from his wounds like a fountain (14:45). He next perches himself upon a precipitous rock, from which, in a final gruesome act, he hurls his entrails into the crowd and calls upon a superhuman spectator (cf. 9:5), i.e., ‘the One who has the mastery over the breath of life to give them [his body parts] back again to him’ (14:45–46). Whether this gruesome suicide should be understood from the perspective of Graeco-Roman traditions about a noble death with a positive effect for oth-

30

31

32

Apparently, ἐνάργεια can also be achieved by other sensory perceptions than seeing, e.g., hearing, smelling and feeling: Meijering 1987: 39–44; Manieri 1998: 79–192; Otto 2009: 67– 134; Allan et al. 2017: 36 and 41; Grethlein and Huitink 2017: 86. This phrase is a hapax legomenon in the Septuagint, and very rare in ancient Greek literature, cf. LSJ 1938 s.v. In D. Chr. Or. 1.28, it is used in connection with the acts of the good king. Εὐγένεια is a common motif of eulogies in general and also highlighted in the Athenian funeral orations, Lausberg 1998 par. 245 and 376.

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ers or not is irrelevant in this context.33 The point for us here is that this vivid description of Razis’ suicide is surely intended to trigger emotions among the narratees: feelings of admiration and great pity. Yet, for many modern narratees the text probably also evokes feelings of aversion for his deeds. The Divine Punishment of Antiochus iv (9:1–18) The episode about Antiochus’ punishment by God in 9:1–18 is ironic in several ways.34 When Antiochus is in the East in order to rob a temple in Persepolis, he hears the devastating news about Judas the Maccabee’s defeat of his army (narrated in chapter 8) and he becomes enraged at the news (9:4). He orders his charioteer to drive non-stop to Jerusalem, which he wants to turn into a cemetery for the Jews. The narratees already know at this stage that this will be a hopeless enterprise, because the patron deity of the Jews, with whom Antiochus contended in his arrogance (5:21; 7:36; 9:4, 7–11), has already decided to punish him (9:4). God inflicts an incurable and invisible blow, which causes an acute and unstoppable pain in his entrails (9:5–6). Antiochus clearly suffers mortal injuries that are similar to those of the martyrs, but he does not give up. His anger and arrogance make him order his charioteer to drive even faster. He falls from his chariot as a result, and one almost feels pity for him in his terrible suffering resulting from this severe fall (9:7). Finally, ‘worms were coming out of the eyes of the godless man, and being still alive the flesh from his body fell apart under sufferings and acute pains. Because of the stench the entire camp was suffering from the decay. Nobody was able to carry the one who had thought a little time before that he could touch the heavenly stars because the stench was so bad that is was unbearable’ (9:9–10). The graphic description of Antiochus’ sufferings and death reflects tropes of the so-called De mortibus persecutorum passages.35 The narrator not only evokes a visualization of this episode by associating the narratees with those present in the camp (‘the entire camp was suffering …’), but he also appeals to the sensory perception of smell (as in 7:5, above) and attempts to evoke feelings of utter disgust at the king’s rotting body. In the end, Antiochus surrenders to God just before his death, and promises to convert to Judaism (9:12, 17).

33 34 35

The closest parallels concern traditions about a Roman devotio or its Greek forerunners, Van Henten 1997: 144–150; Bremmer 2015. Nicklas 2002; Schmitz 2012: 257–258. Nestle 1936; Peter 1967: 1.196–200, 256; Ronconi 1966: 1262–1264.

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Conclusion The characters play major roles as exemplary figures, either positive or negative, in the story of persecution and liberation in 2 Maccabees. In my short contribution, I have discussed how this role is presented from the perspective of emotions and how the narratees are invited to engage in selected episodes by appeals to their visual and olfactory perceptions. The main characters in 2 Maccabees are stable, in line with the dominant trend in ancient Greek narrative that a credible and realistic characterization is not so much a matter of psychological individuation but of conformation to ‘familiar literary, mythological, historical or socially recognizable (and often morally significant) character types …’36 Such characterization focuses much more on types than on individuality and mostly concerns deeds, with the attitude towards God and the Jewish laws as salient points. Antiochus iv’s character is the exception that proves the rule. He develops from a morally good character into a stereotypical tyrant, who subjects himself to God only at the very end of his life. His emotions are highlighted in both capacities. The fully positive characters, however, hardly show any emotion and some of them excel in controlling or ignoring their emotions. The wicked characters do express emotions, but once again in stereotypical ways. They are associated with the actions of wild animals, tyrants and/or barbarians. This implies that my previous formulation of the emotional paradox in 2Maccabees (see the introduction) needs to be adapted, because my analysis points to a more complex picture. The heroes in the Book, Onias, Judas, the Maccabean martyrs and Razis are all stable characters. The fact that they do not express their emotions adds to their positive characterization. Antiochus iv and the other wicked characters do express their emotions in stereotypical ways, which confirms that they are the bad characters in the Book. Furthermore, the narrator seems to want to engage the narratees in the story in line with the well-known concept of ἐνάργεια. The narrator tries to evoke the emotions of the narratees and invites them to take sides by turning them into spectators of certain dramatic episodes, and sometimes by appealing to their sense of smell as well. Several of these episodes in 2 Maccabees focus on what happens to the bodies of the characters involved: the bodies either show the impact of a shocking threat or are the location of a conflict or the means of demonstrating a well-deserved divine punishment.

36

De Temmerman and Van Emde Boas 2018: 9.

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Abbreviations LSJ

Liddell, R., Scott, R., Jones, H.S., A Greek-English Lexicon (Oxford [1940] repr. several times).

Bibliography Allan, R.J., Jong, I.J.F. de, Jonge, C.C. de, ‘From Enargeia to Immersion: The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept’, Style 51 (2017) 34–51. Bremmer, J.N., ‘The Self-sacrifice of Menoeceus in Euripides’ Phoenissae, iiMaccabees and Statius’ Thebaid’, Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 16 (2015) 193–208. De Temmerman, K., Emde Boas, E. van, ‘Character and Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature: An Introduction’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018) 1–23. Doran, R., 2Maccabees. A Critical Commentary (Minneapolis 2012). Geiger, J., ‘The History of Judas Maccabaeus: One Aspect of Hellenistic Historiography,’ Zion 49 (1984) 1–8 [Hebrew]. Grethlein, J., Huitink, L., ‘Homer’s Vividness: An Enactive Approach’, JHS 137 (2017) 67– 91. Henten, J.W. van, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviours of the Jewish People. A Study of 2 and 4Maccabees (Leiden 1997). Henten, J.W. van, ‘Martyrdom, Jesus’ Passion and Barbarism’, Biblical Interpretation 17 (2009) 239–264. Henten, J.W. van, ‘2Maccabees’, in M.D. Coogan (ed.), The Oxford Dictionary of the Books of the Bible (New York 2011) 2.15–26. Henten, J.W. van, ‘Space, Body and Meaning in 2Maccabees’, Biblische Notizen 168 (2016) 65–88. Henten, J.W. van, ‘Time as a Narrative Tool in 2Maccabees’, in F. Avemarie, P. Bukovec, S. Krauter, M. Tilly (eds.), Die Makkabäer (Tübingen 2017) 85–106. Huitink, L., ‘Enargeia, Enactivism and the Ancient Readerly Imagination’, in M. Anderson, D. Cairns, M. Sprevak (eds.), Distributed Cognition in Classical Antiquity (Edinburgh 2018) 169–189. Huitink, L., ‘“There was a River on their Left-Hand Side”: Xenophon’s Anabasis, Arrival Scenes, Reflector Narrative and the Evolving Language of Greek Historiography’, in A. Willi (ed.), Formes et fonctions des langues littéraires en Grèce ancienne (Vandoeuvres 2019) 185–226. Huitink, L., ‘Enargeia and Bodily Mimesis’, in J. Grethlein, L. Huitink, A. Tagliabue (eds.), Experience, Narrative, and Criticism in Ancient Greece. Under the Spell of Stories (Oxford 2020) 189–209.

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Lausberg, H., Handbook of Literary Rhetoric. A Foundation for Literary Study (Leiden 1998). Manieri, A., L’immagine poetica nella teoria degli antichi. Phantasia e enargeia (Pisa 1998). Meijering, R., Literary and Rhetorical Theories in Greek Scholia (Groningen 1987). Mittmann-Richert, U., Einführung zu den historischen und legendarischen Erzählungen, Jüdische Schriften aus hellenistisch-römischer Zeit Supplementa 6 (Gütersloh 2000). Nestle, W., ‘Legenden vom Tod der Gottesverächter’, ARW 33 (1936) 246–269. Nicklas, T., ‘Der Historiker als Erzähler. Zur Zeichnung des Seleukidenkönigs Antiochus in 2Makk. ix’, Vetus Testamentum 52 (2002) 80–92. Otto, N., Enargeia. Untersuchung zur Charakteristik alexandrinischer Dichtung (Stuttgart 2009). Peter, H., Die geschichtliche Literatur über die römische Kaiserzeit bis Theodosius i und ihre Quellen, 2 vols. (Leipzig [1897] 2nd edn. Hildesheim 1967). Richnow, W., Untersuchung zu Sprache und Stil des 2. Makkabäerbuches. Ein Beitrag zur hellenistischen Historiographie (Göttingen 1967). Ronconi, A., ‘Exitus illustrium virorum’, RAC 6 (1966) 1258–1268. Schmitz, B., ‘Antiochus Epiphanes und der epiphane Gott. Gefühle, Emotionen und Affekte im Zweiten Makkabäerbuch’, in R. Egger-Wenzel, J. Corley (eds.), Emotions from Ben Sira to Paul (Berlin 2012) 253–279. Schwartz, D.R., 2Maccabees (Berlin 2008). Siegert, F., Einleitung in die Hellenistisch-Jüdische Literatur. Apokrypha, Pseudepigrapha und Fragmente verlorener Autorenwerke (Berlin 2016). Walker, A.D., ‘Enargeia and the Spectator in Greek Historiography’, TAPhA 123 (1993) 353–377. Webb, R., Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice (Aldershot 2009). Zwick, R., ‘Unterhaltung zum Nutzen: Zum literarischen Profil des 2. Buches der Makkabäer’, in J. Frühwalf-König, F.R. Prostmeier, and R. Zwick (eds.), Steht nicht geschrieben? Studien zur Bibel und ihrer Wirkungsgeschichte: Festschrift für Georg Schuttermayr (Regensburg 2001) 125–149.

part 6 Latin Literature

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chapter 33

Common Ground and the Presentation of Emotions: Fright and Horror in Livy’s Historiography Lidewij van Gils and Caroline Kroon

In 2011 narratologists and linguists in Amsterdam joined forces in a long-term research project on textual strategies in ancient war narrative, which resulted in a publication in which the methodological fruit of the collaboration was applied to two famous ancient war narratives: Herodotus’ account of the battle at Thermopylae and Livy’s account of the battle at Cannae.*,1 In the present contribution we return to ancient war narrative and Livy’s historiography, in order to expand on the topic of textual strategies by analysing and discussing the representation of emotions. We again take a mixed linguistic-narratological approach, in which cognitive-linguistic explanations play a prominent role.2 Previous scholarship has paid ample attention to the topic of ‘emotions’ in Livy, often in the context of a discussion of the author’s adoption of a dramatizing, tragic-pathetic style of historiography, in which a variety of literary techniques are employed to convey the emotions of characters and to evoke emotions on the part of the audience. In various wordings and with reference to various individual episodes, the studies involved describe how Livy plays upon the emotions of his audience and ensures its involvement by means of, for instance, identification with (emotions of) characters in the story world.3 Recurring qualifications in Livian scholarship that are associated, in one way or another, with the historiographer’s ‘emotional’ style include ‘graphic description’, ‘tragic/dramatic colouring’, ‘vividness’, ‘enargeia’, and the like. Attention is * The research for this article was funded by Anchoring Innovation. Anchoring Innovation is the Gravitation Grant research agenda of the Dutch National Research School in Classical Studies, OIKOS. It is financially supported by the Dutch ministry of Education, Culture and Science (NWO project number 024.003.012). For more information about the research programme and its results, see the website anchoringinnovation.nl. 1 See Van Gils, De Jong, and Kroon 2018. 2 See Van Gils and Kroon 2018. 3 See e.g. Catin 1944; Walsh 1961 (e.g. 162–163 on character emotions; 173–190 for reader emotions); Pauw 1991; Burck 1992; Conte 1994: 372–337; Feldherr 1998; Chaplin 2000; TsitsiouChelidoni 2009; Levene 2010: 179–180; Pausch 2011, 2018; Buijs 2018.

© Lidewij van Gils and Caroline Kroon, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_035

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drawn, moreover, to the fact that Livy’s style varies according to subject matter: a plain simple style, for instance, for troop movements, and a more embellished or dramatized style for the sack of cities. The graphic and emotional style attributed to Livy is usually illustrated with passages such as the following, in which emotions are focalized by a character. This example describes the fright and horror of Hannibal’s soldiers while approaching the Alps: Most of the men did, indeed, fear their enemy (timebat hostem), the memory of the last war being not yet erased (memoria nondum oblitterata); but they dreaded more (magis metuebat) the endless march over the Alps, something rumour made terrifying (rem horrendam), especially for those with no experience of it (inexpertis). liv. 21.29.74 Pausch (2011: 149) discusses this passage as an illustration of Livy’s use of embedded focalization in service of what he calls Leserbindung (‘reader involvement’):5 ‘… when depicting the crossing of the Alps … Livy marks the significance of this event by using embedded focalization from the perspective of the Carthaginians to give the reader a very involving and captivating picture of the event …’6 Various linguistic elements indeed point here to embedded focalization: the use of the imperfect tense (timebat, metuebat), which in Latin and other languages is a typical feature of presentation from a story-internal perspective;7 the use of focalizing verbs of fear and of the focalizing expression memoria

4 All translations of Livy’s Books 21 and 22 in this article are taken from Yardley 2019. 5 See also e.g. Tsitsiou-Chelidoni (2009: 531–534), who in a general discussion on internally focalized narrative and mimetic effects in Livy discusses a passage in Book 21 that is very similar to the one quoted above (21.33.1–6), qualifying it as ‘more vivid than a narrative where the narrator restrains himself in a short and/or critical description of the historical events without a detailed depiction of the recorded action or without a penetrating illumination of the psychological background of the historical figures’. 6 Original text: ‘… bei der Darstellung der Alpenüberquerung … trägt Livius der Bedeutung dieses Ereignisses Rechnung, indem er mit Hilfe der Fokalisierung aus der Perspektive der Karthager eine den Leser in besonderer Weise involvierende und damit in seinen Bann schlagende Schilderung des Geschehens gibt.’ 7 For Latin, see e.g. Mellet 1988; Adema 2019.

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nondum oblitterata; and the fact that the Romans are referred to from a Punic perspective as enemy (hostem), which is the strongest indication of character focalization here. It is less clear, however, what exactly is meant by reader involvement in these kinds of focalized passages and to what extent character focalization is a crucial factor in Livy for creating reader involvement. Another question we might raise with regard to the topic of presenting emotions in historiography is whether emotionality can also play a role at other levels than that of characters: can and does an emotion like fright or horror also occur at the level of the narrator and narratee, and even at the level of the author and his audience? In this article we will first address these two questions theoretically, disentangling the various levels which might be involved in the presentation of emotions and examining the concept of reader involvement. With this theoretical part, we hope to contribute to narratological-linguistic discussions on how to define key concepts in narrative discourse. In the next section, we study the instances of fright and horror in Livy’s Books 21 and 22, and discuss, along the lines of our theoretical framework, Livy’s presentation of these emotions and his attempt at reader involvement.

Theory In order to answer the questions raised in the introduction in a systematic way, we make use of an analytical framework which distinguishes between three sets of text-internal roles involved in narrative genres: the (text-internal) author and his audience, a narrator and narratee, and characters or anonymous observers in the story world. Each of these text-internal roles may be thought of as evoking a distinct cognitive space in which emotions may play a role.8 In order to determine in a text which of the roles is concerned, we make use of the concept of common ground. In ancient historiography, the text does not necessarily start as a narrative. Usually the text contains a non-narrative frame which encompasses a multitude of narrative episodes, brought together by a communicative role which in our view needs to be distinguished from the narrator’s. The theoretical necessity, in historiographical as well as other narrative texts, for distinguishing between an author and a narrator (and the matching roles of audience and

8 See Van Gils and Kroon 2018 and 2019 for a more technical discussion of these cognitive spaces.

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narratee, respectively), appears especially from the fact that these roles involve a different type of common ground, as we will explain.9 Formal narratology consistently distinguishes between the text-external historical author and the internal role of narrator.10 We take up these two concepts and, following the narratologists, will not investigate the text-external historical author. However, in our framework, we do distinguish another role, that of a text-internal author, who may rely on common ground with his intended audience for communicative purposes.11 In formal narratology, the concept of overt narrator is used for many manifestations of what we prefer to call a text-internal author. In our view, a narrator (covert or overt) shares common ground, created by the narrative itself, with a narratee, as we will discuss below; an author, on the other hand, may assume common ground with his audience about times, places, knowledge, beliefs, wishes or situations outside the narrative itself. References to historical events, but also, for instance, intertextual remarks can be explained in terms of this type of common ground. When an author assumes the role of narrator, he can build up common ground with his narratee which is essentially different from the common ground of the author and his audience. When we approach Livy’s History of Rome as an act of communication, as we do as linguists, Livy provides the voice of the text-internal author and his contemporary audience provides an image for the text-internal audience.12 The basic unit of research for a linguist is a communicative act, and every communicative act automatically creates the roles of speaker and addressee, which we will paraphrase for the purpose of this chapter on historiography with textinternal author and audience. The success of their communication is crucially based on the common ground between them and on whether the speaker / author succeeds in anchoring his message to this common ground. In the case

9 10 11

12

For the concept of common ground in cognitive linguistics, we refer to Clark and Brennan 1991. E.g. Bal 1997; Genette 1972; De Jong 2014; De Jong et al. 2004. See also the Introduction to this volume. Our text-internal author is not exactly defined as the ‘implied author’ dismissed by De Jong 2004: 3–4. In linguistic terms, we normally refer to this role as ‘speaker’, as one of the two basic roles in communication (together with addressee). However, in narratology the term ‘speaker’ is often used for characters, so in order to avoid confusion in this chapter we will use the term text-internal author. For a linguistic approach, see e.g. Hengeveld and Mackenzie 2008. For Latin, see Pinkster 2015, 2021. We will not discuss the difference between the historical author and implied author, because for our investigation this distinction is not relevant, but see Leech and Short 1981: 259 for a discussion of these concepts.

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of Livy’s History of Rome, this common ground can be broadly described as the general knowledge and experiences of the educated Roman men of the first century ce.13 Apart from such culturally determined knowledge and experiences, basic emotions like fear, joy and hatred can be seen as part of a universal kind of common ground, basically shared with all human or humanlike beings. At the start of a new narrative episode, the author prototypically makes use of common ground with the audience in order to anchor the story itself to the ongoing discourse. In the terms of the influential sociolinguist Labov, we refer to such a transitional phase to a new story as abstract, and to the similarly transitional phase at the end as coda of a story.14 With the following coda of the episode about the Battle of Lake Trasimene, we illustrate how the common ground of the historian and his contemporary audience may be reflected in the discourse. Such was (haec est, lit. this is) the famous (nobilis) battle of Trasimene; few disasters suffered by the people of Rome have been as memorable (memorata). … Statistics for the fallen on both sides are many times greater in other authors (traditur ab aliis); beyond avoiding idle exaggeration, to which historians are all too prone, I (ego) have also accepted Fabius as my main source, since he was contemporary with this war. liv. 22.7.1–4

In this passage, a number of elements clearly presuppose common ground with the contemporary audience. First, the words nobilis (‘famous’) and memorata (‘memorable’) explicitly refer to the fame of the Battle of Lake Trasimene, which forms part of the collective Roman memory. In addition, the present tense forms est and traditur are not narrative instances of ‘present for past’, but anchor the states of affairs referred to by the verbs to the common ground of the author and audience. Finally, the passage contains a number of referential expressions (haec, ego, and the proper noun Fabius) which have the discourse situation of author and audience as their deictic centre, and which, for their correct interpretation, invite the audience to extract information from the common ground. It is to be noted here that the proper noun Fabius does not refer to a Fabius who is a character in the narrative of the Battle of Lake Trasimene (in which case an appeal would have been made to the common ground 13 14

For a description of Livy’s contemporary reader, see e.g. Pausch 2011. A typical narrative episode in the Labovian model consists of the following phases: abstract, orientation, complication, peak, resolution, and coda. See Labov 1972; Fleischman 1990.

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of the narratee instead of the audience; see below), but to a historiographer known to Livy’s contemporary audience. As illustrated by the example above, at the level of author and audience we typically find reflection on authority (discussion of sources) and relevance of the story (references to the memorability of the battle). Such reflections are anchored in the shared knowledge and experiences of upper-class Roman citizens in the first century ce. One of the issues we will address in the next section is whether we also find the expression of emotions at this particular level. Having introduced the level of author and audience as having their own, particular common ground, we may now turn to the level of narrator and narratee, and the type of common ground involved in the interaction between these two roles. As mentioned above, it is important to terminologically distinguish between a broader concept ‘narrative’ as it is used in a rather offhand way for complete works of historiography, and ‘narrative proper’ which should be restricted to (parts of) discourse in which a spatiotemporal world is created as separate from the discourse situation of author and audience, and which is characterized by the fact that a certain narrative tension is evoked and resolved. Once such a narrative proper has started, the common ground of author and audience temporarily makes place for shared knowledge about the story world. The author has now assumed the role of narrator, casting the audience as a narratee who agrees to follow the narrator as a guide in the story world. Their common ground as narrator and narratee is usually quickly filled with all kinds of necessary information (time, place, protagonists, circumstances, etcetera) in a section that in Labovian terminology is called orientation, and will dynamically be expanded by the narrative sections that follow. That the common ground of narrator-narratee is not the same as that of author-audience may be demonstrated by instances of deictic reference which are uninterpretable in the world of author and audience, but fully understandable from the perspective of a narrator and narratee. A clear example, brought to us by Irene de Jong, is the use of the demonstrative cette in the opening sentence of André Malraux’s novel La voie royale:15 Cette fois, l’obsession de Claude entrait en lutte: il regardait opiniâtrement le visage de cet homme … andré malraux, La voie royale

15

De Jong, April 2018 (oral presentation at the 8th Anchoring Innovation Expert Meeting, Arnhem).

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The use of the demonstrative cette at the very start of the novel can only be explained as pointing to something in the cognitive space of a narratee who, apparently for already quite some time, has been taken along by a narrator in a narrative, and can draw on the quite specific common ground that has been created by the narrative prior to the point at which the novel starts. The audience (the reader of the novel) cannot draw on this common ground for interpreting the demonstrative cette, which explains the slight confusion we experience as readers when reading the opening lines of La voie royale. The novelist seems to deliberately forbid the reader access to the common ground of narrator and narratee in a literary game that is based on the distinction between narratee and audience, two roles that theoretically need to be clearly distinguished. The roles of narrator and narratee are, of course, artificial, but nonetheless may be more or less constructed as full persons who can see, hear, think or feel emotions.16 Often narrators focalize (in the form of observing) emotions of characters in the story world. In theory, however, narrators may also experience emotions themselves.17 The narratee, for his part, may be encouraged to share the narrator’s focalization of emotions: he may, for instance, be invited to virtually ‘view’ or even ‘feel’ a particular scene while the narrator is describing it. Moreover, during the narration the narratee may be stimulated to experience such typically narratee-related emotions as curiosity, tension and surprise.18 The third level at which emotions may be represented is that of the characters in the story world. In narratological terms, we may speak of focalizing characters. As we saw at the level of narrators, a variety of focalization types may play a role and for emotions it is relevant to distinguish at least between a character who is represented as feeling particular emotions, and a character who is represented as observing emotions of another character. The observing character may be an anonymous story-internal perspective or a group or a main character in the story. Emotions felt by characters may strongly resonate with the audience, which may be explained by the fact that emotions may count as universal common ground. We take it that reader involvement relies, among other things, on the audience’s unconscious recognition of this type of common ground.

16 17 18

For the purpose of this contribution, we roughly distinguish between observing emotions and feeling them. A famous instance of this in Virgil’s Aeneid (2.204) is horresco referens, which refers to the horror of the narrator himself in narrating the story. See Hogan 2011 and the Introduction to this volume.

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Not all members of an audience will, of course, be equally affected by emotions in a story world, due to, for instance, differences in personal experiences.19 When a member of the audience is maximally involved (emotionally or otherwise), we might use the term immersion.20 Particular narrative strategies and linguistic devices may stimulate a state of immersion, as is also observed by Allan (2020: 17): ‘Readers can feel themselves being immersed in the story world in various degrees. The more a text enables the reader to construct an experiential simulation of the described situation (e.g. by means of words or other linguistic cues), the more intense the feeling of immersion will be.’ In the same publication, we find character focalization among the five categories of features Allan distinguishes as enhancing the chances of reader immersion. Other categories are verisimilitude of the represented scene (graphic details, slow pace, activating cognitive frames of cultural knowledge), transparency (covert narrator, (in)direct discourse), interest, and emotional involvement. A last category is the so-called principle of Minimal Departure (internally consistent story world, possibly subject to the same rules as ‘real life’). A fully immersed member of the audience can be assumed to have lost awareness of the discourse situation he is in, and to have even forgotten that a narrator is structuring and verbalizing the story.21 In the following section we will have a look at examples of the emotions of fright and horror in Livy, especially Books 21 and 22, and see, on the basis of the theoretical discussion above, whether and how the levels of author-audience, narrator-narratee, and characters are involved. Moreover, with regard to the examples of fright and horror at the level of characters, we will come back to the issue of (the various degrees of) reader involvement and to Livy’s alleged dramatizing style.

Fright and Horror in Livy’s History of Rome Books 21 and 22 of Livy’s History of Rome form the start of the narrative of Rome’s war against Hannibal, which occupies the entire third decade of this work (Books 21–30). In these first two Books, Hannibal confidently crosses the Alps and explores the Italian territory and his adversaries. The Romans, for their

19 20 21

For differences between reader experiences, see Fernandez-Quintanilla 2020. See for recent publications on immersion in ancient languages Grethlein and Rengakos 2009; Allan et al. 2017; Grethlein and Huitink 2017; Allan 2020, and Allan in this volume. For experimental psychological research on gradual immersion into a story world, see Bjørner et al. 2016.

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part, are warned (and frightened) by extremely negative prodigies and have to deal with populist politics during the elections which give power to leaders who lack patience, reflection, or strategic insight. The Roman army suffers several major defeats (among which the notorious one at Cannae), which are narrated in the form of different episodes in which the perspectives of Hannibal and the Romans are usually found in alternation.22 Fright and horror are the dominant emotions in many episodes, experienced by various characters.23 For instance, in the episode of the battle at Lake Trasimene (Book 22.1–7) Hannibal is afraid of the Gauls, the senators and consul Servilius are frightened by a high number of exceptionally negative prodigies, the Roman troops headed by consul Flaminius are in a panic after their consul has been killed, and the people in Rome are terrified when the news of the defeat of the Roman army arrives.24 The only one who is never afraid, and even ridicules fear, is consul Flaminius (impavidus consul). In general, we can say that in this Trasimene episode the reader gets an exemplum that fear may be justified and that fearlessness (temeritas) is far more dangerous than caution. As such the episode clearly contributes to one of the major themes that run through the first two Books of Livy’s third decade, namely the contrast between the good Roman commanders who are fearful and rely on reason and prudence, and the bad ones who are characterized by rashness and their reliance on fortune.25 Theoretically, there is no obstacle for the author to refer to his own emotions as an author. In Book 22, the author sometimes expresses apprehension (uix ausus sim) at this level:

22

23

24

25

An excellent general study of Livy’s account of the Hannibalic War in his third decade (including the treatment of such topics as narrative structure and focalization) is Levene 2010. Fright and horror are not discussed elsewhere in this volume, but compare the gruesome descriptions of corporeal punishment in 2 Maccabees discussed by Van Henten, who points at its emotional impact upon the narratee. Fear is discussed in this volume by Coray and Krieter, and Van Emde Boas (in Homer’s Iliad), and by Rutherford (in Herodotus’Histories), whereas Finkelberg points at the feelings of sorrow that may accompany the collapse of a philosophical argument. The presence of nouns denoting fright and horror (timor, pavor, metus, terror, etc.) and cognate verbs and adjectives (timeo, vereor, horribilis, pavens, etc.) in Book 22 is slightly superior to their presence in Livy’s work as a whole (5.7 every thousand words in Book 22 and 5.2 in Livy as a whole). See e.g. Oakley 2018: 166.

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The armies also were augmented. But how large were the additions of infantry and cavalry I should hardly venture to declare with any certainty (uix quicquam satis certum adfirmare ausus sim)—so greatly do historians differ in regard to the numbers and kinds of troops. liv. 22.36.1

Needless to say, this idiomatic use of an expression of fear does not express the type of emotion we are investigating here. Apart from such politeness related expressions of fear, there are no expressions of fear, fright, horror and the like in Books 21 and 22 at the level of author and audience. In view of the fact that we are dealing here with the genre of historiography, this outcome is, of course, not unexpected. Elsewhere in Livy, we did find a rare example of a felt emotion focalized by the audience. As the emotion involved concerns neither fright and horror, nor the related emotion of fear, we will not discuss this example here.26 But what about emotionality at the level of the Livian narrator and narratee? The Livian narrator often observes emotions of characters in the story world. In the following example, the fright (and fearlessness) experienced by the Romans within the story world is presented from the narrator’s perspective. The narrator refers to the terrifying situation, common ground at this point in the narrative, which leads to the narratee’s expectation that the characters will be terrified. The narrator, however, thwarts this expectation, at least as far as the Roman consul is concerned. Despite the chaos all round (perculsis omnibus), the consul showed considerable composure in such a precarious situation (satis ut in re trepida impauidus). The ranks were in disarray as his men all turned toward the confused shouts, but he formed them up (instruit) and … he encouraged them (adhortatur) and commanded them (iubet) to stand and fight. The way out of there (inde) was not by prayers and petitioning the gods, he said, but by force and valor. liv. 22.5.1–2

The passage starts with a topic-switch (consul) within the battle-episode. At this point in the narrative, the narratee does not need further disambiguation as to which consul is meant: that Flaminius is meant is part of the common ground of narrator and narratee. Hannibal has laid an ambush between the

26

Liv. 42.49.2–6.

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hills and the lake for the Roman troops under the command of Flaminius and the Romans have just discovered they are completely surrounded by Punic enemies. The narrator describes the consul as ‘rather unalarmed (impauidus) in such a dreadful situation’, a description which evokes the common ground between narrator and narratee that the situation should have called for a more apprehensive reaction by the consul. The historic present tenses instruit, adhortatur, and iubet mark the actions of Flaminius as business as usual, being in line with what the narratee could at this point expect: on earlier occasions, the consul has had no fear and now again he incautiously behaves as if there were no chaos all around.27 There are no indications that the perceived elements within the story world (chaos all around, confused shouts) are linked to a character’s focalization: the narrator’s perspective is manifest through the evoked narrator-narratee common ground until the commander is presented as a speaking character.28 At times, the narratee may be invited to share the narrator’s perspective, as appears, for instance, from the occurrence of the so-called imaginary second person singular, like cerneres and uideres (‘you could see’).29 After that, one might have seen (cerneres) the different expressions on their faces as they left their informants, depending on whether the news each received was good or bad, and could also have seen (uideres) people gathering round them as they went home, offering congratulations or consolation. liv. 22.7.12

In this instance, the narratee is invited to view the reactions of the Roman women at the gates of the city. Gilmartin (1975: 109) comments on this example ‘Anxiety and pathos may also be involved, as when Livy draws our eyes to the faces of people at Rome after news of the defeat at Lake Trasimene’. But do we also find manifestations of fright and horror felt (rather than observed) by the narrator or narratee? In Livy 21 and 22 we did not come across instances of a terrified or otherwise emotionally involved narrator or narratee,

27 28

29

For this use of the present tense, see Van Gils and Kroon 2019. In the indirect discourse traces of the narrator’s perspective continue to be present (inde). The double deictic nature of indirect discourse is well-known. For a recent study see Dancygier 2012, who refers to the phenomenon as ‘blending’. For this construction in Latin historiography see Gilmartin 1975, who observes that Livy uses it twelve times in the third decade, of which four instances can be found in Book 22 (Gilmartin 1975: 107).

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but this is not to say that it would have been impossible, as appears from the following passage from Florus’Epitome of Roman History, a work which is based chiefly on Livy:30 The soldiers, under the leadership of Papirius, calling for vengeance, rushed furiously along (horrible to relate, horribile dictu) with their swords drawn. flor. Epit. 1.11.1131 The parenthetically inserted supine construction horribile dictu (‘horrible to relate’) reflects the horror felt by the narrator in the act of narrating. Books 20 and 21 do not contain any instances of an appeal to the emotions of the narratee, but we have found a potential example in Livy’s Book 41. In this passage the historian describes a triumphal procession in honour of the military successes of a consul, and the exact financial rewards given to a number of participating veterans: To the allies a half less was given than to the citizens. And so they followed the car in silence, so that you could perceive (sentires) that they were angry. liv. 41.13.832 The imaginary second person singular is again an invitation to the narratee to focalize a scene in the story world, but the type of focalization might be different here: whereas cerneres invites the narratee to view, sentires seems to be an invitation to at least recognize an emotion. The observed absence of fear felt by the narrator or narratee in Books 21 and 22 of Livy’s History of Rome is just as interesting as its presence would have been: in order to describe a literary work, it is useful to take into account the complete literary toolbox and also to take note of tools which are not used by the author. To understand what fear felt by narrator and narratee may look like, we have included and discussed the passages in Florus and Livy 41. What remains to be discussed is whether and how in Livy 21 and 22 fright and horror are observed and felt at the level of characters. Character focalization

30

31 32

Elsewhere, Livy does use expressions that point to emotions felt by the narrator, and which are comparable to the expression horribile dictu in the Florus example. See e.g. Liv. 7.26.4– 5 (dictu mirabile, ‘marvellous to relate’). Translation by Forster 1929. Translation by Sage 1938.

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has been related, as we have mentioned in the introduction to this chapter, to the graphic quality and vivid style of Livy’s work, potentially leading to reader involvement. The example there (about Hannibal’s soldiers who are afraid to cross the Alps) exhibits some, but not all features that are assumed to enhance ‘reader involvement’. In terms of Allan 2020 (see above), we recognize the presence of verisimilitude, character focalization, and the principle of Minimal Departure, but full reader immersion seems to be hampered by the fact that the focalizer is in this case not an individual but an anonymous group.33 Furthermore, the feeling of fright and horror itself is only minimally described: the anonymous consciousness at the level of the story world seems to observe rather than to feel the emotionality of the scene. And finally, the focalization of the narrator continues to be present in expressions like inexpertis (‘for the inexperienced’), thus blocking a high degree of involvement of the audience with the character. This example, which shows the typical way of presenting fright and horror in Livy’s Books 21 and 22, may illustrate what commentators have called his ‘dramatic quality’, but for an interpretation in terms of enargeia and immersion there does not seem to be enough textual evidence here: in most of the instances, the immersive qualities are limited to the presence of an observing character and to graphic details. There are some instances in which horrific details of a scene in the story world are presented from a story-internal viewpoint, using character focalization to express how characters on the scene experience their situation. For instance, the chaotic situation on the battlefield at Lake Trasimene is viewed from a character point of view. In this passage, we hear how, in spite of Flaminius’ efforts to organize a proper fight, the soldiers struggle to even understand where they are: Furthermore, in such dense fog, ears were more useful than eyes. It was to sounds that they would turn their faces and eyes—to groaning from wounds being dealt, blows falling on bodies and armour, and mingled cries of confusion and panic. liv. 22.5.3–4

The text cited here contains several linguistic elements that appeal to common ground that the reader shares with the characters of the story, and as such may enhance the chances to involve the reader: the imperfect tense, percept-

33

Tsitsiou-Chelidoni 2009: 535 points to the fact that character focalization in Livy often concerns anonymous groups, which makes it difficult to identify with a character.

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ible details (caligine, gemitus, clamores), the mentioning of senses (aurium, oculorum, ora oculosque) and emotions (paventium). However, the characters on the scene (the soldiers) are anonymous and presented as a group, which might preclude a high degree of identification on the part of the audience, who supposedly will identify and empathize more readily with fully fledged characters.34

Conclusion Previous scholarship has given due attention to Livy’s dramatizing, tragicpathetic way of writing history, implying, among other things, that character perspective and the representation of character emotions may strongly enhance reader involvement. In our contribution we have addressed two questions that are evoked by these discussions. First, in order to have a fuller picture of the narrative choices made by Livy and other authors, we have raised the question of whether emotions can theoretically also be found in cognitive spaces other than that related to characters in the story world. Second, we addressed the issue of whether and to what extent character perspective and character emotions in Livy may indeed be taken as an important means to achieve reader involvement. In order to answer these questions in a systematic way, we have distinguished three levels of ‘communicative roles’ in historiography which essentially differ from one another as to the common ground involved at each level: (i) the (text-internal) author and his audience, (ii) the narrator and narratee, and (iii) the characters and anonymous observers in the narrated world. At all levels, a distinction can be made between observing emotions and feeling emotions. We have applied these theoretical levels to the analysis of manifestations of fright and horror in Livy’s Books 21 and 22. At the level of author and audience, Livy uses expressions of fright and horror, or of fear in a larger sense, only idiomatically to formulate his apprehension as a speaker to provide the addressee with exact historical data. Expressions of fright and horror, or of fear at large, as focalized by the addressee were not found in Books 21 and 22, although theoretically they are not impossible.

34

Compare Rood’s contribution to this volume on collective emotions and experiences in Thucydides’ narrative of the naval battle in Syracuse harbour.

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As expected, expressions of fright and horror most commonly occur at the level of narrator and narratee. Often, the narrator focalizes (in the sense of observes) the character’s fear or frightful events. This is clear from the presence of many linguistic elements which are anchored in the common ground of narrator and narratee. It is not impossible to find the narratee being invited to focalize (again in the sense of observing) fear, but this use seems to be limited to imaginary second person constructions, like cerneres or videres. We have sporadically found in Livy instances of a narrator or narratee who focalizes emotions in the sense of feeling them himself (cf. formulas like ‘mirabile dictu’ and instances of the imaginary second person singular sentires, respectively), but not in Books 21 and 22. Finally, at the level of characters, we have discussed examples of character focalization, again both in the sense of observing and in the sense of feeling emotions. In this discussion we have pointed out that the relation between character focalization and reader involvement is complex. By making use of five categories of ‘immersive features’ (Allan 2020), we have investigated to what extent Livy’s reader could feel involvement in passages which represent character emotions. It turns out that some of these ‘immersive features’ indeed do occur in these passages and might endorse qualifications of Livy’s style such as ‘graphic’ or ‘dramatic’, but that they do not seem to induce the audience into a state of full ‘reader immersion’.

Bibliography Adema, S.M., Tenses in Vergil’s Aeneid. Narrative Style and Structure (Leiden 2019). Allan, R.J., ‘Narrative Immersion: Some Linguistic and Narratological Aspects’, in J. Grethlein, L. Huitink, A.C.F. Tagliabue (eds.), Experience, Narrative, and Criticism in Ancient Greece. Under the Spell of Stories (Oxford 2020) 15–35. Allan, R.J., Jong, I.J.F. de, Jonge, C.C. de, ‘From Enargeia to Immersion: The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept’, Style (2017) 34–51. Bal, M., Narratology. Introduction to the Theory of Narrative (Toronto [1985] 2nd edn. 1997). Bjørner, T., Magnusson, A., Nielsen, R.P., ‘How to Describe and Measure Obstacles of Narrative Immersion in a Film? The Wheel of Immersion as a Framework’, Nordicom Review (2016) 101–117. Buijs, M., ‘ET RATIO ET RES: Characterization of Roman Conduct through Speech’ in L.W. van Gils, I.J.F. de Jong, C.H.M. Kroon (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative. Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2018) 273–292. Burck, E., Das Geschichtswerk des Titus Livius (Heidelberg 1992).

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Catin, L., En lisant Tite-Live (Paris 1944). Chaplin, J.D., Livy’s Exemplary History (Oxford 2000). Clark, H.H., Brennan, S.A., ‘Grounding in Communication’, in L.B. Resnick, J.M. Levine, S.D. Teasley (eds.), Perspective on Socially Shared Cognition (Washington 1991) 127– 149. Conte, G.B., Latin Literature. A History (Baltimore 1994). Dancygier, B., The Language of Stories (Cambridge 2012). Feldherr, A., Spectacle and Society in Livy’s History (Berkeley 1998). Fernandez-Quintanilla, C., ‘Textual and Reader Factors in Narrative Empathy: An Empirical Reader Response Study Using Focus Groups’, Language and Literature (2020) 124–146. Fleischman, S., Tense and Narrativity. From Medieval Performance to Modern Fiction (Austin 1990). Forster, E.S. (ed. and transl.), Florus. Epitome of Roman History (Cambridge, MA 1929). Genette, G. Figures 3 (Paris 1972). Gilmartin, K., ‘A Rhetorical Figure in Latin Historical Style: The Imaginary Second Person Singular’, TAPhA 105 (1975) 99–121. Gils, L.W. van, Kroon, C.H.M., ‘Discourse-Linguistic Strategies in Livy’s Account of the Battle at Cannae’, in L.W. van Gils, I.J.F. de Jong, C.H.M. Kroon (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative. Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2018) 191–233. Gils, L.W. van, Jong, I.J.F. de, and Kroon, C.H.M. (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative. Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2018). Gils, L.W. van, Kroon, C.H.M., ‘Engaging the Audience. An Intersubjectivity Approach to the Historic Present Tense in Latin’ in L.W. van Gils, C.H.M. Kroon, R. Risselada (eds.), Lemmata Linguistica. Clause and Discourse (Berlin / Boston 2019) 351– 373. Grethlein, J., Rengakos, A. (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation. The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature (Berlin 2009). Grethlein, J., Huitink, L., ‘Homer’s Vividness: An Enactive Approach’, JHS 137 (2017) 67– 91. Hengeveld, K., Mackenzie, L., Functional Discourse Grammar. A Typologically-Based Theory on Language Structure (Oxford 2008). Hogan, P.C., Affective Narratology. The Emotional Structure of Stories (Lincoln, NE 2011). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Introduction. Narratological Theory on Narrators, Narratees and Narratives’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, and A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 1–10. Jong, I.J.F. de, Narratology and Classics. A Practical Guide (Oxford 2014). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Anchoring Devices at the Opening of Narrative Texts’, Oral Presentation at the 8th Anchoring Innovation Expert Meeting, Arnhem, April 2018.

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Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R., Bowie, A.M. (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004). Labov, W., Language in the Inner City. Studies in the Black English Vernacular (Philadelphia 1972). Leech, G., Short, M., Style in Fiction. A Linguistic Introduction to English Fictional Prose (London 1981). Levene, D.S., Livy on the Hannibalic War (Oxford 2010). Mellet, S., L’imparfait de l’indicatif en latin classique. Temps, aspect, modalité (Paris / Leuven 1988). Oakley, S., ‘Livy on Cannae: a literary overview’, in L.W. van Gils, I.J.F. de Jong, C.H.M. Kroon (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative. Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2018) 157–190. Pausch, D., Livius und der Leser. Narrative Strukturen in Ab Urbe Condita (Munich 2011). Pausch, D., ‘Who Knows What Will Happen Next? Livy’s “fraus Punica” from a Literary Point of View’, in L.W. van Gils, I.J.F. de Jong, C.H.M. Kroon (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative. Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2018) 234–252. Pauw, D.A., ‘The Dramatic Elements in Livy’s History’, AClass (1991). Pinkster, H., The Oxford Latin Syntax, Vol. 1 (Oxford 2015). Pinkster, H., The Oxford Latin Syntax, Vol. 2 (Oxford 2021). Sage, E.T., History of Rome. Volume xii. Books 40–42. (Cambridge, MA 1938). Shackleton Bailey, D.R. (ed. and transl.), Cicero’s letters to Atticus. Volume iii (Cambridge 1968). Tsitsiou-Chelidoni, C., ‘History beyond Literature: Interpreting the “Internally Focalized” Narrative in Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita’ in J. Grethlein, A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation. The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature (Berlin / New York 2009) 527–554. Walsh, P.G., Livy. His Historical Aims and Methods (Cambridge 1961). Yardley, J.C. (ed. and transl.), Livy. History of Rome. Books 21–22 (Cambridge, MA / London 2019).

chapter 34

Dramatic Narrative in Epic: Aeneas’ Eyewitness Account of the Fall of Troy in Virgil Aeneid 2 Stephen Harrison

Aeneas’ two-book narrative of the fall of Troy and his subsequent journey of exile delivered to Dido and the Carthaginians in Virgil Aeneid 2–3, primarily modelled on the four-book narrative of Odysseus to Alcinous and the Phaeacians in Odyssey 9–12, is by far the longest speech in the Latin epic.*,1 It repays closer narratological consideration as a speech which has a double narrator (the poet/narrator, the primary narrator, and Aeneas, a secondary narrator in the poem) and which is addressed to multiple narratees (primary external narratees, the intended readers of the poem, the secondary external narratees consisting of Dido and her people, and the secondary internal narratees who have experienced the events recounted, namely Aeneas’ own men). This piece looks at its more dramatic first half, the account of the fall of Troy in Book 2. As we will see, Aeneas’ speech commences with statements of eyewitness reliability (2.5 uidi) and of the painful nature of its content (2.3 infandum … dolorem) from his own perspective; as many have noted, Aeneas’ feelings of distress are (naturally enough) frequently emphasized in the account of the destruction of his homeland. Both these elements recall similar declarations in tragic messenger speeches (one of the topics our honorand has brilliantly illuminated),2 and it is rewarding to consider Aeneas’ stance as secondary internal narrator of the sack of Troy within this literary framework. In particular, our honorand’s point that tragic messengers usually have a personal interest in their narrative and a dramatic point in narrating it is highly relevant to Aeneas’ messenger-style commitment to his story of Troy’s fall and his possible purposes in telling it in the context of the Aeneid.3

* I am delighted to be able to dedicate this piece to my old friend Irene de Jong and to honour her unparalleled role in the illuminating application of narratology to the criticism of classical literature. 1 On the speeches of the Aeneid, see still Highet 1972. 2 See Austin 1964: 29; Horsfall 2008: 50 and (more generally) xxi. 3 See De Jong 1991: 63–71.

© Stephen Harrison, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_036

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Aeneas as Narrator and Tragic Messenger Here is the opening of Aeneas’ narrative: Conticuere omnes intentique ora tenebant. Inde toro pater Aeneas sic orsus ab alto: ‘Infandum, regina, iubes renouare dolorem, Troianas ut opes et lamentabile regnum eruerint Danai, quaeque ipse miserrima uidi et quorum pars magna fui. quis talia fando Myrmidonum Dolopumve aut duri miles Ulixi temperet a lacrimis? et iam nox umida caelo praecipitat suadentque cadentia sidera somnos. sed si tantus amor casus cognoscere nostros et breviter Troiae supremum audire laborem, quamquam animus meminisse horret luctuque refugit, incipiam …’ Everyone fell silent and held their features in attention. Then father Aeneas began as follows from his high couch: Unspeakable, queen, is the grief you bid me renew, Of how the Greeks overturned the riches of Troy And its kingdom to be lamented, and all the wretched things I witnessed and of which I was a great part: in speaking Of such things which of the Myrmidons or Dolopes, or which Soldier of much-enduring Achilles would restrain from tears? And now dewy night rushes down from the heaven And the setting stars urge sleep. But if you have such desire To learn of our vicissitudes and to hear in brief compass Of the last tribulation of Troy, although my mind trembles To remember it and shrinks from it in grief, I shall begin. verg. Aen. 2.1–12

Aeneas matches tragic messengers here in a number of ways. His audience is seated in silence, just like the real audience in a theatre, and intent on his dramatic narrative just like the fictional audience for messenger speeches within the context of tragedies. His narrative is painful to himself and contains traumatic material (2.2–7), just like many of the most memorable messenger speeches of tragedy. Good parallels here are the messenger of Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, reporting the suicide of his mistress Jocasta and the self-blinding

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of his master Oedipus (1223–1296), or that of Euripides’ Hippolytus, retailing his master Hippolytus’ catastrophic crash and near-death state (1153–1254); the Sophoclean messenger specifically warns his audience that his news is shocking (1223–1224), and like his Euripidean counterpart clearly speaks as a personal participant in the dreadful events, just as Aeneas stresses his own participation in the sack of Troy (quorum pars magna fui, 6). Tragic messengers always speak as eyewitnesses, lending credibility and emotional force to their narratives:4 this element is also specifically stressed by Aeneas (quaeque ipse miserrima uidi, 5). Like both the tragic messengers mentioned, Aeneas begins his account by a proleptic summary of the events (4–5, the Greek destruction of Troy); just so the Sophoclean messenger states at the start that Jocasta is dead (1234–1235), the Euripidean one that Hippolytus is dying (1161). But the royal Aeneas differs from lowly tragic messengers in social status. Aeneas like his epic model Odysseus is an elite leader, while messengers are normally of humble or subordinate standing.5 This perhaps fits the generic difference between relatively lofty tragedy and even more lofty epic: just as Aeneas’ narrative is of epic length, so it is also lent an epic dignity by being told in the voice of a royal protagonist. The humble status of tragic messengers often means, as we have already seen in the case of the Oedipus Tyrannus and Hippolytus, that they are loyal servants of those whose sufferings they describe, and consequently speak with pathos and emotional commitment; as we shall see, Aeneas is similarly deeply committed to Troy, whose downfall he consequently narrates with passionate intensity. The dignity of his elite voice epicizes a tragic feature here, just as the use of the messenger framework tragicizes Virgil’s epic in this episode. The account of the sack of Troy in Aeneid 2 is likely to derive its material ultimately from the cyclic epic tradition of the Iliupersis, evidenced for us in the post-Virgilian Greek versions of Tryphiodorus and Quintus of Smyrna.6 But the Virgilian narrative framing of this account as a tragic messenger speech may have a specific resonance in literary history, as scholars have noted.7 As a highly emotional discourse in which a surviving participant in a great military disaster inflicted by Greeks on an Asiatic people narrates that traumatic event to a sympathetic audience headed by a queen and located in her palace, Aeneas’ retelling of Troy’s fall recalls a famous messenger speech in Attic tragedy.

4 5 6 7

See especially De Jong 1991: 9–12. A partial exception is Heracles’ son Hyllus in Sophocles’ Trachiniae. See now Casali 2017: 7–40. Here I add a few points to Ussani 1950 and Scafoglio 2001.

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In the Persians of Aeschylus (472bce), the returning herald of Xerxes reports to the king’s mother Queen Atossa and the chorus of aged Persian counsellors at Susa the calamitous defeat of her son’s fleet by the Greeks at Salamis. This is by far the longest messenger speech in extant Greek tragedy: punctuated by short passages of dialogue with Atossa and the chorus, who speak in impassioned lyrics, it covers more than 250 lines (Persians 249–512); this makes it an appropriate predecessor for Aeneas’ long two-book narrative of Aeneid 2–3. Its opening lines refer to the catastrophe for Persia and to the trauma of the Persian messenger in narrating it (249–255), an introduction which shares with that of Aeneas at Aeneid 2.1–12 (see above) a queen as addressee, a lament for the fall of a rich Eastern kingdom, and a reluctance to speak of a personally traumatic experience which then forms the basis of an exceptionally long discourse. The overall plots of the two speeches have a number of shared features too: the herald lists the Persians who have been killed at Salamis with attached obituaries (Persians 305–330), while Aeneas also catalogues his comrades who fall in the final stage of resistance at Troy (Aeneid 2.424–430). Both speakers consistently attribute the defeat of their side to divine intervention, especially that of Athena, national deity of the Athenians and the key supporter of the Greeks at Troy (Persians 342–347; Aeneid 2.15, 31, 226–227, 615–616). Both speeches also narrate how the speaker arrived at his present location with a group of survivors of the catastrophe: over the course of Books 2 and 3 Aeneas retails how he gets to Carthage from Troy with his band of refugees, while the herald tells how he and the remains of the Persian fleet travel home to Persia (Persians 475– 510). Most strikingly, both speeches present a key intervention by a lying Greek who pretends to betray his comrades but in fact does mortal damage to the Eastern enemy: Virgil’s Sinon, who persuades the Trojans that the Greeks have left and that they should admit the Wooden Horse (2.57–198), is matched by an anonymous Greek in Aeschylus who presents a similar false story to the enemy to ensure his own side’s victory (355–360).8 Aeneas’ messenger speech may also look back to one of the models for the Persians in its topic of the traumatic sack of a city. Phrynichus’ The Fall of Miletus, produced not long after the Persian sack of that city allied to Athens in the Ionian Revolt of 494 bce, is likely to have contained some kind of narrative of the city’s fall, though we know literally nothing about the play’s detailed content. Herodotus claims that the play was so traumatic for its original Athenian audience that its author was heavily fined by the authorities 8 Named as Sicinnus, slave of Themistocles, in Herodotus’ historiographical account (8.75). Sinon’s lying speech itself resembles famous lying messenger speeches in Greek tragedy such as that in Sophocles’ Electra.

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and any re-performance was banned (Herodotus 6.21.2). In the literary form of Attic tragedy, such a moving narrative would almost certainly be accomplished through an eyewitness messenger speech. The Persians is not the only tragedy which Aeneas’ account may draw on: the events of the sack of Troy were the subject of a range of lost plays as well as extant ones.9 The first third of Aeneid 2 focuses on the Trojans’ catastrophic decision to bring the Trojan Horse into the city (2.1–267). This decision is brought about by the fearful divine punishment inflicted on the priest Laocoon for his objections to the idea as well as by the devious persuasion of the treacherous Greek Sinon. The dramatic description of the death of Laocoon and his sons, killed by giant serpents who arrive from the sea (2.195–227), is one of the poem’s most memorable short episodes. This may draw on Sophocles’ lost tragedy Laocoon as well as the cyclic epic tradition:10 the few preserved fragments of that play include an iambic description of a sacrificial altar (fr. 370 Radt). This might well derive from a messenger speech relating the death of Laocoon, who there as in Virgil (2.201–202) would be preparing a sacrifice when the catastrophe struck; such a scene is unlikely to have been shown directly on the tragic stage.11 An interesting parallel to the death of Laocoon in extant Greek tragedy in fact occurs in the messenger speech of Euripides’ Hippolytus, which narrates how Hippolytus is mortally injured following a chariot-crash caused by the roaring of a mighty bull sent from the sea by Poseidon (Hippolytus 1214–1218), parallel to the monstrous serpents sent over the sea by Athene.

Narrators and Narratees Here I turn from the potential links of Aeneas as narrator of the fall of Troy with tragic messenger narrators to further narratological features. There are a number of narrators and narratees at play in Aeneid 2, not all of which have been fully appreciated, and an assessment of their individual interests and agendas provides a further level of explanation for the striking emotional colour and drama in Aeneas’ story.

9 10 11

For bibliography, see Horsfall 2008: xxi. See especially Zintzen 1979. This would then be a second messenger speech alongside that of which fr. 373 Radt is a fragment (describing Aeneas’ exit from Troy), perfectly possible (Sophocles’ Antigone has three messenger speeches, his Trachiniae four if that of Heracles’ son Hyllus is counted).

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The Secondary Internal Narrator—Aeneas As already noted, our honorand has pointed out that the speakers of tragic messenger speeches commonly have clear loyalties or purposes linking them with the events or persons they describe, leading to a vivid and engaged narrative.12 This is plainly, as we have already seen, the case with Aeneas in Aeneid 2: he is narrating the traumatic destruction of his own beloved city and culture in a single night after years of siege. But Aeneas also has clear rhetorical goals in telling his tale in the particular context of the poem’s plot, something else which can be a feature of messenger speeches.13 Above all, the speech consistently seeks to justify Aeneas’ escape from the sack of Troy when most of his fellow-citizens perished or were taken prisoner. This aspect appears especially in the middle section of Book 2 where Aeneas becomes prominent as an individual actor, after the disastrous collective mistake of admitting the Wooden Horse to Troy (2.268–566). Significant here is the appearance of the ghost of Hector, who states in no uncertain terms that Troy is doomed and Aeneas’ patriotic duty is to escape and found a new city overseas (2.270–295); this instruction from his close relative and recently deceased commander-in-chief legitimates Aeneas’ ultimate exit, as do the similar statement of the priest Panthus that all is over for Troy (2.318–335), the matching revelation of Aeneas’ divine mother Venus that the gods have doomed the city (2.594–620), and (finally) the double omen of the comet and Iulus’ burning hair which lends further divine authority and at last stimulates the actual departure of Aeneas and his group of refugees at the very end of Book 2 (682–704). But Aeneas as narrator is not content with defending his departure as suitable obedience to divine instructions. He is also much concerned to show that his natural instinct was to stay in Troy as long as possible, that he in fact did so, and that he left his city only unwillingly. To this end he presents himself as not immediately obeying Hector’s command to escape, but rather as gathering together a band of comrades to stage a final resistance and to go down fighting, for instance at 314–317, 336–338, 353–354, and especially 431–434: Iliaci cineres et flamma extrema meorum, testor, in occasu uestro nec tela nec ullas uitauisse vices Danaum et, si fata fuissent ut caderem, meruisse manu … 12 13

De Jong 1991: 63–113. Cf. the speech of the guard in Sophocles’ Antigone, keen to prove his own innocence, or Orestes’ false narrative of his own death in Sophocles’ Electra.

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Ashes of Troy and final flame of my dear people, I hold you to witness, that at your fall I avoided No weapons or turns of the Greeks, and had it been my fate To fall, I would have deserved it by my action … verg. Aen. 2.431–434

This delaying of Aeneas’ escape stresses his credentials as a traditional warrior (see further below) as well as his loyalty to Troy. It may not in fact constitute direct and deliberate disobedience to Hector’s commands; these were delivered in a dream and may be realistically imagined as forgotten in Aeneas’ later panic, when he wakes up to the dreadful realization that the Greeks are in Troy and that the city is on fire (2.298–317). Similarly, the decision finally to leave Troy in Aeneas’ account is carefully motivated not by self-interested prudence but by an especially admirable Roman form of altruistic duty. It is only when he witnesses the dreadful killing of his aged father-in-law Priam by the barbarous young warrior Pyrrhus (469– 558) that Aeneas realizes that his disabled father Anchises is in similar danger (559–563), and it is at that point that he returns to his own house and starts active preparations for the departure of his family and dependants. Thus his eventual exit is actually motivated by his characteristic virtue of pietas, family loyalty, a virtue which can also encompass his obedience to the divine instructions he has not long ago received from his mother Venus. The particular manner of Aeneas’ exit underlines this virtue further: he leaves Troy in a family unit with his father on his shoulders, his son in one hand, and the representations of Troy’s gods in the other, with his wife following behind. When his wife is lost, Aeneas lays much emphasis on his willingness to return to the burning city to search for her (2.736–757), another aspect of his pietas.14

The Primary External Poet-Narrator It is clear that a range of negative stories about Aeneas’ departure from Troy were available to Virgil: these recounted that he and his family left Troy before its fall to retreat to Mt. Ida or that he negotiated his own deal with the Greeks in order to escape (for instance Dionysius of Halicarnassus 1.48.3; Seneca De

14

Even if her relegation to last place in the exit order says something about her relative importance for him compared to his closest male relatives, and leads indirectly to her death.

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Beneficiis 6.36; Origo gentis Romanae 9.2–3).15 As stressed by Heinze long ago,16 Aeneas’ own account is crafted by the poet-narrator specifically to counter these unflattering stories: as we have just seen, Aeneas is reluctant to leave and stays as long as possible, he has no dealings with the Greeks, and the move to Ida takes place only when the city is already captured. The Aeneas of the Aeneid naturally does not know these later versions of his story, but the poet-narrator does, and it is his perspective which underlies these pointed details. This implicit defence of Aeneas by the poet-narrator against alternative negative versions is natural in the case of the poet’s protagonist, who is generally presented in a positive light as a leader and actor in the Aeneid. It is also likely to have a contemporary political colour: the emphasis in the Aeneid on Aeneas as ancestor via his son Ascanius/Iulus of the gens Iulia, the family of Augustus (1.288; 6.789; see further below), provides another clear motivation for making sure that the slurs about his departure from Troy are carefully refuted. Aeneas’ demonstration of his personal martial prowess and courage in the desperate resistance of the central section of the book (see above) is also important for the ancestor of the great military race of the Romans (and the ancestor of their contemporary supreme commander Augustus).17 As his opponents point out in the Aeneid (10.581–582; 12.52), Aeneas’ record as warrior in the Iliad is not spectacular, since he is twice rescued by the gods when he gets into trouble against superior opposition (Diomedes in Iliad 5 and Achilles in Iliad 20); this is deliberately distorted by the poet-narrator when Diomedes, who had defeated Aeneas in the Iliad, is made (rather improbably) to claim that he is unwilling to face such a great warrior again in Italy (Aeneid 11.282–287).

The Principal Secondary External Narratee—Dido Dido is Aeneas’ principal narratee in the poem, since his story is motivated by her personal request at the end of Book 1: ‘Immo age, et a prima dic, hospes, origine nobis insidias,’ inquit, ‘Danaum, casusque tuorum, erroresque tuos; nam te iam septima portat omnibus errantem terris et fluctibus aestas …’ 15 16 17

See Scafoglio 2013. Heinze 1903: 6–81. Augustus was still active militarily at the time of the writing of the Aeneid—for praise of his conquests, see Aeneid 6.791–807.

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Come now, my guest, and recount from its earliest origin The treacherous trap of the Greeks and the sufferings of your nation, And your wanderings: for this is now the seventh year That carries you wandering over every land and sea. verg. Aen. 1.753–756

Her overall reaction after the whole tale is related at the start of Book 4: multa viri virtus animo multusque recursat gentis honos; haerent infixi pectore uultus uerbaque nec placidam membris dat cura quietem. The great courage of the hero came back continually to her mind, And the great distinction of his lineage: his features and words Lodged fixed in her heart, and her perturbation denied the peace of sleep to her limbs. verg. Aen. 4.2–5

Following the efforts of Venus and Cupid in Book 1 to make her fall in love (1.657–694), Dido is already erotically inclined towards Aeneas: this passage, along with her words to her sister immediately afterwards at 4.10–19, confirms her interest in him, and indicates that his narrative suggests that he would be a very suitable husband for her, were it not for her oath to her dead consort Sychaeus to remain unmarried.18 Aeneas has a strong personal interest in engaging Dido’s sympathies here, and clearly succeeds. Apart from any erotic interest in her on his part (unclear at this stage but clear by Book 4, for instance 4.395), he needs her personal help and support as the local ruler in continuing his mission to Italy, repairing his battered fleet, and waiting for the spring sailing season. Certain elements of his narrative are directed to her in particular: when he comes to the death of Priam, he addresses her directly ( forsitan et Priami fuerint quae fata requiras, 506, ‘perhaps you may enquire what the fate of Priam was’):19 one monarch is naturally interested in the destiny of another. The emphasis on Creusa is also perhaps aimed at her as another royal female; Aeneas’ high-risk return to search for his

18 19

For an overview and discussion of the various roles played by Dido in Virgil’s Aeneid, see Adema in this volume. This kind of question is another marker of Aeneas’ narrative as a kind of tragic messenger speech: see Austin 1964: 198; Horsfall 2008: 391.

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lost wife no doubt appeals to Dido, who (as Aeneas already knows) herself took risks to avenge her husband (1.343–364).20 One interesting point of interpretation here is how far the narrative of Creusa’s death is either intended by Aeneas as narrator or interpreted by Dido as narratee as stressing the vacancy which is thereby created for a new wife of Aeneas. The crucial lines are 2.780–784, where Creusa’s ghost prophesies her widower’s future: longa tibi exsilia et uastum maris aequor arandum, et terram Hesperiam uenies, ubi Lydius arua inter opima uirum leni fluit agmine Thybris. illic res laetae regnumque et regia coniunx parta tibi; lacrimas dilectae pelle Creusae. Long exile is in store for you and a vast plain of ocean must be ploughed, And you will come to a land in the west, where the Lydian Tiber flows Amid fields rich with men with its gentle course. There prosperity, rule and a royal bride is given you: Dash away your tears for the Creusa you loved. verg. Aen. 2.780–784

In the original context of the vision in Troy, the locators given by Creusa were uncertain for Aeneas: ‘land in the West’ gives a direction of travel, but ‘Lydian Tiber’ can mean little to him at this stage. By the time he relates Creusa’s words to Dido in Carthage, he has more information and is aware that Italy, the land of Dardanus, is meant, as revealed in the prophecy of the Penates which he will shortly report in his narrative (3.163–171). It seems, then, that he cannot intend these details to refer to Carthage. Dido too has already heard the same information about the ultimate destination of the Trojans from Ilioneus in the previous book (1.530–534); but, at the moment when Aeneas speaks, it is at least possible that her judgement is affected by the joint assault of Venus and Cupid on her since Ilioneus’ speech (1.657–694). This impairment of her rationality might mean that she can wishfully interpret ‘land in the West’ and ‘rule and royal bride’ as referring to Carthage and herself, even if ‘Lydian Tiber’ corresponds to nothing at

20

It also perhaps seeks to compensate for his placing of her in last position as the family exits (2.725), the primary cause of her disappearance.

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Carthage;21 Hesperia can refer to any land to the west of one’s current location, clearly the case for Carthage from the perspective of Troy (it indicates Spain, west of Italy, at Horace Odes 1.36.4). This interpretation would be consistent with Dido’s generous offer of a share in her kingdom to the Trojans (1.572), which took place even before the appearance of Aeneas himself and at a time when her judgement is still unimpaired.

Other Secondary Narratees Aeneid 2.1 with its reference to universal silence (conticuere omnes) reminds us that there are interested auditors of Aeneas’ narrative in the poem apart from Dido. The major secondary audience is that of the Carthaginians more generally. As in the case of Dido, it is important for Aeneas to gain their sympathy: it was only divine intervention that ensured that he and his men were not attacked by the local inhabitants when they first reached Carthage, a natural hostile reaction to the sudden arrival of an unknown flotilla (Aeneid 1.297–304), especially when those inhabitants are Carthaginians, the future bitter enemies of Rome. In particular, Aeneas’ retailing of Creusa’s instructions to found a new city in the West which brings a royal bride (2.780–782, see above) could suggest to the inhabitants of Carthage an implicit acceptance of the offer Dido has already made in Book 1 of the joint foundation of a new polity (see above). Indeed, Aeneas seems to be engaging in this same common enterprise as he helps in Carthage’s construction at Aeneid 4.259–264 dressed in local costume supplied by Dido, a suggestion that (like Antony in Cleopatra’s Alexandria in Virgil’s own lifetime)22 he has been fully acculturated in his new country. As in the case of Dido above, Aeneas’ emphasis on his escape from Troy and his mission to found a new city in exile also appeals to the Carthaginians’ own similar past experience as refugees in fleeing from Tyre to North Africa to found Carthage; this back story is carefully narrated to Aeneas by Venus before he arrives at the court of Dido (1.338–368). Aeneas is looking for solidarity in Carthage: his spectacular misinterpretation (1.459–463) of the Trojan War decorations in Juno’s new temple at Carthage as evidence of local sympathy for their sufferings, rather than of the goddess’s triumph over the race she hates

21 22

Its river Bagrada is not in fact mentioned in Virgil’s account of the city. A parallel surely evoked here: see e.g. Bertman 2000.

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(Aeneid 1.28 genus inuisum), a much more plausible reading, shows this keen search for sympathy.23 A further audience which can sometimes be forgotten is that of Aeneas’ own men, who have just been reunited at the court of Dido after their traumatic separation in the storm which opens the poem (1.509–515), and who are internal to the story narrated, which embodies much of their own experiences shared with Aeneas. Their commander’s long speech allows him to bring them together again in spirit and purpose by rehearsing their shared history so far, from their joining him at Troy through the years of their wanderings, suitably reminding them of their collective mission to found a new city overseas. Aeneas’ concern to encourage his men in words (a key skill for a Roman commander) has already been established in the opening section of the poem with his diplomatic speech after the storm (1.195–209), where he sets out a positive collective future despite his own personal doubts. Like the anonymous authority figure in the first simile of the Aeneid who calms a rioting crowd by his gravity and skilled rhetoric (1.148–156),24 Aeneas knows the value of effective speech for leadership. In Aeneid 2–3 as a whole he is careful to set out a growing mission narrative: the Trojans’ ultimate goal, vague at the start, is increasingly specified until it becomes clear from the Penates that Italy is their destination (3.163– 171). A somewhat chaotic journey with mistakes and setbacks is thus recast with considerable skill as a providential progress.

The Primary External Narratee—the Augustan and Later Reader Like the poet-narrator, the original implied Augustan reader of the Aeneid (and their modern successor) clearly has a different perspective on Aeneas’ narrative from that of the listening characters in the poem. As in the Aeneid’s various prophecies of the Roman future, there is for Virgil’s contemporaries a strong element of dramatic irony, since they know the events which are to come. Thus it is they who are the primary recipients of the poet-narrator’s presentation of the future importance of Iulus/Ascanius in the scene at 2.682–686, where the young Iulus’ hair appears to be on fire, a portent of future greatness which recalls not only the similar sign for Aeneas’ future bride Lavinia within the poem (Aeneid 7.71–80), but also the analogous miracle in Roman history which

23 24

On this, see most recently Heslin 2015: 273–275 (with bibliography). For my analysis of this, see Harrison 1988.

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supposedly prophesied the future kingship at Rome of the then obscure boy Servius Tullius (Livy 1.39.1–3).25 This latter reference to the future can be appreciated only by a much later reader. Iulus’ burning hair, along with the accompanying shooting star (2.693– 700), which plainly anticipates the sidus Iulium viewed as the divine indicator of Julius Caesar’s apotheosis,26 is surely to be taken to refer to the gens Iulia and its glorious future through Julius Caesar and Augustus, first appreciable in the Augustan period. What we find here is an element of metalepsis, of moving between narrative levels.27 The events of the sack of Troy a millennium before are seen from the perspective of Augustan culture, an example of chronological ‘zooming’ where the details of legendary narrative suddenly gain a sharp contemporary relevance for the appropriate later reader. Aeneas’ account of Troy famously contains another element of this kind, the way in which the (inconsistent) depiction of Priam’s decapitated corpse on the sea-shore (2.55–558) evidently invokes the death of Pompey in 48bce for Roman readers.28

Conclusion This piece has examined Aeneas’ narrative of the fall of Troy in Aeneid 2 from two perspectives, that of the narrative framework of the tragic messenger speech, and that of its various narrators and narratees. From the first perspective, Aeneas’ speech can be read as an epicized form of tragic messenger speech, with the characteristic emotional commitment of the messenger to his material, just as messenger speeches in general can be viewed as epic narratives within tragic frameworks.29 From the second perspective, consideration of the full range, interests and reactions of the narrators and narratees of Aeneas’ speech adds a further level of explanation of why this episode in the poem has been perceived as showing a special level of emotional drama and richness.

25 26 27

28 29

See Horsfall 2008: 480–482. See Horsfall 2008: 494. For metalepsis in classical literature, see De Jong 2009 and Matzner and Trimble 2020, and especially Lovatt 2020 in the latter volume, which further explores metalepsis in Aeneid 2. In this volume, see the contributions of Allan, Finkelberg, Heerink, and Verhelst. See Bowie 1990 (noted as early as Servius on 2.557 Pompei tangit historiam). Cf. e.g. Barrett 2002.

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Bibliography Austin, R.G., P. Vergili Maronis Aeneidos Liber Secundus (Oxford 1964). Barrett, J., Staged Narrative. Poetics and the Messenger in Greek Tragedy (Berkeley 2002). Bertman, S., ‘Cleopatra and Antony as Models for Dido and Aeneas’, EMC 44 (2000) 395–398. Bowie, A.M., ‘The Death of Priam: Allegory and History in the Aeneid’, CQ 40 (1990) 470–481. Casali, S., Virgilio Eneide 2 (Pisa 2017). Harrison, S.J., ‘Vergil on Kingship: The First Simile of the Aeneid’, PCPhS 4 (1988) 55–59. Heinze, R., Virgils Epische Technik (Leipzig 1903). Heslin, P.J., The Museum of Augustus. The Temple of Apollo in Pompeii, the Portico of Philippus in Rome, and Latin Poetry (Los Angeles 2015). Highet, G., The Speeches in Vergil’s “Aeneid” (Princeton 1972). Horsfall, N., Virgil, Aeneid 2. A Commentary (Leiden 2008). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrative in Drama. The Art of the Euripidean Messenger-Speech (Leiden 1991). Jong, I.J.F., de, ‘Metalepsis in Ancient Greek literature’, in J. Grethlein, A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation. The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature (Leiden 2009) 81–115. Lovatt, H., ‘Metalepsis, Grief and Narrative in Aeneid 2’ in S. Matzner, G. Trimble (eds.), Metalepsis. Ancient Texts, New Perspectives (Oxford 2020) 167–194. Matzner, S., Trimble, G. (eds.), Metalepsis. Ancient Texts, New Perspectives (Oxford 2020). Scafoglio, G., ‘La tragedia di Eschilo nel libro ii dell’ “Eneide:”’, AC 70 (2001) 69–86. Scafoglio, G., ‘The Betrayal of Aeneas’, GRBS 53 (2013) 1–14. Ussani, V., ‘Eschilo e il libro ii dell’Eneide’, Maia 3 (1950) 237–254. Zintzen, C., Die Laokoonepisode bei Vergil (Wiesbaden 1979).

chapter 35

Unhappy Dido, Queen of Carthage Suzanne Adema

‘Women are quick to change their mind and mood’, Mercurius warns Aeneas in Book 4 of Virgil’s Aeneid (570), urging him to leave the city of the Carthaginian queen Dido. Mercurius attributes emotions to Dido on the basis of her gender, evoking a schema or a rich frame to convey what type of person Dido is, how she behaves and what she feels.1 A schema or rich frame is one of the ways in which readers of a narrative text attribute feelings to characters. It is ‘a bundle of rather specific background knowledge present in readers, structured such that if one aspect is mentioned, a set of other relevant aspects are also activated.’2 Mercurius seems to focus on gender as a frame for Dido’s emotions, but Dido is, of course, much more than this. Several emotionally laden frames can be identified in the fabula of her life. Dido is famous for being the unhappy, abandoned lover of Aeneas. But before that, she had been wife to Sychaeus and then became a widow and refugee after he was murdered and she had to flee her country. She was a Carthaginian, having founded this city and ruling it as its queen. The fabula of Dido’s life thus gives ample possibility for a narrator to portray a wide range of basic human emotions related to the following six frames: Carthaginian, wife, widow, refugee, queen, and unhappy lover. This contribution investigates the narratorial choices in the portrayal of Dido’s emotions in Virgil’s Aeneid. It aims to illustrate that a narrator may vary the attention he gives to frames and emotions. In the primary-narrator text of Dido’s life story, a whole range of techniques is used to convey emotions related to the frame of an unhappy lover. Less attention is given to emotions associated with other frames such as that of being a widow or refugee. Dido herself refers to all frames and emotions in her speeches, especially in her soliloquies near the end of her life. To her, these are not abstract frames, but all essential parts of her identity. It is the accumulation and incompatibility of these roles that cause her deepest woes and make her a tragic heroine.3

1 De Temmerman and Van Emde Boas 2018: 17; Van Duijn et al. 2015: 85; Dancygier 2012: 120. 2 Van Duijn et al. 2015: 85. 3 See Monti 1981: 36.

© Suzanne Adema, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_037

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The method used for this contribution was a close reading analysis of a selected corpus, in which I identified frames, narrator-focalizers and textual expressions of emotions.4 I will first elaborate on this method, and thereupon discuss each of the frames of Dido’s story, associated emotions and their portrayal in the Aeneid.

Identification of Frames A first aspect of the close reading analysis was the identification of frames. The recognition of a frame and its related emotions presupposes knowledge and intuitions that come naturally to people from within a certain cultural context, but not necessarily to others.5 In his statement on women, Mercurius uses a frame that Aeneas and he apparently share. In this case, twenty-first-century readers will also be able to recognize it—although they might want to dismiss the frame or call it a frame from a ‘locker room context’. Often, however, readers need to look more in depth in order to recognize a frame and its concomitant emotions when they read a text that is not from their own culture. It was part of my corpus analysis to identify textual evidence of the six frames and their meanings. Textual cues for frames are, in fictional texts, the names of characters, or particular nouns and adjectives used to refer to a character.6 The meaning and related emotions of some of these frames become clear in the context, and, in addition, background information is mostly available in commentaries and secondary literature. Dido’s roles as queen (or good leader) and unhappy lover, for instance, have been a topic of debate in culturalhistorical and intertextual studies of the Aeneid.7

Narrators and Focalizers A second aspect of the close reading analysis concerned the narrator and focalizer of a passage.8 Dido’s emotions are portrayed mostly by the primary-

4 All passages in Virgil’s Aeneid in which Dido is discussed or in which she appears were selected for analysis. These are 1.297–304, 335–371, 494–756; 4.1–705; 6.450–474. 5 Cairns and Nelis 2017: 10; Carr et al. 2018. 6 Dancygier 2012: 119–138. 7 See e.g. Uhlfelder 1955; Rudd 1976; Monti 1981; Segal 1990; Swanepoel 1995; F. Cairns 1989; Nelis 2001; Nappa 2007; Hardie 2014. 8 See the work of Irene de Jong, e.g. De Jong 2004 and De Jong 2014.

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narrator, but also by secondary narrator-focalizers and secondary focalizers. Dido observes her own emotions and speaks about them on several occasions. Aeneas does not talk much about Dido’s emotions, but he is the secondary focalizer at several moments in the corpus. It is at these moments when he is watching Dido or thinking about her that Dido’s emotions are portrayed. Other secondary narrator-focalizers and focalizers are Dido’s friend Anna, the gods Juno, Venus and Mercurius, Fama, the African king Jarbas, the people in Carthage and Dido’s servants.9

Textual Expressions of Emotion The third aspect of the close reading focused on the following textual expression of emotions:10 – Explicit emotional concepts for abstract mental states: A straightforward and direct means of the portrayal of emotions is the use of explicit emotional concepts. Explicit concepts used in the corpus refer to basic emotions such as joy, fear, anger and sadness, but also to derivatives like love and frenzy. Examples of the Latin expressions used as labels of abstract mental states are laeta, timens, ira, maerens and amor and furor.11 – Internal and external processes: Abstract mental states are distinguished from internal and external processes associated with these states. Internal processes describe how people feel when they are in a specific mental state, external processes are their outside features. The distinction is helpful in analysing the ways in which Dido’s emotions are expressed. At the beginning of Book 4, Dido is presented as being wounded with a grievous love-pang (saucia graui cura, 4.1). The following lines then describe the accompanying internal processes by means of metaphors of wounds and fire going through her veins (4.2–3). A co-occurring external process is insomnia (4.5). – Behaviour: An example of telling behaviour is when Dido repeatedly questions Aeneas at the end of the first book, hanging on his every word (1.748– 756). Her behaviour illustrates her increasing love for Aeneas, a mental state

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For Dido’s role as secondary external narratee of Aeneas’ narrative in Books 2–3, see Harrison in this volume. These were based on the characterization techniques as presented in De Temmerman and Van Emde Boas 2018, and adapted by means of the corpus analysis. The term abstract mental states is used in research of cognitive and affective mental states, investigating, for instance, the ability of humans to recognize mental states in others, see Carr et al. 2018: 538. See also Cairns 2015: 78.

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made explicit in the context by the primary narrator (amorem, 1.748). Dido explicitly describes her emotions in several of her speeches, but even when she does not her words themselves are telling, especially when they are full of exclamations, invectives, and (sarcastic) rhetorical questions. – Space: After her death, Dido inhabits the Campi Lugentes, the mourning fields, in the Underworld (6.441). These are named after the emotions of their inhabitants who died from love. Thus, this space is a literal reflection of Dido’s emotions.12 In other scenes, too, the space in which the story takes place is telling of Dido’s emotions, with the city of Carthage as the most telling example (see below). – Similes: Several similes contribute to the portrayal of Dido’s emotions. An example is the simile in which the excited mental state of a Thyiad during a Bacchic festival is indicated by means of an explicit emotional concept (excita, 4.296–301). Dido is compared to this Thyiad, and thus her excited mental state may also be attributed to Dido. Often, these techniques are used in combination. This is illustrated in the first scene of Book 4, a long portrayal of Dido’s emotions in which all types occur (4.1–89). Dido talks about her emotions to Anna, who acknowledges them (4.9– 29 and 4.31–53). Dido sheds tears (external process, 4.30) and feels love and hope surge through her body (explicit concepts and internal processes, 4.54– 55). Her behaviour is in line with these emotions, as she wanders through her city in a frenzy. A simile in which she is compared to a wounded doe adds to the portrayal of her emotions, as the wounded doe’s behaviour is due to agitation and pain (4.69–73). Dido takes Aeneas on tours through the city, feels how her voice gets stuck in her throat, thinks about him and cannot sleep (behaviour, internal and external processes, 4.74–85). The city of Carthage and its inhabitants have come to a halt (space, 4.86–89). The speeches, details, inner processes, and movement together make this portrayal of Dido’s emotions an example of an immersive passage in which the narratees are made aware of what this situation is like for Dido.13 The textual expressions elaborate the frame of a woman who is unhappily in love, and

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For the psychological function of space (and other functions of space), see De Jong 2012: 16. Compare in this volume also Kirstein on the spatial arrangement of the encounter of Odysseus and Nausicaa in Odyssey 6, and Müllner on the body-based experience of space in the Hebrew Bible. See Allan et al. 2017 on features of immersion (in Greek narrative) and Grethlein and Huitink 2017 on the effect of movement (in Greek, Homeric narrative). Compare also the contributions of Allan, and Van Gils and Kroon, to this volume, and see also the Introduction for a brief overview.

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this frame itself is enhanced even more by references to other unhappy lovers such as Ariadne and Medea (see below). Together, these mechanisms seem to be directed at making narratees experience for themselves what it is like to be unhappily and impossibly in love.

Framing Dido’s Emotions Frames, narrator-focalizers and textual expressions of emotions were the main parameters in a close reading analysis of the corpus. In addition, intertextual references were taken into account when they interacted with the frames in this corpus. Especially the frame of Dido as an unhappy lover seems to be affected by intertextual references. The results of the close reading analysis make up the remainder of this article, which is presented according to the frames identified.

Carthaginian Carthage and the Punic wars are introduced into the Aeneid at its very beginning (1.12–22), evoking a Carthaginian frame of anger and hostility against the Romans. This frame is confirmed when Jupiter sends Mercurius to Carthage in preparation of Aeneas’ arrival. The people of Carthage have savage thoughts ( ferocia corda, 1.303). Mercurius tempers those feelings, thus putting the frame of ferocious Carthaginians on hold. He ensures that their queen will receive the Trojans with a gentle mind (quietum animum) and a gracious mood (benignam mentem, 1.304). The expectations of the narratees are explicitly regulated in this passage, they are informed that the Carthaginian frame is, temporarily at least, not in play. The frame recurs in Dido’s penultimate speech, however. As soon as Aeneas has left, Mercurius’ influence seems to have lifted, and hostile and envious emotions associated with the Carthaginian frame become apparent, especially in the last part of the speech (4.621–629). After cursing Aeneas, Dido invokes hate for his offspring in her people, urging on an avenger, unknown to her (aliquis ultor, 4.625). The narratees, however, easily recognize this avenger as Rome’s most feared enemy Hannibal. Dido shows that her benignam mentem has vanished, paving the way for centuries of hate and hostility between Carthage and Rome.

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Wife and Widow Venus is the secondary narrator-focalizer who introduces Dido properly into the story. ‘Her husband was Sychaeus’, she explains to Aeneas, and points out that he was fondly loved by Dido (1.350). Thus, a frame of a loving and grieving widow is introduced. Emotions of love and grief for Sychaeus are not extensively portrayed in the corpus, especially not in the text of the primary narrator. Dido’s widowed status and her love for Sychaeus are mostly used as a backdrop to give relief to the sweeping changes that Aeneas’ arrival brings about in her mental state. At 1.721 the narrator for the first time indicates that Amor was replacing Dido’s love for Sychaeus with feelings for Aeneas (1.721). Dido herself refers to Sychaeus three times, once in a speech to Anna and twice in a soliloquy. In addition, she sees and hears him in dreams and visions (4.460). It is only in her speech to Anna that she talks about her feelings for Sychaeus. She does so by means of explicit emotional concepts and an internal process (sensus; animum labantem; uestigia flammae, 4.22–23). She compares her feelings for Aeneas with her old love for Sychaeus. In her later soliloquies, Dido regrets that she has not kept the faith vowed to Sychaeus’ ashes (4.552), and, in her very last speech, claims that she has avenged him by successfully leaving her old country and building a new city (4.656). Anna is the only other character who thinks of Dido’s love for Sychaeus, but only in comparison to her feelings for Aeneas. After Aeneas has left her, Anna does not suspect that Dido is in a worse state than she was when Sychaeus died (4.502). Sychaeus and Dido appear one last time in the Aeneid. In the Underworld, after Aeneas has spoken to Dido, she flees from him, moving into nearby woods where she is met by her husband Sychaeus. The narrator focuses on the mutual love between Dido and Sychaeus, referring to the latter as coniunx, and using the word amor to portray their emotions (aequatque Sychaeus amorem, 6.473– 476). This third and last mention of Sychaeus by the primary narrator makes Dido’s role of loving wife the one she will have forever, residing in the Underworld in Sychaeus’ vicinity. Dido leaves Aeneas behind, in both a physical and emotional sense.14

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See Adema 2013: 151.

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Refugee Aeneas is fato profugus, exiled by fate, as is stated in the first lines of the Aeneid. The emotions due to this exiled state play an important role, and are portrayed in many ways on many occasions in the story. An example is the scene of the storm, which narrates in detail how Aeneas experiences his toils and wishes he had died in Troy instead (1.92–123). Aeneas’ case makes clear that the frame of a refugee is associated with a mental state of distress and turmoil. Most human beings will be able to imagine to some extent how distressful it would be to have to leave your country behind. Dido, too, is a refugee. Although emotions of a refugee are enclosed in the fabula of Dido’s life, they are not given much attention in its story. This part of her life is presented in summary by Venus, who refers to Dido’s emotions by means of one explicit emotional concept (commota, 1.360). The refugee frame illustrates, again, that it is a narratological decision how much attention is given to certain emotions. In this case, the primary narrator made a choice not to elaborate on the emotions associated with the frame of a refugee. He merely hints at it, when a reference is made to Dido’s nurse, who is buried in her old country (4.632–633). Like Venus, several other secondary narrator-focalizers bring up Dido’s status as a refugee. Dido herself alludes to this frame and its concomitant emotions as part of her introduction to Aeneas (1.628–631). Dido does not focus on her own turmoil, but uses her experience (non ignara mali, 1.631) to express her empathy for Aeneas and the Trojans, thus connecting her history to that of Aeneas.15 Here, Dido presents herself in a state of psychological well-being and able to help refugees. In one of her soliloquies, Dido, again, does not focus on her own emotions as a refugee, but takes the endured turmoil of her people into account in her decision not to follow Aeneas (4.544–546). Dido’s status as a refugee is brought up by Anna, who makes the point that this status is a potential danger (4.36–44). This is confirmed when king Jarbas angrily prays to Jupiter (4.211–214). Aeneas uses Dido’s former status as a refugee to try to create sympathy for his position and asks her not to be unfair and jealous (inuidia, 4.350), because he only wants to achieve for himself and his people what she herself has already achieved for her Carthaginians. The turmoil and distress of a refugee are clearly not emotions that haunt Dido in this phase of her life. She remembers them, and this has an effect of empathy, first for Aeneas and later for her people. Others (Jarbas, Aeneas) men-

15

Seider 2013: 99.

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tion her status as a refugee, but do not connect it to her emotions. Rather, these others expect a grateful and understanding attitude from Dido as a result of her past flight and entry to a new region.

Queen Dido is referred to as regina on many occasions, especially in Book 1. The frequent use of the noun emphasizes Dido’s role as queen of Carthage and evokes the frame and associated emotions of a leader. At her first real appearance in the corpus (1.494–508), Dido displays the characteristics and emotions befitting a good leader, as constructed for the Homeric and epic context, and for the specific cultural-historical context of the Aeneid.16 Dido shows mildness and gentleness towards her people and the Trojans, she loves her city and its people, and she is their confident and contented leader. Aeneas is the secondary focalizer of this episode. Before he sees Dido, the space of her city portrays her energy and leadership. The hustle and bustle of building activities support the idea of Dido’s confident and contented emotional state (1.446–493).17 This is corroborated in the ensuing lines (1.494–509) by her behaviour and appearance, the explicit emotional concept laeta (1.504) and a simile in which she is compared to Diana (1.489–502). In the simile, no explicit emotional concepts are used, but from Diana’s behaviour and situation narratees may infer her pleased and proud state of mind and, thereby also Dido’s mental state. Dido’s first speeches, too, support this impression of her state of mind. She speaks in a benign and comforting way to the Trojan Ilioneus (1.562–588) and Aeneas (1.615–630), inviting them into her newly founded city. Internal and external processes associated with a benign state of mind could be a feeling of warmth, a smile or a relaxed posture. The narrator does not use these processes to indicate to his narratees what it is like to be Dido in this role as a benign leader. One possible reason for this could be an interest of the narrator for the more dynamic internal and external processes of turmoil. Another reason could be that attention for the internal and external bodily processes are 16

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See e.g. the contributions in Klooster and Van den Berg 2018, of which De Jonge 2018 specifically focuses on king Evander’s character in the Aeneid. For leadership in the Augustan cultural-historical context of the Aeneid, see Monti 1981; Cairns 1989; Nappa 2007. Nelis 2001: 180–183 discusses similarities between Dido and queen Hypsipyle in Apollonius’ Argonautica, as does Krevans 2002 who points out references to Hypsipyle in Dido’s death scene. The intertextual references help to evoke the frame, like later references to Medea and Ariadne contribute to the frame of unhappy lovers (see below). Adema 2019: 63–65.

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specifically reserved for Dido in her role as an unhappy lover (see below), giving the latter role more prominence. Dido’s first appearance thus presents her as a good leader with feelings of love for her people, and her benign and contented state of mind is portrayed by means of almost all techniques available, apart from the description of internal and external processes. Dido’s love for her people needs to compete with her feelings for Aeneas. The primary narrator focuses on her love in the course of Book 4, but Dido herself tries to find a way to fit her feelings for Aeneas into her role as a queen. She does so by trying to reshape this role, and her self-image. Dido’s idea of herself as a queen first included independence and an unmarried status, connected to her widowhood.18 Anna persuades her that a marriage with Aeneas will make Carthage stronger (4.47–49), thus explicitly alluding to her emotions as a queen. Dido seems to adapt her view on queenhood to that of a married queen. Together, Anna and Dido imagine that Dido will be a loving wife to Aeneas, and that they will together love their people and the city of Carthage. Juno observes this (4.90–93) and agrees, being a queen and loving wife of Jupiter herself (cara Iouis coniunx, 4.91). While Dido, with Anna and Juno, has reshaped their idea of a good leader, the primary narrator uses the space of the city of Carthage to show how this immediately results in a decrease of her attention for her people and city (4.86– 90). Like Dido, the city and its inhabitants do not fulfil their normal duties (opera interrupta). Later on, it is Aeneas who oversees Carthage’s building activities (4.260). His supervision of the resumed construction work is in line with Dido’s new ideas on being a married queen. She loves Aeneas, who, in turn, loves both their peoples and behaves as a good leader to Carthage. This is a misconception, as is made clear to the narratees by means of speeches by Jupiter and Mercurius, and Aeneas’ ensuing thoughts and behaviour (4.265–295). Dido realizes her relational and political mistake soon afterwards (4.296). The frame of a good leader gives way to that of an unhappy lover (see below). In addition, Dido needs to come to terms with failure in her role as a good leader. These feelings of frustration and failure are portrayed mostly by means of references to her people in her speeches (and not in primary narrator text). Dido points out the consequences of Aeneas’ departure for her city and people (4.320–326). She feels as if she has lost her people and looks for them in her

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Nappa 2007 even argues that Dido wishes she could have stayed unmarried all her life, like the goddess Diana.

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dreams (4.468). In a soliloquy, she deliberates political solutions, and considers the turmoil she has already put her people through (4.534–536; 4.544–546). She is worried that Aeneas’ actions have turned Carthage into a laughing stock (4.591). It is, thus, not only the frame of a good leader itself that plays a role in the portrayal of Dido’s emotions. More importantly, it is Dido’s insight into the loss of this part of her identity. This is portrayed by means of her own remarks and thoughts about the Carthaginians, and by using the space of Carthage once more at the end of Dido’s life. Lamentation and shrieking sound in the palace in response to the news of Dido’s death (4.665–671). The situation in the palace is compared to a hypothetical situation in which Carthage would be under siege and being destroyed by an enemy, reflecting Dido’s emotional destruction. The frame of a failing queen clearly converges with another frame, the frame which is most foregrounded: that of Dido as an unhappy lover.

Tormented, Unhappy and Eventually Abandoned Lover The frequent use of the combination infelix Dido points the narratees to a frame of a tormented, unhappy and eventually abandoned lover. The frame is introduced into the story when Venus sends her son Amor to Carthage to make Dido fall in love. It is during this night that Dido is referred to as infelix (1.712; 1.749) for the first time, and portrayed as being ignorant of what lies ahead (inscia Dido, 1.719). Austin claims that a reader with no knowledge of the story could not necessarily infer from this that Dido would die, but adds ‘if there ever were such [a reader, SA]’. The word infelix, together with knowledge of stories about other unhappy lovers, helps with the anticipation of a sequence of mental states associated with the frame of an unhappy lover, entangled in an impossible relationship.19 In addition, intertextual cues evoke the frame of unhappy and abandoned lovers like Medea and Ariadne, or even of Penthesileia and Cleopatra.20 The text contains images and textual echoes from Euripides’ Medea, Apollonius’

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The use of infelix and references to unhappy and abandoned lovers may be read as a way for the narrator to make clear that he will deviate from other, more chaste versions of Dido’s story, versions in which she never meets Aeneas. See Hardie (2014: 51ff.) for a discussion of other versions of the story. The similarities are pointed out and discussed by commentaries and in studies, e.g. Uhlfelder 1955: 310; Monti 1981; Segal 1990; Toohey 1992; Swanepoel 1995; Nelis 2001; Nappa 2007.

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Argonautica, and Catullus’ poem on Ariadne (64).21 Just one example is the moment at which Dido beholds her empty shores, with Aeneas’ ships far away at sea, for which Catullus 64 is an intertext. Aeneas has left during the night, and as soon as there is light, from her window Dido spots the sails in the distance and the empty harbour (4.584–588). Her view is described without much evaluation. The referential expressions used for the fleet of Aeneas and his oarsmen are neutral substantives (classem; remige) and do not indicate Dido’s opinion on this Trojan fleet or their leader, Aeneas. Her focalization, the fact that it is Dido who sees this, influences the interpretation of seemingly neutral words like empty harbour (uacuos portus). It makes the narratees imagine what this view means to Dido, and thus, attribute emotions to her. This process is both facilitated and intensified if they also know Catullus’ lines in which Ariadne wakes up, all alone on the shore and seeing Theseus’ ships at sea (Catul. 64. 52–57 and 249–250). In the next lines, it is the vengefulness of abandoned lovers like Medea that contributes to identifying Dido’s emotions, as she strikes her breast, tears her hair, and bursts out with an angry and resentful speech.22 When she starts to speak, the narratees hear that it is not only the frame of an unhappy lover that is at play here. The passage started with regina and the frame of queen is foregrounded in Dido’s words, as she immediately expresses the consequences for her city. Carthage will be a laughing stock (4.591). Feelings of responsibility for others and more egotistic feelings of loss and anger compete in this scene.23 The frame of unhappy lover resonates in virtually every scene, and the associated emotions are frequently given explicit attention by means of one or more textual expressions of emotions. This has already been illustrated above, in my discussion of the portrayal of emotions in the first ninety lines of Book 4. The ensuing scene makes clear that Juno has observed all this, and she discusses the situation with Venus (4.90–128). Juno is the only character other than Dido herself who expresses what goes on inside Dido’s body (internal processes). She recognizes a pestis in Dido, and observes that she is burning with love and that madness has pervaded Dido’s bones (4.90 and 4.101). Then, the next scene is the hunting scene in which Dido and Aeneas end up in the same cave (4.129–173). It gives relatively little information on Dido’s emotions, especially not at the start. Like the princes outside Dido’s palace (4.130–134), the narratees seem excluded from what goes on in Dido’s mind

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For unrequited love (and song as a cure) in Theocritus’ Idylls, see Klooster in this volume. On Dido and Apollonius’ Medea, see Nelis 2001. See Monti 1981.

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and are only informed that she hesitates (cunctantem, 4.134). The moment and Dido’s hesitancy have been interpreted as the moment in which she turns from a queen into a bride.24 However, it is not until the end of the scene that Dido’s emotions are portrayed more explicitly. The primary narrator evaluates this day in a narratorial comment in which he states that this day was the first of her fatal destiny (4.169). Dido’s emotion is no longer a furtiuum amorem, but she calls it a marriage. It is clear to the narratees that the frame of the unhappy and abandoned lover has become inescapable, but Dido sees this as a change from an independent queen into a married queen (see above). For her, the frame of an abandonment is not yet in sight. In the ensuing scene, Fama presents Dido’s story to everyone in the neighbourhood, and apart from the explicit emotional concept cupidine (4.194), Dido’s emotions are backgrounded. This continues in Jarbas’ angry speech (4.198–218) and, especially, in the ensuing scene between Jupiter and Mercurius (4.219–258). Jupiter completely focuses on Aeneas and his fate (4.219–258), as does Mercurius in his first speech to Aeneas (4.259–278). Aeneas’ reaction to this speech mostly focuses on the task ahead of him, but he does know what Dido feels (reginam furentem; amores, 4.279–295), and is worried as to how he should deal with these feelings.25 In the scene of the big fight between Dido and Aeneas, Dido’s invectives, exclamations and sarcastic rhetorical questions reflect her emotions (4.296– 392). The narrator uses a narratorial comment at the start of the episode to refer to the frame of a lover, asking ‘Who may deceive a lover?’ (4.296). The primary narrator text contains external and internal processes, Dido’s behaviour, and a simile (4.296–304; 4.362–364; 4.388–392). Aeneas does not acknowledge these emotions, and refers to her earlier speech as querelis, complaints (4.360), presenting all of Dido’s emotions as unjustified frustration. An episode as intense as the start of Book 4 follows a brief interlude in which Aeneas prepares his departure. In an apostrophe, the primary narrator asks Dido what feelings she had (4.408–412), thereby strongly inviting the nar-

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See Segal 1990, who discusses the interpretation of this moment by Servius and Austin. The worries and doubts of Aeneas are portrayed by means of an internal process, explicit emotional concepts, and free indirect rhetorical questions (279–286). This is one of the (very) few occasions in which Aeneas’ emotions are portrayed in Book 4. Moreover, the narrator tends to focus on how Aeneas feels about Dido’s emotions, not on what he himself feels for Dido (e.g. 393–394). Most attention seems to be given to a time in which Aeneas does not show emotions, when the narrator combines explicit mental emotional concepts (negated) and a simile to describe that Aeneas is not moved by Anna’s pleas (439–450).

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ratees to imagine these feelings.26 In what follows, explicit emotional concepts, internal and external processes, Dido’s speeches, focalization, behaviour, and similes together form a powerful and immersive portrayal of Dido’s despair and her decision to die (4.413–553). Anna is a secondary focalizer in a part of this episode. She meets with Dido, but Dido has put on a brave face at that moment, concealing her emotions (4.477). Even when Anna sees a pallor spread over Dido’s face (external process, 4.499), Anna does not suspect a worse reaction than when Sychaeus died. After a second warning by Mercurius, Aeneas leaves (4.571–583), and what follows is the scene described above in which Dido sees her empty shore. Until her death, Dido’s behaviour, internal and external processes and explicit emotional concepts focus on her emotions as an unhappy lover. She addresses these emotions in her soliloquies, but pays attention to her other roles as well, as became clear in earlier sections. In her penultimate speech, she calls herself infelix Dido, and looks back at the moment in which she gave her sceptre away (4.595–597). The realization that she is now, indeed, an unhappy lover brings about anger and feelings of revenge, which become clear from her ensuing words in which she states she could have killed Aeneas, and continues with a curse for Aeneas and his men. This is a moment in which the frames of the unhappy lover, a queen and ferocious Carthaginian converge. Dido’s final emotions are portrayed by means of secondary focalizers, viz. the inhabitants of the palace, Anna, and Juno. They see Dido’s attempt to look at Anna and prop herself on her elbow to come closer to her, portraying the emotional turmoil in her last moments (4.688–692). The frame of the unhappy lover and its concomitant emotions are portrayed in Book 4 in several intense and immersive passages, alternated with passages in which these emotions are temporarily ignored or briefly alluded to by means of an explicit emotional concept. The immersive passages in which there are all kinds of textual expressions of emotions make the frame of the unhappy lover by far the most foregrounded in the Aeneid.

Conclusion Dido’s emotions are portrayed by the primary narrator, Dido herself and other characters. Textual expressions of emotions used in the corpus are explicit

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On (metaleptic) apostrophe and its effects upon the narratee, see Allan and Van den Broek in this volume.

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emotional concepts, internal and external processes, Dido’s speeches and her behaviour, similes and space. The primary narrator uses all of these techniques; secondary narrator-focalizers mostly use explicit emotional concepts. Dido herself and Juno seem to be the only characters who make use of internal processes in their portrayal of emotions. Dido fulfilled many roles in her life, and each of these roles functions as a frame, raising expectations of certain emotions in narratees. Dido keeps track of all her roles and refers to all of them in her last speech, presenting the main points of her life (4.655–658). ‘A noble city I have built’, she says in reference to her role as queen of the Carthaginians. She continues with the revenge for her husband (widow) and punishment of her brother (refugee). She gives most attention to Aeneas’ betrayal, claiming that she would have been happy ( felix), very happy even, if Trojan keels had never reached her shores. The primary narrator clearly focuses mostly on the emotional curve of unhappy and abandoned lovers, with other abandoned ones like Medea and Ariadne as intertextual examples. He portrays these emotions in impressive, immersive passages in which all types of textual expressions are alternated. The recurring use of the word regina and other references to the frame of a queen add an extra layer of inner conflict to these passages. Dido wants to be the lover of Aeneas and the responsible queen of Carthage. Using all textual tools at his disposal, the narrator lets his narratees witness or even experience Dido’s tragic attempt to combine her incompatible roles.

Bibliography Adema, S.M., ‘No Boundaries in Time or Space, Nec Metas Rerum Nec Tempora’, in J. Heirman, J.J.H. Klooster, (eds.), Ideologies of Lived Space (Ghent 2013) 143– 158. Adema, S.M., Tenses in Vergil’s Aeneid. Narrative Style and Structure (Leiden 2019). Allan, R.J., de Jong, I.J.F., de Jonge, C.C., ‘From Enargeia to Immersion: The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept’, Style 51 (2017) 34–51. Austin, R.G., P. Virgili Maronis. Aeneidos, Liber Primus (Oxford 1971). Austin, R.G., P. Virgili Maronis. Aeneidos, Liber Quartus (Oxford 1955). Austin, R.G., P. Virgili Maronis. Aeneidos, Liber Sextus (Oxford 1977). Cairns, D., Nelis, D. (eds.), Emotions in the Classical World (Stuttgart 2017). Cairns, D., ‘The Horror and the Pity: Phrikē as a Tragic Emotion’, Psychoanalytic Inquiry 35 (2015) 75–94. Cairns, F., Virgil’s Augustan Epic (Cambridge 1989). Carr, E.V., Kever, A., Winkielman, P., ‘Embodiment of Emotion and its Situated Nature’,

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in A. Newen, L. de Bruin, S. Gallagher (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of 4E Cognition (Oxford 2018) 529–552. Dancygier, B., The Language of Stories. A Cognitive Approach (Cambridge 2012). De Temmerman, K., Emde Boas, E. van (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018). Duijn, M.J. van, Sluiter, I., Verhagen, A., ‘When Narrative Takes Over: The Representation of Embedded Mindstates in Shakespeare’s Othello’, Language and Literature 24 (2015) 148–166. Fairclough, H.R., Virgil, Eclogues, Georgics, Aeneid (Cambridge, MA 1999). Grethlein, J., Huitink, L., ‘Homer’s Vividness: an Enactive Approach’, JHS 137 (2017) 67– 91. Hardie, P., The Last Trojan Hero. A Cultural History of Virgil’s Aeneid (London / New York 2014). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London [1987] 2nd edn. 2004). Jong, I.J.F. de, Space in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2012). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narratology and Classics. A Practical Guide (Oxford 2014). Jonge, C.C. de, ‘Eumaeus, Evander, and Augustus: Dionysius and Virgil on Noble Simplicity’, in J.J.H. Klooster, B. van den Berg (eds.), Homer and the Good Ruler in Antiquity and Beyond (Leiden 2018) 157–181. Klooster, J.J.H., Berg, B. van den (eds.), Homer and the Good Ruler in Antiquity and Beyond (Leiden 2018) Krevans, N., ‘Dido, Hypsipyle, and the Bedclothes’, Hermathena 173–174 (2002–2003) 175–183. Monti, R.C., The Dido Episode and the Aeneid. Roman Social and Political Values in the Epic (Leiden 1981). Mynors, R.A.B., P. Virgili Maronis, Opera (Oxford 1969). Nappa, C., ‘Unmarried Dido: Aeneid 4.550–552’, Hermes 135 (2007) 301–313. Nelis, D., Vergil’s Aeneid and the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius (Leeds 2001). Rudd, N., ‘IDEA: Dido’s Culpa’, in N. Rudd, Lines of Enquiry: Studies in Latin Poetry (Cambridge 1976) 32–53. Segal, C., ‘Dido’s Hesitation in Aeneid 4’, Classical World 84 (1990) 1–12. Seider, A., Memory in Vergil’s Aeneid. Creating the Past (Cambridge 2013). Swanepoel, J., ‘Infelix Dido. Vergil and the Notion of the Tragic’, Akroterion 50 (1995) 30–46. Toohey, P., ‘Love, Lovesickness, and Melancholia’, ICS 17 (1992) 265–286. Uhlfelder, M.L., ‘Medea, Ariadne and Dido’, CJ 50 (1955) 310–312.

chapter 36

Emotional Apostrophes in Silius Italicus’ Punica 6 Pieter van den Broek

Apostrophe is a device that ancient narrators used for a number of purposes.1 As De Jong explains, apostrophe ‘adds to the authenticity of the story and the admiration for the semi-divine heroes. At the individual level it is a pragmatically marked utterance which may be employed to highlight emotional or crucial events.’2 Whereas the Iliad and Odyssey contain a relatively low number of cases, the use of apostrophe increases in the later epic tradition. Especially in the imperial age, Latin epics contain a high number of apostrophes, not only directed to gods, human characters or groups, but also to inanimate addressees, such as cities, lakes or rivers. Silius Italicus’ Punica, an epic written in the late first century ce on the Second Punic War, contains within its seventeen books approximately 108 apostrophes.3 In spite of its frequency, apostrophe in the Punica has not received much attention in modern scholarship. This paper tries to fill part of that gap by exploring the emotional force of this trope in Book 6 of Silius’ epic. This book contains a long flashback to the First Punic War, in which the republican hero Regulus features as the principal character. A former comrade of Regulus, Marus, is the narrator of this embedded story and Serranus, Regulus’ son, his narratee. The latter happened to be a soldier in the battle at Lake Trasimene (Book 5). Looking for shelter after the Roman defeat, the young man chanced upon the home of his father’s comrade. The embedded narrative starts off with an apostrophe to Regulus and is followed by many more, also in the ensuing main narrative. Therefore, Book 6 might serve as a marked-off unit for investigating apostrophes in Silius’ long

1 Apostrophe has received quite some scholarly attention over the last two decades, e.g. De Jong 2009: 93–97 on Greek literature, mainly focussing on Homer; Klooster 2013 on Homer, Apollonius, and Callimachus; Nauta 2013: 234–243 on Latin literature; Georgacopoulou 2005 on Statius; Asso 2008 on Lucan. An older study on this device in Latin epic is Endt 1905. In this volume, see the contributions of Allan and Verhelst. Apostrophe in Silius has not been treated systematically. This paper finds its origin in my PhD dissertation on embedded narratives in Silius Italicus’ Punica, supervised by Irene de Jong and Mark Heerink. I thank Ai Ling Kloprogge for correcting my English. 2 De Jong 2009: 97. 3 The number comes from Hampel 1908: 51.

© Pieter van den Broek, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_038

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epic. In which ways do the narrators in Book 6 use apostrophes for channelling their emotions? How do they mark which emotion they are trying to convey? Do the narrators try to influence the emotions of their narratees by apostrophes, and if so, in which way? And to what extent is the emotional force of the apostrophe in the Punica indebted to the earlier epic tradition? That Regulus will be the focal point of Marus’ narrative is already clear when the primary narrator identifies Serranus as one of the Roman fugitives: Serranus, a famous name, is your son, Regulus, you whose fame ever increases with the passage of time, and of whom it will never be forgotten that you kept faith with the faithless Carthaginians. Serranus was in the flower of his youth; but, alas, he had begun the Punic war with his father’s ill-fortune, and now, sore-wounded, he sought in sad plight to return to his unhappy mother and the home he loved. sil. 6.62–684 Serranus is called ‘a famous name’ (clarum nomen). The default interpretation is that he comes from a famous family, due to his father’s renown.5 The narrator then turns away from his default addressees and apostrophizes Regulus (Regule; memorabere), before explaining Serranus’ situation. When he turns back to Serranus, he stresses the similarity of fate between father and son: Serranus entered the battle of Trasimene under the bad omen of his father’s example.6 The Carthaginians ambushed Regulus, made him a prisoner of war, and finally executed him. The three aspects of apostrophe that De Jong signals in the Greek tradition all apply to this example. Firstly, the apostrophe by the primary narrator suggests that Regulus, like Homeric heroes, is a person with a semi-divine status, an idea that is developed later in the narrative, as I will explain below. Secondly, it highlights the emotional involvement of the narrator at this point in the narrative: Regulus’ son Serranus is heavily wounded. The emotional force of the apostrophe is underlined by the interjection ‘alas’ (heu) in 6.65. Finally, the apostrophe underlines the importance of the Roman defeat at Lake Trasimene. It is remarkable, however, that the primary narrator does not apostrophize the

4 Translations are taken from Duff 1934, with adaptations. Duff often does not render Silius’ apostrophes in English. 5 At the same time, Serranus is an otherwise unknown son of Regulus. Clarum nomen is therefore self-referential: it is this narrative in the Punica that will make Serranus famous. On the name Serranus, see Spaltenstein 1986: 395 and Fröhlich 2000: 150–151. 6 Fröhlich 2000: 127–128.

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character of his narrative (Serranus), but rather his father. In this way, the narrator anticipates Regulus’ status as main character of the embedded narrative that Marus is about to tell by already apostrophizing him here.7 When Serranus reaches the humble abode of Marus, a similar example of apostrophe occurs. Marus instantly recognizes the wounded soldier who knocks at his door as the son of Regulus. Without addressing Serranus, he apostrophizes his former general: What horror is this I see!—I who have lived too long and was born to suffer too much adversity. I have seen you, greatest of generals, when your aspect terrified the citadel of Carthage, though you were a prisoner. sil. 6.81–84

Here too the apostrophe anticipates Marus’ narrative on Regulus that will follow. The old man continues his monologue blaming Jupiter for what has happened to Regulus in the past and wondering whether the gods are concerned about the Romans at all now that his son has also been suffering from the Carthaginians: ‘Ah, where are you again now, gods?’ (6.87). The gods will be conspicuously absent in the ensuing narrative, recalling the absence of the gods in Lucan’s Bellum Civile. The next morning, Serranus invokes the gods as well. His prayer shows many correspondences with that of Marus.8 Like the old man, he shows strong emotions, laments his own situation, and holds the gods, especially Jupiter, responsible for the sufferings of the Romans. Finally, Serranus also apostrophizes his father Regulus: I swear by your soul, my deity, that I sought death in striking the enemy— a death befitting the famous sufferings of my father; but cruel fate denied me death, as it had once done to my father. sil. 6.113–116

With the words ‘my deity’ (mea numina) Serranus addresses the manes of Regulus, stressing the godlike status of his father.9 Once more we are prepared

7 On apostrophe as a metaleptic device, see De Jong 2009: 93–97, Nauta 2013: 235, and Allan in this volume. 8 Fröhlich 2000: 137–138. 9 So Ruperti 1795: 409; Spaltenstein 1986: 398–399; Fröhlich 2000: 134; they compare Aeneas’ words in Verg. Aen. 2.431–434. In Ov. Her. 3.105 we find another parallel for our passage: Briseis uses mea numina in an oath, referring to her brothers that were killed.

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for the ensuing narrative on Regulus that emphasizes his almost supernatural abilities to endure hardship, like Lucan’s Cato. After this lament, Marus speaks for the first time directly to Serranus with the vocative fortissime (‘bravest’, 6.118) before starting his narrative on Regulus. Serranus, on the other hand, does not address Marus until 6.425 (Mare). In the meantime, Serranus apostrophizes two other entities: Lake Trasimene (6.296– 298) and, for the second time, his father: ‘Great father,’ he said, ‘not less divine to me than even the deity who dwells on the Tarpeian rock, if love has a right to complain, why did you so sternly deny my mother and me this consolation and this glory—to touch your sacred face and take kisses from your lips? Was I forbidden to clasp your hand in mine? How much lighter my present wounds would be, had I been allowed to carry to the grave the undying memory of your embrace, o worshipful father.’ sil. 6.416–424

This apostrophe is even more daring than the one in Serranus’ first prayer. There he addressed Jupiter (genitor, 6.105), before invoking his father (mea numina, 6.113). This prayer starts with an apostrophe to Regulus as ‘great father’ (magne parens, 6.416), a grandiloquent form of address that is usually reserved for Jupiter.10 It therefore prepares for what Serranus goes on to say, that his father is as mighty, or perhaps even mightier, than the supreme god himself.11 The assimilation between Regulus and Jupiter is so hyperbolic that it is hard to read as a mere compliment. In fact, Serranus continues to accuse his father of having been too harsh on his family (o dure, 6.419). When he came back to Rome as a prisoner, he did not comfort his wife or allow his family to touch him.12 Nonetheless, Serranus addresses him as a godlike figure (uenerande, 6.424). His father is someone who should be honoured as a god, but this superhuman status makes the distance on a personal level perhaps only greater. The apostrophes, thus, rather stress the unbridgeable gap between father and son. Regulus’ wife Marcia is the third person in the embedded narrative to address him. She stands on the threshold of their house when Regulus passes by as captive of the Carthaginian envoys. She implores him to stay in his own

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E.g. Sen. Ag. 655. Cf. the cognate magne pater in Verg. Aen. 9.495 and Val. Fl. 5.644. This recalls two identical apostrophes of Domitian in Statius’ Silvae, in which the emperor is put on a par with or even surpassing the father of the gods: Stat. Silv. 4.1.17 and 4.2.15, with Coleman 1988: 72; 89–90. Fröhlich 2000: 257.

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house instead of the lodgings of the Carthaginians (6.437–438). She does so again when Regulus sails off to Carthage. First, she addresses him as husband (coniunx, 6.501), and begs to be taken with him to Carthage. As Regulus does not react, the tone of her words becomes hostile, and she accuses him of faithlessness—infidelity probably being the worst insult she can voice: ‘But where is now the compact you made with me, and the fidelity you promised at our marriage, unfaithful one?’ (6.517–518).13 From coniunx Regulus now becomes perfidus, an adjective with a strong Virgilian ring. Dido famously called Aeneas perfide twice (Verg. Aen. 4.305, 366) and referred to him once more as perfidus to her sister Anna (Aen. 4.421).14 Whereas Aeneas had at least tried to comfort Dido, Regulus does not answer Marcia, as if he has not heard the words of his wife at all. Although in these cases the general is addressed when physically present, he seems as unapproachable as in the earlier apostrophes in Book 6. Regulus does, however, hear the words of his wife: ‘These final words then penetrated his harsh ears’ (ultima uox duras haec tunc penetrauit ad aures, 6.519). Augoustakis suggests that Regulus is perhaps not so Stoic after all and points to the use of the strong verb penetrare (‘to penetrate’).15 Marcia has managed to get through to the seemingly impenetrable mind of her husband. Nonetheless, his ears are still ‘harsh’ (duras). This is an echo of ‘the harsh anger of Carthage’ (duras Carthaginis iras, 6.507) that Marcia hoped to soften with her tears if she could have joined her husband on the journey to Carthage. At the same time, it recalls Serranus’ accusatory apostrophe to his father in 6.419: o dure. He still does not react to her words. So, from Marcia’s point of view, nothing changes. She remains in Rome, without her husband. Regulus is as harsh on his family as the Carthaginians who have imprisoned him. Marcia reappears as a character in the main narrative when Marus and Serranus arrive in Rome. She addresses Marus, whom she immediately recognizes as Regulus’ former companion: fidei comes inclite magnae (‘famous companion of great loyalty’, 6.579).16 I follow Ruperti in understanding fidei … magnae as a metonymic reference to Regulus.17 Fides is Regulus’ most famous character

13 14 15 16 17

Pomeroy 2010: 70 notes that this is the only instance in the Punica where a Roman is accused of perfidy. Augoustakis 2010: 177. Augoustakis 2010: 179. Marus had earlier called himself a comes of Regulus (6.129). Inclite is self-referential: Marus is only famous for his role in the Punica. For another case of self-referentiality, see above. Pace Delz 1987: 159, who prints Fidei with a capital, understanding Fides as a personified goddess. Fröhlich 2000: 316 accordingly translates ‘der großen Gottheit Treue’.

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trait. In addition, the adjective magnus corresponds with earlier apostrophes of Regulus (maxime, 6.82; magne parens, 6.416).18 Is Marcia being ironic here? After invoking the gods, she speaks directly to her son and urges him not to follow his father’s example. She considers her life a long-term punishment and ends her speech by begging the gods to spare her from further distress: ‘Please, spare me now, gods, if any of you have fought with me’ (quaeso, iam parcite, si qua | numina pugnastis nobis, 6.588–589). The numina which are invoked here, are usually taken to be the same as the superi she apostrophized earlier in her speech (6.584).19 Marcia, however, does not specify who these numina are, which is underlined by the indefinite pronoun qua (‘any’). Is it possible that she implicitly refers to the numina of Regulus? There is good reason to think so. As Fröhlich points out, Marcia’s speech closely follows topics of Marus’ narrative: she discusses Regulus’ fides (or lack thereof), complains of the harshness of life, and invokes the gods.20 When we pursue this line of thought, it is not implausible that numina echoes the same word that Serranus and Marus have already used three times when referring to Regulus.21 Besides this reader-oriented intratextuality, Marcia has her own reasons for referring to Regulus as numina. Her husband has been affecting all of her life and made things difficult for her (pugnastis nobis). She has been constantly suffering before and after his death. This is the first time since his demise that Marcia appears in public, and she feels the same grief all over again upon seeing that her son has become a victim of the Carthaginians as well. As Regulus is apparently so on her mind, it is plausible that Marcia now implores her husband’s numina, which have vexed her up until the present day, to save her and her family this time (iam parcite … nobis): she practically begs for the curse of his fides not to be transferred to their son; this fides cost him his life and will be fatal for Serranus as well. This means that Regulus is at the beginning and end of Marcia’s speech ( fidei … magnae ~ numina), symbolizing his permanent influence over his relatives. After this emotional scene, Marus, Serranus, and Marcia disappear from the epic, never to return. Regulus, however, pops up one more time at the end of Book 6. When Hannibal visits the town of Liternum, the primary narrator gives a description of the paintings of a temple, depicting scenes from the

18 19 20 21

On Regulus’ fides, see Von Albrecht 1964: 63–68. Duff 1934: 325 and Fröhlich 2000: 316 both translate ‘gods’. Fröhlich 2000: 320–323. In 6.113, 6.123, and 6.416–417. Marcia has of course not heard them talking, so she cannot be consciously alluding to their words.

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First Punic War.22 Hannibal is the one looking at these paintings, as the narrator makes clear in the introduction of the ekphrasis: ‘He views the illustrious monument with various depictions of the previous war, which was brought to an end by their fathers’ (6.654–656); during the ekphrasis proper, we are repeatedly reminded that we are looking at the monument through Hannibal’s eyes (cernit, 6.670; uidet, 6.672), but as we will see, his focalization is only intermittent.23 The ekphrasis (6.658–697) describes some events that Marus had already recounted in his narrative of the First Punic War, such as Regulus pursuing Carthaginian troops and fighting the serpent at the Bagrada (6.674–679). The paintings also provide new information: one panel shows Xanthippus being drowned by the Carthaginians. He was the Spartan mercenary leading the Punic army that had ambushed Regulus, as the narratees had already learned from Marus (6.327).24 In the description of this panel, the narrator takes over the focalization from Hannibal: necnon proiectum puppi frustraque uocantem numina Amyclaeum mergebat perfida ponto rectorem manus, et seras tibi, Regule, poenas Xanthippus digni pendebat in aequore leti. Elsewhere, the Spartan general, hurled from the stern and in vain calling upon the gods, was drowned in the sea by a treacherous crew and Xanthippus at last paid the penalty to you, Regulus, by a death at sea as he deserved. sil. 6.680–683

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This ekphrasis has received quite some scholarly attention: Fowler [1996] 2000: 93–107; Fröhlich 2000: 360–368; Marks 2003; Tipping 2007; Manuwald 2009; Harrison 2010: 287– 289. Usually the paintings are thought to be divided into nine panels (Fowler [1996] 2000: 97–98; Fröhlich 2000: 360–368). Manuwald 2009: 44–45 contends that there are no clear transitions, ‘which turns the passage into a continuous narrative.’ On ekphrasis and emotions, see also Verhelst in this volume. Compare the shield of Aeneas in Aeneid 8. At the beginning and end of this ekphrasis, Aeneas is emphatically presented as the focalizer, but it is also made clear that he did not understand what he was looking at. It is the primary narrator who decodes the depictions. See De Jong 2015. Silius follows the version of Xanthippus’ violent death that is first attested by Valerius Maximus (9.6 ext. 1); see also Appian (8.4). Polybius (1.36.2–4) mentions that he safely left Carthage right after the First Punic War. See Spaltenstein 1986: 439 and Fröhlich 2000: 387–388.

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The Spartan who tricked Regulus is now tricked by the Carthaginians, who are described as ‘treacherous’ (perfida, 6.681). The use of this adjective signals that the narrator has taken over the focalization of Hannibal.25 In the next line, this focalization is continued by an emotional response to Xanthippus’ death. This is apparent from the apostrophe to the Roman hero Regulus and the adjective digni, which frames the Spartan’s death as an atonement of what he did to Regulus. It is as if the narrator is reacting to an earlier indignant question of Marus earlier in 6.344–345: ‘What fitting punishment shall attend the Spartans that they deserve for their foul manner of warfare?’26 Death by drowning is the answer that the narrator gives here. Xanthippus’ death ironically mirrors Regulus’ own death. The Spartan ‘paid the penalty’ (poenas … pendebat) for his treacherous imprisonment of Regulus. This phrase corresponds with the description of Regulus’ punishment in an earlier ekphrasis. Hannibal’s shield depicts the Roman hero hanging on a cross: ‘next to him [i.e. Xanthippus] hangs Regulus, grim glory, [on a cross] in a representation of his punishment’ (iuxta, triste decus, pendet sub imagine poenae | Regulus, 2.435–436).27 Neither Marus nor the paintings at Liternum make explicit that Regulus was crucified, but this intratextual allusion recalls the version of his death as presented on Hannibal’s shield. The shield had depicted Xanthippus as triumphant (uictor, 2.435), whereas the painting on the temple of Liternum shows his defeat. By apostrophizing Regulus at the moment when Xanthippus’ drowning is described, the narrator signals the correlation between their deaths.28 At the same time, he adds pathos to the scene by showing sympathy for Regulus. This also invites the primary narratees to engage in the description of Xanthippus’ death, which they should view as justified. Apostrophe is not uncommon in ancient ekphraseis, but in such cases the narrator usually addresses characters depicted.29 Virgil, for example, addresses Catiline, who is depicted on Aeneas’ shield in Aeneid 8.668–669: ‘and [Vulcanus

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Fowler [1996] 2000: 99–100, who notes that ‘the “play of focalizations” is as usual complex.’ See also Fröhlich 2000: 386 and Manuwald 2009: 42–45. Fröhlich 2000: 388 notes the parallel without comment. Translation Bernstein 2017: 29. Duff 1934: 90–91, as he explains in a note, understands the scene differently: he suggests that poenae refers to the torture of Regulus preceding the crucifixion and translates: ‘Near them hung Regulus, glorious in suffering, beneath a picture of his punishment.’ Fowler [1996] 2000: 99 n. 41. The appearance of apostrophe in ekphraseis seems to be a Hellenistic invention. A narrator can also address his narratees in the course of an ekphrasis, see Koopman 2018: 181, 214–215, 230–232. The narrator of Philostratus’ Imagines often addresses characters on the paintings; see Baumann 2013: 260–261.

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had added] the penalties of crimes and you, Catiline, hanging on a menacing cliff.’ This passage probably inspired the Silian apostrophe, as both authors describe a villain who is being punished for his crimes.30 One difference is that Silius does not address the villain, Xanthippus, but rather his victim, Regulus. Another is that Regulus is not even depicted on this specific panel.31 The apostrophizing of a figure that is not depicted recalls the apostrophe to Icarus in Virgil’s ekphrasis of the temple doors in Cumae: ‘You, too, Icarus, would have a large share in such a work, would grief permit’ (Aen. 6.30–31). Due to his grief, Daedalus was unable to depict his son’s death, but the narrator turns to Icarus, as if he were part of the painting. Austin calls it a ‘pathetic apostrophe (which vividly suggests the viewers’ sad imaginings).’32 In other words, the apostrophe in the Virgilian passage reflects the emotions of Aeneas and others when viewing the temple doors in Cumae, which in this case coincide with those of the primary narrator and the narratees. Silius’ apostrophe to Regulus is clearly modelled on this Virgilian example: here, too, the narrator is emotionally involved and addresses a character not depicted on the actual work of art. Another similarity is the theme of drowning.33 There is also a significant inversion: the apostrophe to Regulus can be labelled ‘pathetic’ from the viewpoint of the primary narrator (and his narratees), expressing a strong sympathy for the retribution of Regulus’ death. This focalization is, however, certainly not that of the secondary focalizer Hannibal, who as a Carthaginian would not have felt any sympathy for Regulus. The intervention of the narrator contributes to the pro-Roman message that the paintings in Liternum emanate. They give a rather biased version of the previous war. Although the narratees are mainly looking at the paintings through Hannibal’s eyes, they actually see a Roman monument with the narrator as its ultimate focalizer.34 Although Hannibal cannot agree less with this perspective 30

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34

The description of Aeneas’ shield contains yet another apostrophe to a treacherous figure who is punished, the Alban dictator Mettus (or Mettius) Fuffetius (Aen. 8.643). Other examples of ekphrastic apostrophes in Latin literature are Catullus (64.253) and Ovid (Met. 8.112). Fröhlich 2000: 388 also cites Stat. Theb. 6.541, but this apostrophe to Admetus, a character in the primary narrative, falls outside the ekphrasis proper. Regulus did, however, feature in the first (6.658–659) and previous (6.672–679) panels that the narrator described. Austin 1977: 46. The apostrophe to Icarus in Aeneid 6 has also inspired another passage in the Punica. In Sil. 2.142 the narrator apostrophizes Icarus, the son of Mopsus, who falls from the walls of Saguntum after being hit with a stone by Hannibal. For the parallel with Aeneid 6, see Laudani 2017: 75–76. She also discusses Virrius’ description of Daedalus’ temple doors in Sil. 12.88–103. See also Manuwald 2009: 42, who argues rightly that ‘most of the scenes are described

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on the First Punic War, he has minutely studied the paintings and does understand its overall message, as we can deduce from his emotional reaction: After the Carthaginian had surveyed all these pictures with a hostile countenance while laughing at them, he shouts out unleashing his supressed anger: … sil. 6.698–699

Hannibal has been looking at the paintings as an enemy of the Romans. He ridicules their pride and now unleashes the anger that he has built up during the viewing of the temple. In the ensuing speech he imagines a monument to be built in Carthage that will commemorate his own deeds. As if reacting to the apostrophe of Regulus by the narrator, he apostrophizes his own city. Realizing that the construction of this Punic monument lies in the future, Hannibal orders his men to at least destroy the Roman monument: ‘Give this monument to ashes and envelop it in flames’ (6.716). With this destruction in the last sentence of Book 6, Hannibal attempts to destroy the memory of the First Punic War in general and that of Regulus specifically. Of course, the narratees know that this destruction will be in vain: the temple, which the narrator described as a ‘monument of the previous war’ (6.655) is immortalized by the ekphrasis they have just heard. They may also remember the way Regulus reacted to ‘monuments’. The Roman hero remained unmoved by the sight of his own spoils of war (‘monuments of his great triumph’, 6.435) when passing his house in Rome as a captive of the Carthaginians, so Marus told in his narrative. Like a true Stoic, he bears his fate without yielding to emotions.35 By contrast, Hannibal at the end of Book 6 reacts in anger, the worst of emotions according to Stoicism. This final apostrophe to Regulus also works on a macro-structural level, because it picks up the narrator’s apostrophe at the beginning of Book 6: tua, Regule, proles (6.62). Identical are the metrical sedes of the vocative, a preceding word denoting a second person (tua ~ tibi), and similar sounds of the final words (proles ~ poenas). The two apostrophes thus form a ring composition between the beginning and end of Book 6, which starts and ends with

35

from an omniscient Roman perspective’, with Hannibal only intermittently called to mind as focalizer. It is significant that shortly after this passage the pyre of Hercules, the champion of Stoicism, is mentioned: ‘the monuments of the Herculean pyre’ (6.453). This stresses that Regulus is following in the footsteps of Hercules. On the Stoic characterization of Hercules/Heracles (contrasted with other ways in which he is portrayed, such as furens), see Bär in this volume.

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Regulus.36 The repetition of these apostrophes is therefore not only a structural device, but also marks the all-embracing presence of Regulus in Book 6: the general is not only a figure from the heroic past, but Marus’ narrative and his appearance on the temple of Liternum make him almost come alive in the main narrative as well. The apostrophes therefore bring Regulus closer to the world of the primary narratees, as the primary narrator speaks directly to him. He addresses Regulus as if he were still alive—much in the way that Homer apostrophizes his heroes.37 In addition, the apostrophe suggests a hymnic style and adds to the idea that Regulus should be considered a deity.38 This confirms Marus’ earlier qualification of Regulus as a god. In his narrative, the old veteran referred to Regulus as ‘that sacred figure, not inferior to any deity’ (6.123–124). Finally, the apostrophe in 6.682 marks Regulus’ departure from the epic. The apostrophe is a last, forceful farewell of the narrator to the character that has dominated almost all of Book 6.39 The many apostrophes to Regulus underscore the importance of this hero from the First Punic War for later generations. His memory still dominates the lives and thoughts of his close family and friends. The disastrous defeat of the Romans near Lake Trasimene calls up memories to Regulus’ attitude towards adversity and death. All narrators and characters seem to consider Regulus equal to a god, which is reminiscent of apostrophes to heroes in the Iliad. However, the memory of this godlike Regulus evokes various emotions. The primary narrator stresses the fame of Regulus, but at the same time grieves over his son, who followed his father’s example in waging war against the Carthaginians. Marus, too, underlines the repetition of history, when the sight of Serranus reminds him of his former general. Serranus has a complex attitude towards Regulus. He has followed his father’s example and considers him a god

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37

38 39

Fröhlich 2000: 388 argues that the repetition of the same apostrophe in 6.62 and 6.682 is ‘sicherlich kompositorische Absicht’. It is, however, somewhat one-sided to explain the repetition solely from a structural perspective, as Manuwald 2009: 42 n. 24 rightly comments. Klooster 2013: 158: ‘The apostrophe of a dead hero is a very marked way of emphasising the credibility and immortality of this hero in poetry, and thence testifies to the immortalising power of song.’ See also De Jong 2009: 95. De Jong 2009: 95–97 suggests that the ultimate origin of apostrophes lies in hymns to the gods. This structural use of an apostrophe is probably influenced by Statius’ apostrophe to Admetus (or vice versa). There, too, the narrator marks the last appearance of this character with an apostrophe (Stat. Theb. 6.541). See Georgacopoulou 2005: 54–55.

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as mighty as Jupiter himself, but at the same time reproaches him for having shown no affection. Marcia voices the clearest negative emotions towards her husband. In the past, she had called him unfaithful, recalling Dido’s accusations of Aeneas. Now that her son is severely wounded, she emotionally begs the spell of his fides to be stopped. The last emotional apostrophe to Regulus in the ekphrasis of the temple at Liternum once more underlines the godlike status of Regulus and his example for later generations, as well as for the narratees. At the same time, the Virgilian echo of Icarus evokes the hybristic side of Regulus, complicating his exemplarism. The emotional apostrophes in Book 6 draw attention to both positive and negative sides of heroism.

Bibliography Albrecht, M. von, Silius Italicus. Freiheit und Gebundenheit römischer Epik (Amsterdam 1964). Asso, P., ‘The Intrusive Trope: Apostrophe in Lucan’, MD 61 (2008) 161–173. Augoustakis, A., Motherhood and the Other. Fashioning Female Power in Flavian Epic (Oxford 2010). Austin, R.G., P. Virgili Maronis. Aeneidos, Liber Sextus (Oxford 1977). Baumann, M., ‘Der Betrachter im Bild: Metalepsen in antiken Ekphrasen’, in U.E. Eisen, P. von Möllendorff (eds.), Über die Grenze. Metalepsen in Text- und Bildmedien des Altertums (Berlin / Boston 2013) 257–291. Bernstein, N.W., Silius Italicus, Punica 2 (Oxford 2017). Coleman, K.M., Statius Silvae iv. Edited with an English Translation and Commentary (Oxford 1988). Delz, J., Sili Italici Punica (Stuttgart 1987). Duff, J.D., Silius Italicus Punica, 2 vols. (Cambridge, MA 1934). Endt, J., ‘Der Gebrauch der Apostrophe bei den lateinischen Epikern’, WS 27 (1905) 106– 129. Fowler, D.P., Roman Constructions. Readings in Postmodern Latin (Oxford 2000). Fröhlich, U., Regulus, Archetyp römischer Fides: Das sechste Buch als Schlüssel zu den Punica des Silius Italicus. Interpretation, Kommentar und Übersetzung (Tübingen 2000). Georgacopoulou, S.A., Aux frontières du récit épique. L’emploi de l’apostrophe du narrateur dans la Thébaïde de Stace (Brussels 2005). Hampel, E., De apostrophae apud Romanorum poetas usu (Jena 1908). Harrison, S.J., ‘Picturing the Future Again: Proleptic Ekphrasis in Silius’ Punica’, in A. Augoustakis (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Silius Italicus (Leiden 2010) 279–292. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Metalepsis in Ancient Greek Literature’, in J. Grethlein, A. Rengakos

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(eds.), Narratology and Interpretation. The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature (Berlin 2009) 87–115. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Pluperfects and the Artist in Ekphrases: From the Shield of Achilles to the Shield of Aeneas (and Beyond)’, Mnemosyne 68 (2015): 889–916. Klooster, J.J.H., ‘Apostrophe in Homer, Apollonius and Callimachus’, in U.E. Eisen, P. von Möllendorff (eds.), Über die Grenze. Metalepsen in Text- und Bildmedien des Altertums (Berlin 2013) 151–173. Koopman, N., Ancient Greek Ekphrasis. Between Description and Narration (Leiden / Boston 2018). Laudani, C., ‘Nel nome di Icaro’, BStudLat 47 (2017) 70–79. Manuwald, G., ‘History in Pictures: Commemorative Ecphrases in Silius Italicus’ Punica’, Phoenix 63.1–2 (2009) 38–59. Marks, R.D., ‘Hannibal in Liternum’, in P. Thibodeau, H. Haskell (eds.), Being There Together. Essays in Honor of Michael C.J. Putnam on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday (Afton 2003) 128–144. Nauta, R.R., ‘Metalepsis and Metapoetics in Latin Poetry’, in U.E. Eisen, P. von Möllendorff (eds.), Über die Grenze. Metalepsen in Text- und Bildmedien des Altertums (Berlin 2013) 223–256. Pomeroy, A.J., ‘Fides in Silius Italicus’ Punica’, in F. Schaffenrath (ed.), Silius Italicus. Akten der Innsbrucker Tagung vom 19.–21. Juni 2008 (Frankfurt am Main, 2010) 59– 76. Ruperti, G.A., Caii Silii Italici Punicorum libri septemdecim varietate lectionis et perpetua adnotatione illustrati. Volumen primum (Göttingen 1795). Spaltenstein, F., Commentaire des Punica de Silius Italicus (livres 1 à 8) (Genève 1986). Tipping, B., ‘Haec tum Roma fuit: Past, Present, and Closure in Silius Italicus’ Punica’, in S.J. Harrison, P.G. Fowler, S.J. Heyworth (eds.), Classical Constructions. Papers in Memory of Don Fowler, Classicist and Epicurean (Oxford 2007) 221–241.

chapter 37

Metalepsis on the Argo: Debating Hercules in Valerius Flaccus (Arg. 3.598–725) Mark Heerink

Introduction* Anger and rage play an important role in Greek and Latin epic from the first word of Homer’s Iliad.1 In this chapter I will present a metapoetical interpretation of one ‘anger scene’ in the Flavian epic Argonautica by Valerius Flaccus, in which a key role is played by metalepsis. In this scene (3.598–725), the Argonauts discuss whether or not they should wait for Hercules, who keeps looking for his lost companion Hylas, or sail off to complete their mission. The two positions are represented by Meleager, who urges the men to leave immediately, and Hercules’ friend, the angry Telamon, who tries to persuade the Argonauts of their folly in an emotional speech, but to no avail. I will argue that this scene provides a bridge between the preceding Hylas episode and the metaleptic appearance of Jupiter that follows it, both of which I have interpreted metapoetically elsewhere. In the intervening, emotional scene under consideration the Argonauts themselves, in another metaleptic move, engage in a poetological discussion on the further course of the epic. As I am thus embarking on a topic (metalepsis) on which Irene de Jong has made important contributions,2 and because she was a member of my PhD committee in 2010, I hope the subject of this paper is fitting to celebrate the achievements of a great and influential scholar as well as a wonderful mentor

* I would like to thank Mirte Liebregts and the editors for their invaluable feedback, which greatly improved this contribution. 1 For convenience’s sake, I here refer only to Braund and Most 2003, which includes contributions on Homer, Virgil, and Lucan in particular, and offers more bibliography on this vast topic. Anger is mostly discussed in this volume in the context of archaic Greek epic: see the contributions of Bowie, Van Emde Boas, Kahane, Koning, Van der Mije, and Pelling. Bär and Harder both discuss (metapoetical aspects of) the anger of Heracles in Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica, to which Valerius Flaccus alludes (see below). 2 See esp. De Jong 2009; 2013. On metalepsis, see in this volume also the contributions of Allan, Finkelberg, and Verhelst.

© Mark Heerink, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_039

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and colleague. I regret, however, that I could not spoil the surprise and discuss some of the issues that I treat in these pages with her; they would have benefitted greatly from it.

The Metapoetics of the Hylas Episode In my 2015 book Echoing Hylas I read Valerius Flaccus’ Hylas episode as a metapoetical allegory.3 At a crucial juncture in the epic, at the end of Book 3, Hercules is left behind, which marks a shift in the expedition of the Argonauts, who cannot rely on the power of their greatest hero anymore. As I argued, this shift can also be read metapoetically. The Hylas episode is set up as a miniature Aeneid, with Juno’s hatred and persecution of a single hero (Hercules) resembling the role she played in Virgil’s epic, which creates expectations with regard to the outcome of the Argonautica. These expectations are eventually thwarted, as Hylas turns from an Ascanius-like, potentially epic hero into an elegiac, Ovidian figure, whereas Hercules, who is initially allusively associated with Aeneas, becomes an elegiac lover, wandering around in search of his beloved Hylas. In the innovative epilogue to the Hylas episode that opens Book 4, which has no parallel in Valerius’ model, the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, Jupiter angrily addresses Juno for orchestrating the abduction of Hylas and consequent departure of Hercules from the expedition: sic Iuno ducem fouet anxia curis Aesonium, sic arma uiro sociosque ministrat! So this is how Juno, troubled by cares, cherishes her Aesonian leader, this is how she gives him arms and men!4 v. fl. 4.7–8

Extending my interpretation of the preceding Hylas episode and the interactions with the Aeneid that play a crucial role in it, I read Jupiter’s words as a metapoetical commentary by a character on the course of events through an allusion to the first words of the Aeneid: ‘So this is your idea of how to run

3 Heerink 2015: 113–153, on which what follows in this section is based. 4 Translations of Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica are based on Mozley 19362. Translations of Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica and Virgil’s Aeneid are by Race 2008 and West 1991 respectively.

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an Aeneid!’5 Realizing that his poem cannot become a heroic Aeneid anymore, Jupiter then tells Juno to continue her approach by using Medea: i, Furias Veneremque moue; dabit impia poenas uirgo … Go, stir up the Furies and Venus; the wicked girl will pay the penalty … v. fl. 4.13–14

Jupiter here ironically alludes to Juno’s own words, which are part of an embittered monologue that immediately preceded and referred to the action she planned against Hercules to remove him from the epic:6 mox et Furias Ditemque mouebo Soon I will even stir the Furies and Dis. v. fl. 3.520

These words in turn allude to a similar monologue that the goddess delivered in Aeneid 7.312, right before she ordered the Fury Allecto to stir things up in Latium: flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta mouebo. If I cannot prevail upon the gods above, I shall move hell. verg. Aen. 7.312

In fact, Valerius’ mention of the Furies appears to be a gloss on Virgil’s less specific expression, as it is Allecto that Virgil’s Juno will call from Hades.7 This allusion to Virgil initially created the expectation that Juno would also start an ‘essential epic’ like the Iliadic second half of the Aeneid, dealing with ‘war

5 In Heerink 2015: 127 I specified the interpretation of Feeney 1991: 324, who had already paraphrased the metapoetical implications of line 8 as ‘So this is your idea of how to run an epic.’ See also Nauta 2013: 247–248, who follows Feeney’s interpretation but also bases his interpretation on my PhD thesis (Heerink 2010), which was the basis for my book (Heerink 2015). 6 As was already noted by Hershkowitz 1998b: 164, n. 219: ‘4.13 is an ironic echo of Juno’s declaration at 3.520.’ 7 Cf. Spaltenstein 2004: 153 (on V. Fl. 3.517–520). The parallel is already noted by Langen 1896– 1897: 256 (on V. Fl. 3.520).

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and men’.8 But Valerius, instead of developing from this point a heroic epic in its purest form, allowed Juno and her accomplice, the nymph Dryope, to do rather the opposite and elegize it. Jupiter now tells Juno to employ ‘the Furies and Venus’ in the remainder of the epic, clearly referring to the elegiac passion of Medea that Juno and Venus will stir up and that will eventually ensure the success of the epic mission of the Argonauts.9 The god’s remark is more or less a hendiadys, since, as Philip Hardie has argued, ‘for Valerius the workings of Venus, of Juno, and of the Furies are practically indistinguishable.’10 A link is thus created between the elegized Aeneid that the Hylas episode turned into— through the agency of ‘Furies of love’ Juno and Dryope—and the outcome of the epic, which also requires an elegiac Fury now that Hercules is gone. According to this metapoetical interpretation, Jupiter’s role in the epilogue to the Hylas episode at the beginning of Book 4 is an instance of metalepsis, as Nauta has shown.11 According to Genette’s definition, metalepsis is ‘any intrusion by the extradiegetic narrator or narratee into diegetic universe (or by diegetic characters into a metadiegetic universe, etc.) or the inverse.’12 In this case we are dealing with a diegetic character (Jupiter) intruding into an extradiegetic universe (the world of the narrator and narratee). Most scholars would regard this as an instance of ‘upward metalepsis’:13 a character from the story world intrudes/breaks into the discourse world. It is almost impossible, however, not to read it the other way as well, i.e., as the narrator intruding into the story world and using one of his characters to speak on his behalf, as it were. According to Nauta, ‘the reason that this ambiguity arises is that we have to do here with a fusion of consciousness: a character knowing something that only the author may know.’14 So Jupiter, who is aware of fate and thus the future, but also of Virgil’s work, could also be seen as an alter ego or mise en abyme15 of the 8 9

10 11 12 13

14 15

I owe the term and concept to Hinds 2000. For Medea’s elegiac passion, see e.g. V. Fl. 7.154 and 315, where it is denoted as furor, ‘madness’. At 7.12, Medea is called demens, ‘mad’, and at 7.307 her passion is described as saeuus, ‘cruel’. Hardie 1989: 6. Nauta 2013: 247–248. Genette 1980: 238. Contrary to Genette 1980: 238, who inverts the vertical ordering of narrative worlds, for instance calling the world of the embedded story ‘metadiegetic’, i.e. higher than the story world, whereas it is more common nowadays to speak of a hypodiegetic world (following Bal 1977: 35), i.e. a world that is lower than the story world. See also Nauta 2013: 230–231, whom I follow here. Nauta 2013: 234. For a discussion of the concept of mise en abyme see Létoublon in this volume, with further references. Compare also Bierl in this volume, n. 31.

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narrator and thus the poet,16 in charge of his poetic universe that is drenched with Virgil. This reading is confirmed when the god decides on the fate of the expedition as well as the poem by telling Juno to continue her approach in the metapoetical context of the beginning of Book 4.17 Between the metapoetical allegory that is the Hylas episode proper, orchestrated by Juno, and the metaleptic commentary by Jupiter in the epilogue, the emotional debate on the Argo between Telamon and Meleager with regard to Hercules takes place, which can also be read in metaleptic and metapoetic terms, as I will now argue.

Telamon and the Aeneid In Apollonius’ epic the Argonauts only find out that they have left Heracles behind once they have set sail, and so the ensuing strife takes place on the Argo.18 In Valerius’ work the situation is quite different. Although the winds are favourable they wait patiently for their crewmate all through the night: ‘they are lingering because of Hercules’ (Herculeo sub nomine pendent, 3.600). At daybreak, however, Juno offers a favourable westerly wind, causing the helmsman Tiphys to urge the Argonauts to leave. Jason then reveals that an oracle has predicted this would happen and suggests that they confer on the matter. The younger part of the Argonauts (iuuentus) then beg him to leave, of which

16

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18

Cf. Feeney 1991: 318: ‘… Valerius’ opus is Jupiter’s opus; in an ultimate version of the hoary motif which equates poetry with a sea-voyage, the fated voyage and the fated poem are coextensive.’ With Nauta 2013 I think that in the case of epic at least, ‘metalepsis between narrator and author is not possible, because these are identified somehow.’ (232). I will therefore speak of poet-narrator in what follows. Ironically (because the metapoetical discussion between Valerius’ Jupiter and Juno is about Virgil’s Aeneid) but also typically (Valerius is always both imitating and emulating Virgil), the ongoing conflict between Jupiter and Juno in Virgil’s Aeneid can be read in similar metapoetical terms, as between two competing narratives (see Hershkowitz 1998a: 95–124). As I argued elsewhere (Heerink 2015: 33–37), Apollonius’ Hylas episode and the ensuing debate on the Argo can also be read metapoetically, as a miniature epic on eris (‘strife’). Whereas Apollonius’ episode is concerned with the relationship between Callimachean poetics and Homeric epic, Valerius’ Hylas episode deals with the Roman Homer, Virgil, whose Aeneid undergoes a Callimachean or rather ‘elegiac’ treatment. This imitatio and aemulatio of Apollonius’ metapoetics in Valerius’ Hylas episode suggests a priori that the debate on the Flavian Argo also has a metapoetic dimension, but concerning the Aeneid instead of Homer.

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the narrator, who speaks of ‘boasting’ ( flatu), ‘vain talk’ (uana lingua) and ‘the haughty wolves’ (superbis | … lupis), does not seem to approve: Dixerat. at studiis iamdudum freta iuuentus orat inire uias: unum tanto afore coetu, nec minus in sese generis dextraque potentes esse ferunt. tali mentem pars maxima flatu erigit et uana gliscunt praecordia lingua, saltibus ut mediis tum demum laeta reducit cerua gregem, tum gestit aper reboatque superbis comminus ursa lupis, cum sese Martia tigris abstulit aut curuo tacitus leo condidit antro. He [Tiphys] spoke, but the youngsters, long since confident in their zeal, beg him to depart: their large company would lack only one person, they say, and their own lineage is no less noble, their right hands as strong. Such boasting raises the spirits of the greater part, and vain talk makes their hearts swell, just as a hind only then gladly leads the herd back from the midst of the woodland, only then the boar exults, and the she-bear roars in answer to the haughty wolves nearby, when the warlike tigress is gone, or the lion, concealed in his hollow cave, no longer roars. v. fl. 3.628–636

Hercules’ loyal friend Telamon is furious and reacts with a speech that is reported in indirect discourse:19 at pius ingenti Telamon iam fluctuat ira cum fremitu saeuisque furens periuria dictis insequitur magnoque implorat numina questu. idem orans prensatque uiros demissaque supplex haeret ad ora ducis, nil se super Hercule fari, sed socio quocumque, gemens, quamquam aspera fama iam loca iamque feras per barbara litora gentes, non alium contra Alciden, non pectora tanta posse dari.

19

For Telamon’s close relationship with Hercules, see also Zissos 2008: 244 (on V. Fl. 1.353– 355).

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But devoted Telamon is seething with mighty wrath and grumbles; in furious harsh rebuke he chides their perjury and with loud complaint invokes the gods. At the same time he buttonholes the men with prayers, and keeps imploring the downcast leader, groaning that he does not speak for Hercules specifically, but for any comrade, although they have no second Alcides, no heart so valiant as his to face the wild regions and savage peoples along barbarous shores that reputedly await them. v. fl. 3.637–645

The word that is used to denote Telamon’s devotion to Hercules is pius, which immediately associates Telamon with Aeneas, whose defining characteristic is his pietas.20 This association is reinforced by the continued Virgilian phraseology in the same lines (ingenti fluctuat ira, 637 ~ magnoque irarum fluctuat aestu, Verg. Aen. 4.532) and more importantly by the fact that Aeneas is also characterized by a combination of ira and pietas in Aeneid 12.21 As Hercules was continuously associated with Aeneas in the Hylas episode, which was one of the most important constituents of a metapoetical reading of the episode, it is thus already suggested that Telamon metapoetically represents the poetics of the Aeneid in the Argonautica, i.e., the direction that the Flavian epic could take. This impression is confirmed in Telamon’s second speech, which he delivers after Meleager’s intervening one and is reported in direct discourse this time (697–714). This speech is full of Virgilian phrases, as Manuwald’s commentary shows,22 but the speech concludes with an unmistakable allusion to the opening of the Aeneid (arma uiri):23

20

21

22

23

Cf. 4.2, where Hercules’ (elegiac) love for Hylas is described as pios … amores (‘loyal affection’), thus also associating the hero with the Aeneid, which accords with the rest of the Hylas episode. See Heerink 2015: 126 on this allusion. See Manuwald (2015) 240 for these parallels. Pace Stover 2020: 51–55, who interprets this allusion differently by associating Telamon with Dido and Meleager with Aeneas, and consequently regards the application of pius to Telamon as ironical. E.g. 703–704 (inclita … | dextera) ~ Verg. Aen. 7.474 (claris dextera factis); 707–711 ~ Verg. Aen. 12.206–211; 709 (euulsa iugis) ~ Verg. Aen. 2.631 (iugis auulsa); 709 (matre perempta) ~ Verg. Aen. 10.315 (matre perempta). Cf. Manuwald 2015: 255 on the allusion: ‘The word order has these two words stand next to each other at the beginning of the line, always a pointed collocation (cf. Verg. Aen. 1.1), here perhaps highlighting Hercules as the epic hero.’

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saepe metu, saepe in tenui discrimine rerum Herculeas iam serus opes spretique uocabis arma uiri, nec nos tumida haec tum dicta iuuabunt. Often in fear, often in a delicate situation, you will too late call on the help of Hercules and the arms of the man you despised, and these swollen words will not assist us then. v. fl. 3.712–714

As in the case of Jupiter quoting the first words of the Aeneid 34 lines later, at the beginning of Book 4 (arma uiro, 4.8; quoted above), we seem to be dealing with a metaleptic situation here: a character commenting on what is going on in the narrative, but also on what is happening on a metapoetical level: with Hercules the possibility of the Argonautica becoming an Aeneid is left behind. This interpretation is confirmed by another allusion, as discrimine rerum and haec iuuabunt (as well as the anaphora of saepe duplicating that of per in the Aeneid) recall the end of Aeneas’ famous second speech in the Aeneid:24 forsan et haec olim meminisse iuuabit per uarios casus, per tot discrimina rerum tendimus in Latium, sedes ubi fata quietas ostendunt; illic fas regna resurgere Troiae. The day will come, perhaps, when it will give you pleasure to remember even this. Whatever chance may bring, however many hardships we suffer, we are making for Latium, where the Fates show us our place of rest. verg. Aen. 1.203–206

This allusion is a rather sarcastic but fitting inversion of the Aeneid: whereas the Trojans can look back on these hardships with pleasure once they have achieved their goal, Meleager’s words will not help the Argonauts in future hardships, because they have left Hercules and thus the Aeneid behind. As in the case of Jupiter, Telamon could also be seen as an alter ego or mise en abyme of the poet-narrator, with whom he shares a poetic consciousness. This is confirmed by two intriguing intratextual parallels. At the beginning of this same, second speech, Telamon utters these emotional words:

24

See Wills 1996: 20–21 for this ‘syntactic marking’ of allusion.

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non hi tum flatus, non ista superbia dictis, litore cum patrio iam uela petentibus Austris cunctus ad Alciden uersus fauor. Not such boasting was there then, not such arrogance in your words, when on our home shore, while the south winds were already making for the sails, the favour of all was turned towards Alcides. v. fl. 3.699–701

This negative characterization of the words of Meleager and his supporters recalls the similarly negative evaluation of this side of the debate by the poetnarrator just before Telamon’s speech, as we have already seen (628–637, quoted above; compare the non-italicized words). Furthermore, the poetnarrator accuses these young Argonauts of cowardice, comparing them to wild animals (hind, boar, she-bear) that only dare to act when the tigress and lion are away (633–636, quoted above), words that a sarcastic Telamon echoes when he attacks Meleager in his second speech: nunc Porthaonides, nunc dux mihi Thracia proles? aspera nunc pauidos contra ruit agna leones? Is now Porthaon’s grandson [Meleager] or the offspring of Thrace [Calais] to be my leader? Does the lamb now fiercely attack timid lions? v. fl. 3.705–706

Meleager and the Poetics of the Argonautica The direction that the poet-narrator (and his alter egos Telamon and Jupiter) supports, i.e., keeping Hercules on board and the Aeneid alive, is of course not the direction the epic will take, and this creates a paradoxical situation: the poet-narrator not agreeing with the course of his own story. In a sense the poetnarrator is thus also paradoxically aligned with the character whom he seems to loathe and whom he introduces as follows after Telamon’s first speech: rursum instimulat ducitque fauentes magnanimus Calydone satus, potioribus ille deteriora fouens semperque inuersa tueri durus et haud ullis umquam superabilis aequis rectorumue memor.

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On the other hand, Calydon’s greathearted son [Meleager] goads and leads on those favouring the venture, fostering the worse cause by better argument, ever persistent in aiding a perverted course, and never yielding to pleas of equity or mindful of what is right. v. fl. 3.645–649

In the speech that follows, however, Meleager addresses issues that are central to the Flavian Argonautica. He focuses on the joint team effort of the Argonauts, for instance, as the narrator had already done in the epic’s opening line (quoted below):25 nempe ora aeque mortalia cuncti ecce gerunt, ibant aequo nempe ordine remi. Surely all the men—look at them—are equally mortal, surely all our oars moved at an equal pace. v. fl. 3.674–675

Meleager here alludes to the rowing contest that started the Hylas episode, in which the misfit of the too-powerful Hercules on the Argo became apparent (462–480). This was already the case in Apollonius’ parallel scene, as I argued elsewhere.26 In fact, when Meleager presents his most important point—the expedition (and so the epic) must go on—he alludes to the episode that made it most clear that Hercules does not fit in this group and this epic: septimus hic celsis descendit montibus auster iamque ratem Scythicis forsan statuisset in oris. nos patriae immemores, maneant ceu nulla reuectos gaudia sed duro saeuae sub rege Mycenae, ad medium cunctamur iter. si finibus ullis has tolerare moras et inania tempora possem, regna hodie et dulcem sceptris Calydona tenerem laetus opum pacisque meae, tutusque manerem quis genitor materque locis. quid deside terra haeremus?

25 26

See Lovatt 2014 on teamwork in Valerius’ Argonautica. Heerink 2014: 33–37.

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Now for the seventh day is the south wind blowing from the lofty mountains, and it would perhaps have already placed our ship on the Scythian shores. But we, forgetting our home, as if no joys await our return but cruel Mycenae and its harsh king, are lingering midway through the journey. If I could endure this time wasted in delay, I would today be ruling my realm of pleasant Calydon, happy in my peace and riches, and would safely stay where my father and mother live. Why do we linger in this sluggish land? v. fl. 3.652–661

This argument ironically recalls a speech delivered by Hercules in Book 2 (2.378–384) to persuade the Argonauts to stop their ‘elegiac’ lingering on Lemnos and carry on with the epic mission.27 He even mentioned Telamon here as his partner in crime: si sedet Aegaei scopulos habitare profundi, hos mecum Telamon peraget meus. If your resolve is to dwell on these cliffs in the Aegean deep, my Telamon will carry this task through with me. v. fl. 2.383–384

At that point, Jason was kindled by Hercules’ harsh words and ordered his men to restart the epic, which is at this point still a potential Aeneid, as a by now familiar allusion to Virgil makes clear: petit ingenti clamore magister arma uiros pariter sparsosque in litore remos With a loud shout the helmsman seeks the tackle and his crew, and the oars that lie scattered on the beach. v. fl. 2.391–392

So in Book 3, Meleager actually suggests continuing the expedition and the epic, something with which Hercules would agree. But the Lemnos episode

27

Cf. Manuwald 2015: 244 and Stover 2020: 50: ‘… Meleager’s impassioned plea against idleness and his fervent desire to move on ironically recalls Hercules’ own criticism of inactivity during his call to action on Lemnos in Book 2.’ For the Lemnos episode as an elegiac (and so anti-epic) mora, see Heerink 2020: 192–199, also for more bibliography.

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made it clear that the old-school heroes Hercules and Telamon, who support a Virgilian kind of epic, are not really an integral part of the team of Argonauts. Moreover, as I have recently argued, the Lemnos episode acts as a kind of prefiguration of what will happen in Colchis and what is needed to complete the epic mission, for which the love of Medea is essential.28 In other words, Valerius’ epic is destined to go in a different direction from that envisioned by Hercules and Telamon, as the poet-narrator also emphasizes after the second speech of Telamon, which ends the debate: talibus Aeacides socios terroribus urgens inlacrimat multaque comas deformat harena. fata trahunt, raptusque uirum certamine ductor ibat et optenta mulcebat lumina palla. As the son of Aeacus [Telamon] attacks his comrades with such terrors, he weeps and fouls his hair with much sand. Fate sweeps them along, and the leader, carried away by the eagerness of the men, went to the ship and soothed his eyes by veiling them with his cloak. v. fl. 3.715–718

What also connects Meleager to the poet-narrator as mise en abyme is the originality of Meleager as a character. He did not feature in Apollonius’ episode, and his speech of 41 lines (one of the longest in the Flavian epic) thus constitutes the most striking difference between Apollonius’ and Valerius’ versions of the strife, and also accounts for the greater length of Valerius’ episode (128 versus 78 lines).29 An explanation for the choice of Meleager as the poetnarrator’s mouthpiece may lie in his only appearance in Apollonius’ epic, in the catalogue of Argonauts at the beginning of the epic: Οἰνεΐδες δ ἐπὶ τοῖσιν ἀφορμηθεὶς Καλυδῶνος ἀλκήεις Μελέαγρος ἀνήλυθε, Λαοκόων τε, Λαοκόων Οἰνῆος ἀδελφεός, οὐ μὲν ἰῆς γε μητέρος, ἀλλά ἑ θῆσσα γυνὴ τέκε. τὸν μὲν ἄρ’ Οἰνεὺς ἤδη γηραλέον κοσμήτορα παιδὸς ἴαλλεν· ὧδ’ ἔτι κουρίζων περιθαρσέα δῦνεν ὅμιλον

28 29

Heerink 2020: 196–199. See Stover 2020: 44–46 for a convenient overview of the main differences between Valerius’ and Apollonius’ accounts of the desertion of Hercules.

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ἡρώων· τοῦ δ’ οὔ τιν’ ὑπέρτερον ἄλλον ὀίω νόσφιν γ’ Ἡρακλῆος ἐπελθέμεν, εἴ κ’ ἔτι μοῦνον αὖθι μένων λυκάβαντα μετετράφη Αἰτωλοῖσιν. After them, from Calydon came Oeneus’ son, valiant Meleager, and Laocoon too, Laocoon, the brother of Oeneus, though not from the same mother, for a serving-woman bore him. And Oeneus sent him, already an old man, as a guide for his son. Thus, while still a boy Meleager entered the very bold crew of heroes, and I do not believe that any other man would have come superior to him except, to be sure, Heracles, if he had stayed there and been raised for one more year among the Aetolians. a. r. 1.190–198

Interesting in the light of Valerius’ episode is that Apollonius here directly associates Meleager with Heracles: potentially he could be second only to the greatest of Greek heroes; what is keeping him back is that he is too young, as he joined the expedition as a boy.30 Fascinatingly, the poet-narrator emphasizes the youth of the ‘leave Hercules’ camp immediately at the beginning of the debate (iuuentus, 628; quoted above), setting up a contrast between the group of ‘young guns’ and the older (as well as old school) heroes Hercules and Telamon. In fact, Meleager self-consciously emphasizes this contrast as well when he turns to the Argonauts to spur them on:31 uos, quibus et uirtus et spes in limine primo, tendite, dum rerum patiens calor et rude membris robur inest; nec enim solum dare funera Colchis sit satis et tota pelagus lustrasse iuuenta. But you whose valour and hope are only just emerging, strive on, while you have a passion to endure what may befall and there is budding strength within your limbs; let it therefore not suffice only to deal

30

31

See Stover 2020: 48–51 for the paradoxical way in which Valerius associates Meleager with Hercules: ‘Thus there appears to be a tradition, stemming at least from Bacchyl. 5, of allusively depicting Meleager not only as a sort of double of Hercules, but also as Hercules’ rival and perhaps even his enemy, a tradition that is picked up and carried forward by Valerius.’ Also because of this parallel (iuuentus, 628 ~ iuuenta, 682), I do not agree with Manuwald (2015: 237) that the striking iuuentus is ‘most likely a general reference to the Argonauts …, who tend to be depicted as young, rather than specifically denoting the younger ones.’

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destruction to the Colchians, and to have spent your entire youth in traversing the sea. v. fl. 3.679–682

This emphasis on youth by a character evoking the poet-narrator, combined with a contrast with Hercules, recalls the beginning of the Hylas episode (3.485–486), in which Hylas is said to follow Hercules, as well as a passage at the beginning of the epic, in which Hercules and Hylas are introduced (1.107– 111). As I have argued elsewhere,32 Hylas’ following in the footsteps of his ‘father’ Hercules symbolizes the poet-narrator’s relationship to Virgil’s Aeneid. The boy is willing but not yet able to carry Hercules’ heavy club at beginning of the epic (uelit ille quidem, sed dextera nondum par oneri clauaeque capax, 1.110– 111), and cannot keep up with Hercules’ great stride at the beginning of the Hylas episode (passusque moratur iniquos, 3.486). By contrast, the young and bold poet-narrator has become more confident by the end of Book 3, when he speaks through Meleager at the moment when Hercules/the Aeneid are on the verge of being left behind, and claims to steer the fated and innovative ship with its youthful crew away on its path towards the stars.33 In fact, this is what the poet-narrator seems to have already stated metapoetically in the epic’s very first lines: prima deum magnis canimus freta peruia natis fatidicamque ratem, Scythici quae Phasidis oras ausa sequi mediosque inter iuga concita cursus rumpere flammifero tandem consedit Olympo. My song is of the sea first opened up for the mighty sons of gods, and of the prophetic ship that dared to seek the shores of Scythian Phasis and to burst unswerving through the Clashing Rocks, to finally rest in the starry heavens. v. fl. 1.1–4

32 33

Heerink 2015: 139–153. For this ‘poetics of rejuvenation’ in Valerius’ Argonautica, see e.g. Heerink 2014: 80–81. Cf. Heerink 2015: 152–153.

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Meleager and Drances One final question begs to be answered: why would the poet-narrator associate himself metapoetically with Meleager, a character whom he depicts in such a negative way?34 The answer ties in with the intertextual strategy of the Argonautica vis-à-vis the Aeneid. As I have argued elsewhere, the epic’s inversions of the Aeneid, which operate on both a micro- and a macro-level, reveal a paradoxical, pessimistic agenda.35 Clearly, the Argonautica shows an ambition to become a (new) Aeneid from the outset, but, as the epic proceeds, this gradually becomes impossible. For the epic mission to succeed, a different kind of epic and hero are needed, but at the same time the epic becomes increasingly pessimistic and events will take an even more devastating turn beyond the boundary of the epic (i.e., the tragedy of Jason and Medea), to which Valerius alludes more frequently than Apollonius.36 Valerius’ pessimistic worldview, which is at odds with the teleological narrative of the Aeneid, reflects the Argonautica’s time of composition, the shattered world after the civil wars of 68 and 69 ce. Writing under Vespasian (and possibly thereafter),37 who claimed to be a new Augustus, Valerius at first sight seems to follow suit and replay the Aeneid when he addresses the new emperor in his proem and associates him with Jason and the Argonauts, just as Virgil associates Aeneas with Augustus. But gradually, Valerius reveals a disappointed attitude concerning the Principate and shows that an Aeneid in the Flavian age is not possible anymore. One can understand the optimism of the Augustan age, when the first princeps had ended more than half a century of traumatic civil wars, but one can equally understand Valerius not believing in the Augustan dream anymore.38

34

35 36 37

38

Cf. Lovatt 2014: 220: ‘There is a clear tension between Meleager’s optimistic approach (‘We can all be Hercules!’) and the narrator’s less optimistic judgement that the keenness of the Argonauts is so much hot air ( flatu, vana, gliscunt at 3.631–632 stand out as a condemnation of the pride of the Argonauts).’ Heerink 2014: 94–95; 2016, on which what follows is based. For these dark prefigurations, see e.g. Hershkowitz 1998b: 14–32. For the vexed discussion concerning the date of composition of the epic, see Stover 2012: 7–26, who argues for a Vespasianic date (70–79ce), to which I subscribe. See esp. Zissos 2008: xiii–xvii for a longer and later period of composition (70–94ce). As Jacqueline Klooster suggests to me, one could perhaps also read the conflict on the Argo as reflecting a contemporary debate in Flavian Rome on the credibility of a new dynasty after the death of Nero and the end of the Julio-Claudian dynasty. See Stover 2020: 55–60 for a different but equally fascinating historical interpretation of the episode: ‘I suggest that Valerius’ Meleager is strikingly similar to a figure of great prominence in Tacitus’ account of the civil war of ad 68–69, i.e. the notorious general Antonius Primus.’ (p. 56).

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The intertextuality in Meleager’s speech is also telling in this regard. Whereas there is no Apollonian precedent for Meleager’s speech, Schenk (1986) has argued that it seems to have been inspired by Drances’ long speech in Aeneid 11 (336–446). In the light of what I have argued above (Telamon promoting a Virgilian narrative in the Argonautica and Meleager a Valerian one), this seems paradoxical at first sight, but on closer inspection it becomes more understandable. Drances is a character that is portrayed very negatively, more so than Meleager.39 In a context that is similar to the one in Valerius (a kind of rhetorical agon), king Latinus proposes to come to terms with the Trojans, as he believes this is fated, and then opens up a debate, as Jason does in the Argonautica.40 Drances takes the floor and pleads for a peace treaty as well, but also for a duel between Aeneas and Turnus; his speech is in fact ‘a snide, sly attack on Turnus.’41 The latter’s response is a fierce rebuttal of Drances, but he also argues against peace and for continuing the war with the Trojans. Turnus is willing to die on the battlefield, but he rejects the self-sacrifice proposed by Drances. The Latin war-council ends without resolution, as it is interrupted by the news that the Trojans are coming. A council that could have profoundly influenced the course of the epic, is thus eventually without event. This is a striking inversion of what happens in Valerius’ Argonautica, where Meleager does get what he wants (to get rid of Hercules), and the course of the epic changes dramatically, as the Argo ironically steers away from the very epic that inspired this scene.42 When we now look back at the way Valerius’ Meleager was negatively introduced as ‘fostering the worse cause by the better argument, ever persistent in aiding a perverted [or inverted] course’ (potioribus ille | deteriora fouens semperque inuersa tueri | durus, 646–648), we can perhaps read this phrase as a self-deprecating and metapoetical commentary on the Argonautica’s intertex-

39

40 41 42

Manuwald 2015: 240. Stover 2020: 51 downplays the importance of Drances as a meaningful intertext: ‘Certainly there are similarities … But beyond this similarity, the Virgilian character is not a very good fit as a model for Valerius’ Meleager. Most obviously, Drances is old, whereas Meleager is in his prime and Drances opposes war, whereas Meleager champions swift action.’ In line with my interpretation of Valerius’ Meleager as an inversion of Drances, I would rather see the contrasts between the two characters noticed by Stover as meaningful. Schenk 1986: 15. McGill 2020: 17. McGill’s fascinating footnote on the Latin council that ‘[i]t is tempting to think that the fractious meeting reflects Virgil’s dark view of political debate in Rome, especially at the end of the Republic’ (2020: 20, n. 62) makes me wonder whether this negative view of a pre-Augustan political situation could have influenced Valerius’ pessimistic postAugustan worldview.

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tual strategy with regard to the Aeneid, the kind of epic that the poet-narrator would perhaps rather have told.

Bibliography Bal, M., Narratologie (Paris 1977). Braund, S., Most, G.W. (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003). Feeney, D.C., The Gods in Epic. Poets and Critics of the Classical Tradition (Oxford 1991). Genette, G., Narrative Discourse Revisited (Ithaca, NY 1980). Hardie, P.R., ‘Flavian Epicists on Virgil’s Epic Technique’, Ramus 18 (1989) 3–20. Heerink, M., ‘Valerius Flaccus, Virgil and the Poetics of Ekphrasis’, in M. Heerink, G. Manuwald (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Valerius Flaccus (Leiden 2014) 72–95. Heerink, M., Echoing Hylas. A Study in Hellenistic and Roman Metapoetics (Madison 2015). Heerink, M., ‘Virgil, Lucan, and the Meaning of Civil war in Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica’, Mnemosyne 69 (2016) 511–525. Heerink, M., ‘Replaying Dido: Elegy and the Poetics of Inversion in Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica’, in N. Coffee, C. Forstall, L. Galli Milić, D. Nelis (eds.), Intertextuality in Flavian Epic Poetry. Contemporary Approaches (Berlin 2020) 187–203. Hershkowitz, D., The Madness of Epic. Reading Insanity from Homer to Statius (Oxford 1998). [1998a] Hershkowitz, D., Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica. Abbreviated Voyages in Silver Latin Epic (Oxford 1998). [1998b] Hinds, S.E., ‘Essential Epic: Genre and Gender from Macer to Statius’, in M. Depew, D. Obbink (eds.), Matrices of Genre. Authors, Canons, and Society (Cambridge, MA 2000) 221–244; 302–304. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Metalepsis in Ancient Greek Literature’, in J. Grethlein, A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation. The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature (Berlin 2009) 87–115. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Metalepsis and Embedded Speech in Pindaric and Bacchylidean Myth’, in U.E. Eisen, P. von Möllendorff (eds.), Über die Grenze. Metalepse in Text und Bildmedien des Altertums (Berlin 2013) 97–118. Langen, P., C. Valeri Flacci Setini Balbi Argonauticon libri octo (Berlin 1896–1897). Lovatt, H., ‘Teamwork, Leadership and Group Dynamics in Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica’, in M. Heerink, G. Manuwald (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Valerius Flaccus (Leiden 2014) 211–228. Manuwald, G., Valerius Flaccus, Argonautica: Book iii (Cambridge 2015). McGill, S., Virgil, Aeneid: Book xi (Cambridge 2020).

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Mozley, J.H., Valerius Flaccus: Argonautica (Cambridge, MA [1934] 2nd edn. 1936). Nauta, R.R., ‘Metalepsis and Metapoetics in Latin Poetry’, in U.E. Eisen, P. von Möllendorff (eds.), Über die Grenze. Metalepse in Text und Bildmedien des Altertums (Berlin 2013) 223–256. Race, W.H., Apollonius Rhodius. Argonautica (Cambridge, MA 2008). Schenk, P., Die Zurücklassung des Herakles. Ein Beispiel der epischen Kunst des Valerius Flaccus (Argonautica iii 598–725) (Mainz 1986). Spaltenstein, F., Commentaire des Argonautica de Valérius Flaccus (livres 3, 4 et 5) (Brussels 2004). Stover, T., Epic and Empire in Vespasianic Rome. A New Reading of Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica (Oxford 2012). Stover, T. ‘Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 3.598–725: Epic, History, and Intertextuality’, in N. Coffee, C. Forstall, L. Galli Milić, D. Nelis (eds.), Intertextuality in Flavian Epic Poetry. Contemporary Approaches (Berlin 2020) 43–64. West, D., Virgil. The Aeneid (London 1991). Wills, J., Repetition in Latin Poetry. Figures of Allusion (Oxford 1996). Zissos, A., Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica, Book 1: A Commentary (Oxford 2008).

part 7 Greek Prose of the Imperial Period

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chapter 38

Emotion and the Sublime Casper de Jonge

One of the unsolved mysteries surrounding the treatise On the Sublime concerns the relationship between emotion (πάθος) and the sublime (ὕψος).1 It is obvious that emotions play a central role in On the Sublime. The author, whom I will call Longinus, invites us to recognize the sublime in Ajax’ proud prayer to Zeus on the battlefield (Iliad 17.645–647), Sappho’s ecstatic love song (fragment 31), Orestes’ insane expressions of fear (Euripides, Orestes 255–257), and innumerable other emotional passages from archaic and classical Greek literature.2 But not all sublime passages are emotional: Longinus tells us that there are many ‘sublime moments without emotion’ (ὕψη δίχα πάθους) and he offers as an example the attack on the Olympian gods by Otus and Ephialtes: They yearned to pile Ossa on Olympus, and Pelion, with its waving forests, on Ossa, so that heaven might be scaled. And this they would have accomplished …3 hom. Od. 11.315–317

What makes these Homeric lines sublime (in Longinus’ interpretation) is probably the superhuman undertaking, the inconceivable height of three mountains piled upon each other (i.e. ὕψος in a literal sense), and the suggestion that the attempt might have succeeded.4 For Longinus these lines are sublime and great, but not emotional. Likewise there are rhetorical genres, like eulogies, ceremonial speeches, and showpieces (τὰ ἐγκώμια καὶ τὰ πομπικὰ καὶ ἐπιδεικτικά), which have elements of dignity and sublimity, while lacking emo1 Previous discussions of the role of pathos in On the Sublime include Lackenbacher 1911; Bompaire 1973; Paglialunga 2004; Halliwell 2011: 327–367; Porter 2016: 124–130. For pathos in ancient Greek poetics, see Rendona Moyano 2006. Innes 1995a focuses on the ‘low emotions’, pity, grief, and fear (Subl. 8.2: see below). Translations of On the Sublime in this chapter are adapted from Fyfe and Russell (1995). For the date and authorship of On the Sublime (irrelevant to the argument presented here), see Russell 1964: xxii–xxx; Mazzucchi 2010: xxix–xxxvii; De Jonge 2012. 2 Longinus, Subl. 9.10; 10.1–3; 15.2. 3 Subl. 8.2. Translation Murray and Dimock 2015. 4 See Porter 2016: 165–166.

© Casper de Jonge, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_040

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tion (πάθους χηρεύει).5 The sublime is not always emotional, then, and not all emotions are sublime: there are indeed ‘certain emotions that are devoid of sublimity and low’ (πάθη τινὰ διεστῶτα ὕψους καὶ ταπεινά), like feelings of pity, grief, and fear (οἶκτοι λῦπαι φόβοι).6 And yet, the sublime and the emotional have a very special relationship: I would confidently lay it down that nothing makes so much for grandeur as genuine emotion (τὸ γενναῖον πάθος) in the right place (ἔνθα χρή): it inspires the words as it were with a fine frenzy and fills them with divine spirit. longinus, Subl. 8.4

This statement, which clearly evokes Platonic ideas on divine inspiration, suggests that it is the genuine emotion (τὸ γενναῖον πάθος) of speakers (or narrators if you will) that can make their words sublime.7 This is emotion that is ‘true to their birth’ (hence ‘genuine’), but the word γενναῖος also suggests that the emotion must be ‘noble’ or ‘high-minded’: this idea will indeed turn out to be relevant to the types of emotions that Longinus foregrounds in his treatise. In spite of the strong language of inspiration and possession used by Longinus, the emotional writer can never be in a complete state of irrational and uncontrolled ecstasy. In literary writing emotion must somehow be well-timed: πάθος only works ‘in the right place’ (ἔνθα χρή), and it takes a skilled rhetorician to recognize the right moments. In other words, emotion and cognitive control must cooperate. Elsewhere, Longinus points to the emotions of characters within the narrative (like Ajax or Orestes) and to the emotions that the sublime evokes in the audience. We will see that Longinus presents the listener’s emotions likewise as strong, intense, and extreme, but at the same time as somehow controlled: the audience of sublime texts is said to be ‘almost’ ecstatic (μικροῦ δεῖν), and possessed ‘as it were’ (ὥσπερ, καθάπερ, οἱονεί).8 This contribution will review Longinus’ ideas about the emotions of authors, characters, and audiences. While the treatise On the Sublime is the most com-

5 Subl. 8.3. 6 Subl. 8.2. On the status of these low or ‘tragic’ emotions in On the Sublime, see Innes 1995a; Porter 2016: 126 n. 167 and 166. Fear is in fact an emotion that is portrayed in several of the examples cited by Longinus (see below on Orestes in Subl. 15). 7 The transportation of rhapsodes in Plato’s Ion is similar to the ecstasy that the author experiences according to Longinus’ On the Sublime: see De Jonge 2020: 149–150. For similar metaphors of inspiration and enthusiasm, see Subl. 13.2; 15.1; 32.7. Cf. Russell ad loc. 8 See Subl. 3.5; 8.4; 16.2; 39.2. Cf. Halliwell 2011: 330; De Jonge 2020: 154–155.

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plete and most influential account of ὕψος in antiquity, the relationship between emotion and the sublime is also discussed in other ancient texts.9 One intriguing example comes from Dionysius of Halicarnassus, who reports what he experienced when reading one of Demosthenes’ speeches: … I am transported (ἐνθουσιῶ) and I am driven over here, over there (δεῦρο κἀκεῖσε ἄγομαι), feeling one emotion (πάθος) after another—disbelief, anguish, terror, contempt, hatred, pity, goodwill, anger, envy—experiencing in succession all emotions (ἅπαντα τὰ πάθη) that can rule over the human mind (ὅσα κρατεῖν πέφυκεν ἀνθρωπίνης γνώμης). D.H. Dem. 22.2–3

As we will see, Longinus likewise uses the language of ‘being moved’, ‘transported’, and ‘ruled’ when characterizing the emotional impact of the sublime.10 Dionysius’ reading of Demosthenes sounds like a rather enervating experience; can readers really feel such an extended series of strong emotions without pause, or would they also need moments of relaxation?11 In this respect Longinus’ approach is perhaps more nuanced, as he focuses on specific moments within a poem, speech or story—the highlights of a narrative that have a strong emotional impact. Longinus draws attention to the emotional impact of such moments of the sublime, but he does not suggest that readers are continuously ecstatic while reading Homer’s Iliad or Demosthenes’ On the Crown. Unlike narratologists of our day Longinus distinguishes neither between author and narrator, nor between audience and narratee.12 But his criticism is certainly relevant to narratology, as most of the literary examples that he cites and examines are short passages from narrative discourse in Greek epic, drama, rhetoric, and historiography. In his interpretations of these examples Longinus offers an intriguing perspective on the role of emotion in the sublime moments

9 10

11 12

Scholia identify the emotional effects of (sublime) Homeric poetry: see Nünlist 2009: 139– 149. Porter 2016: 178–381 examines theories of the sublime in other critics and rhetoricians. Longinus seems to be unique in assigning such a central role to emotion in his concept of the sublime, but his views on the ecstatic emotion of audiences are anticipated by Gorgias, Helen 17 and Plato, Ion 535b–e: see De Jonge 2020: 149–150. Several scholia point out that Homer allows his readers to relax now and then: see Nünlist 2009: 151–153. For Longinus the audience of a text is primarily a ‘listener’ (ἀκροατής, ἀκροώμενος): see Subl. 1.4, 3.5, 10.1, 12.5 etc. We should however realize that the normal way of reading in antiquity was out loud, so that reading was also listening; and hence that ἀκούειν can also mean ‘to read’ (cf. Schenkeveld 1992).

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(or immersive ‘highlights’) of narratives: in a short moment of sublime communication the narrator and the narratee may feel emotionally connected with each other and with the characters in the story.13 Before turning to the emotions of the three parties involved in sublime writing—author, audience, and characters—, I will first discuss the position of πάθος as one of the ‘sources’ of the sublime in Longinus’ treatise, and ask which emotions are relevant to the sublime.

Emotion as a Source of the Sublime In chapter 8 Longinus states that there are five most productive ‘sources’ (πηγαί) of the sublime. The first one is ‘the power of grand conceptions’ (τὸ περὶ τὰς νοήσεις ἁδρεπήβολον); the second one is ‘vehement and inspired emotion’ (τὸ σφοδρὸν καὶ ἐνθουσιαστικὸν πάθος). These two sources are for the most part ‘congenital’ (αὐθιγενεῖς), that is, they must somehow be present in the ‘nature’ (φύσις) of the author. The other three sources of the sublime are a matter of ‘art’ (τέχνη) and therefore could be learned and trained: figures of thought and speech, diction, and word arrangement.14 The importance of emotion to sublime writing is clear from this partitio: πάθος comes in the second place and is only preceded by ‘greatness of mind’ (μεγαλοφροσύνη), with which it shares the important characteristic of being inborn and natural. Everyone could go to a rhetorician or writing coach in order to learn how to use hyperbaton, metaphors, and rhythmical patterns, but inspired emotion is something that authors will have to find within themselves. Longinus’ formal presentation of the five sources of the sublime sounds misleadingly clear and well-ordered, as if it would indeed be possible to write a straightforward ‘handbook of the sublime or emotion’ (ὕψους … ἢ πάθους τέχνη).15 While the list of five sources roughly corresponds to the structure of

13

14 15

On ‘immersion’, see Allan, De Jong, and De Jonge 2017; on immersion in Longinus, see De Jonge 2020, 170–171. Toolan 2012 examines the factors that contribute to ‘emotionallyimmersive passages’ in short fiction: his concept of ‘high emotional intensity’ echoes Longinus’ concept of the sublime: see De Jonge 2019. See also the contributions of Allan, and Van Gils and Kroon, in this volume, and, for a brief overview, the Introduction. Subl. 8.1. Subl. 2.1: Longinus asks ‘whether there is an art of the sublime or emotion’. But note that πάθους is a conjecture by Upton, which is adopted by Russell in Fyfe and Russell 1995 and by Mazzucchi 2010. Russell 1964 keeps βάθους (MSS), which however could not have the meaning that Alexander Pope assigned to the term in his Peri Bathous (1727). See Russell 1964 and Mazzucchi ad loc.

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Longinus’ treatise, there is a problem, as the following overview of On the Sublime (chapters 1–44) demonstrates:16 1–2 3–5 6–7 8 9–15 16–29 30–38 39–43 44

preface; criticism of Caecilius of Caleacte; what is the sublime? faults, misconceived attempts at the sublime characteristics of the true sublime five sources of the sublime: great thoughts (source 1) figures of thought and figures of speech (source 3) noble diction (source 4) composition (source 5) dialogue on the current lack of sublime talents

Where is the section on emotion (source 2)? Three answers have been proposed.17 First, the discussion of emotion may have been lost in one of the six long lacunas of codex Parisinus 2036.18 Although this is certainly possible, we must observe that there is no lacuna between chapter 15 and chapter 16, where we would expect the section on emotions: Longinus smoothly moves from great thoughts (source 1) to figures (source 3).19 Second, one could argue that emotion is not treated separately, but in close connection with the other sources. There are indeed many passages, like the discussion of Sappho fragment 31 (chapter 10), where it is suggested that emotion works together with other sources of the sublime.20 The notion that πάθος was discussed throughout the treatise rather than in one specific section would indeed be plausible, if Longinus had not explicitly told us that he reserved a specific place (i.e. a section or book) for it.21 One final option remains, namely that the section on

16 17

18 19 20 21

On the structure and unity of On the Sublime, see Innes 1995b. See Bompaire 1973; Russell in Fyfe and Russell 1995: 149. Porter 2016: 125–127 argues that ‘[s]ublimity is often nothing if not an emotion (or feeling), a pathos, that invades a subject (whether the writer or the reader) in the form of possession or enthusiasm.’ The word ‘often’ is crucial here. There are also sublime moments without emotion (see above), so I cannot agree with Porter (2016: 126–127) that ‘[t]he fact that emotion receives no separate treatment in On the Sublime is plainly a false problem that needn’t delay us any further here’. See Russell 1964: xlix–l and Mazzucchi 2010: xxxix–xliv. The lacuna following Subl. 9.4 could have contained a discussion of emotion. In that case the first two sources of the sublime were apparently presented as closely intertwined. See Porter 2016: 125. Subl. 3.5: πλὴν περὶ μὲν τῶν παθητικῶν ἄλλος ἡμῖν ἀπόκειται τόπος. ‘However another place has been reserved in which the emotional will be treated.’

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emotion was postponed to a separate treatise. In the final words of chapter 44, Longinus announces that he will now ‘pass on to the next topic’ (ἐπὶ δὲ τὰ συνεχῆ): and that topic was the emotions (τὰ πάθη), on which I previously undertook to write a separate treatise (ὑπομνήματι), for they seem to me to form part of the general subject of literature and especially of sublimity … Subl. 44.12

The last words of the surviving text of On the Sublime again underline the close relationship between emotion and the sublime. The text in the manuscript breaks off after these words, and there is some doubt about the authenticity of the words cited here, which are written in a later hand.22 It would be a surprise if Longinus had postponed the entire subject of emotions to another treatise. For he complains that his predecessor Caecilius of Caleacte, the writer of an earlier treatise On the Sublime, had omitted some of the five sources, ‘one obvious omission being that of emotion’ (ὡς καὶ τὸ πάθος ἀμέλει).23 We would expect Longinus not to repeat the mistake that he finds unacceptable in the work of his colleague. Longinus himself has certainly not omitted emotion. The place of his section on πάθη must perhaps remain an open question, but in On the Sublime emotion is everywhere. The emotions that are most relevant to the critic’s concept of the sublime are enormous joy and exaltation, erotic passion, extreme fear, and enthusiastic possession. What these emotions have in common is that they are closely related to the dislocating or ecstatic impact (ἔκστασις) of the sublime:24 What is beyond nature drives the audience not to persuasion but rather to ecstasy (οὐ γὰρ εἰς πειθὼ τοὺς ἀκροωμένους ἀλλ’ εἰς ἔκστασιν ἄγει τὰ ὑπερφυᾶ). Invariably what inspires wonder (τὸ θαυμάσιον), together with its power of amazing us (σὺν ἐκπλήξει), always prevails over what is merely 22 23 24

See Russell 1964 and Mazzucchi 2010 ad loc. Subl. 8.1. For Caecilius’ On the Sublime (Augustan Age), see Woerther 2015. On ecstasy in On the Sublime, see De Jonge 2020. On dislocation as a guiding notion in Longinus’ treatise, see also Too 1998: 187–217. The term dislocation can refer both to the language of a sublime text and to the experience of the audience: both are ‘moved’ in a certain sense. Characteristic of a sublime style are words that are placed out of order (i.e. through hyperbaton or elevated word arrangement) or used in unexpected ways. Listeners are ‘dislocated’ in the sense that they are ‘carried away’, experiencing some form of mental transportation. Longinus’ treatise suggests that there is a connection between these forms of spatial displacement: displaced language moves the minds of the audience.

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convincing and pleasing. For our persuasions are usually under our control, while these things exercise an irresistible power and mastery (δυναστείαν καὶ βίαν), and take control over every listener (παντὸς ἐπάνω τοῦ ἀκροωμένου καθίσταται). Subl. 1.4

The emotions that interest Longinus most are indeed those excessive feelings that we experience when we seem to have lost all control: we are himmelhoch jauchzend or deeply afraid of dying. Such ecstasy may not only affect the listener, but also the author and the characters in the story. Some remarkable examples can illustrate the prominence of these intense emotions throughout the treatise. Longinus tells us that when we hear something really sublime, our soul is filled with ‘joy and pride’ (χαρᾶς καὶ μεγαλαυχίας).25 In a passage that Longinus cites from Homer’s Iliad, the sea parts its waves for pure ‘joy’ (γηθοσύνη) when Poseidon is approaching.26 Sappho ‘never fails to take the emotions incident to the passion of love (τὰ συμβαίνοντα ταῖς ἐρωτικαῖς μανίαις παθήματα) from its attendant symptoms and from real life’: fragment 31, which we owe to Longinus, displays not a single emotion, but a whole ‘concourse of emotions’ (πάθων σύνοδος).27 Death is nearby when Sappho refers to her ‘shivering’ (τρόμος 31.13); this shuddering experience is echoed a short moment later in Longinus’ treatise, when the sailors in a Homeric storm ‘are trembling’ for fear (τρομέουσι, Il. 15.627).28 Both Sappho (or the lyrical subject29) and the sailors are deeply afraid of dying. Euripides is said to be very successful in presenting two emotions in particular, ‘madness and passion’ (μανίας τε καὶ ἔρωτας), specifically in his ‘visualizations’ (φαντασίαι) of Iphigenia and Orestes.30 This incomplete overview serves to demonstrate that Longinus is not so much interested in modest emotions like amusement, pleasure, sadness, boredom or contentment; the emotions of the sublime are exaltation, great surprise, manic fear, and deep confusion. For Longinus, emotion is indeed ‘a violent movement and commotion of the soul’ (φορὰ ψυχῆς καὶ συγκίνησις).31 Narrators can use that state of mind when constructing their narratives; this may 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

Subl. 7.2. Cf. De Jonge 2020: 165; see below. Hom. Il. 13.29, cited in Subl. 9.8. Subl. 10.3 on Sappho fr. 31. Subl. 10.5. On shuddering in the ancient world, see Cairns 2013: 85–107, who focuses on θάμβος and φρική. For the distinction between author/performer Sappho and lyrical subject in her poems (and its consequences for interpretation), see Lardinois in this volume. Subl. 15.3. Subl. 20.2: see De Jonge 2020: 157.

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lead to an extraordinary (dislocated) text that features characters with similarly extreme (and noble) emotions; and this again will have a great impact on the audience. Let us now look at the sublime emotions of authors, audiences, and characters.

The Emotions of the Author Longinus often refers to the emotions of the authors whose texts he cites and examines. One of the most prominent writers in his treatise, perhaps the most sublime of all, is Demosthenes. In the fascinating comparison of Demosthenes and Cicero (On the Sublime 12.4–5), Longinus assigns all the typical elements of the sublime to the Greek orator, whose violent style ‘burns’ everything like a flash of lightning or a thunderbolt. Demosthenes’ sublimity (ὕψος) is contrasted to Cicero’s ‘diffusion’ (χύσις): while the Greek orator uses an abrupt, rapid, and forceful style, the Roman orator composes long sentences that impress by their amplification and persistent energy. The right moment for Demosthenes’ sublimity comes ‘in his vehement emotions (τοῖς σφοδροῖς πάθεσι) and in passages where it is necessary to amaze (ἐκπλῆξαι) the audience’.32 In the brief description of Cicero’s style no such strong emotion is mentioned. Longinus’ reference to Demosthenes’ forceful emotions echoes his definition of the second source of the sublime (τὸ σφοδρὸν καὶ ἐνθουσιαστικὸν πάθος):33 this intratextual allusion underlines that for Longinus Demosthenes, not Cicero, is the archetype of sublime writing. In his analysis of Demosthenes’ famous Marathon oath (On the Crown 208), Longinus points out that the orator seems ‘as if suddenly inspired by a god and as it were possessed’ (καθάπερ ἐμπνευσθεὶς ἐξαίφνης ὑπὸ θεοῦ καὶ οἱονεὶ φοιβόληπτος γενόμενος).34 The words καθάπερ and οἱονεί indicate that Demosthenes is not really carried away—he is still master over his feelings and artfully composing his text, by combining his natural, well-timed emotion with his superb technical skills. Demosthenes’ controlled ecstasy has a great impact on the text, which itself becomes loaded with πάθος: the orator ‘has transformed the nature of the argument into a passage of transcendent sublimity and emotion’ (τὴν δὲ τῆς ἀποδείξεως φύσιν μεθεστακὼς εἰς ὑπερβάλλον ὕψος καὶ πάθος). Longinus’

32 33 34

Subl. 12.5. On Longinus’ comparison of Demosthenes and Cicero, see De Jonge and Nijk 2019. Subl. 8.2: see above. Subl. 16.2. See Porter 2016: 133–134.

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analysis suggests not only a close connection between sublimity and emotion, but also a relationship between Demosthenes’ state of mind and the remarkable sentence that he has produced, with its unusual and extraordinary oath: I swear it by our forefathers who bore the brunt of warfare at Marathon, who stood in array of battle at Plataea, who fought in the sea-fights of Salamis and Artemisium, and by all the brave men who repose in our public sepulchres, buried there by a country that accounted them all to be alike worthy of the same honour …35 demosthenes, On the Crown 208

Apart from Plato, Homer is the only author who can compete with Demosthenes in Longinus’ treatise.36 Homer, too, is characterized as driven by emotion: Longinus quotes three Homeric lines about Hector (Il. 15.605–607), but by integrating the citation into his own text Longinus makes Homer himself (instead of Hector) the grammatical subject of the Homeric sentence. Thus Homer replaces Hector, who is in his turn compared to Ares and to fire: ‘he stormily raves (μαίνεται), as when the spear-wielding Ares or destroying fire stormily raves (μαίνηται) on the hills … and foam encircles his mouth.’37 Longinus’ switcheroo suggests that Hector’s firm and fierce way of fighting somehow mirrors Homer’s inspired state of mind when composing the Iliad. Longinus prefers the Iliad over the Odyssey, considering the latter poem a product of Homer’s old age.38 The comparison of the two epic poems (On the Sublime 9.11–15) brings out several differences; one of them is that the Iliad, unlike the Odyssey, has a ‘flood of emotions, one following close after another’ (πρόχυσιν … τῶν ἐπαλλήλων παθῶν). Getting older, Homer apparently moved from πάθος to ἦθος, as ‘in the greatest prose writers and poets declining emotional power passes into character portrayals’ (ἡ ἀπακμὴ τοῦ πάθους ἐν τοῖς μεγάλοις συγγραφεῦσι καὶ ποιηταῖς εἰς ἦθος ἐκλύεται).39 While the Iliad has more emotion, it is also more ‘dramatic’ (δραματικόν) and ‘involving’ (ἐναγώνιον), whereas in the Odyssey the ‘narrative mode’ (διηγηματικόν) predominates.40 The latter words do not imply that narrative cannot be emotional; Longinus rather means

35 36 37 38 39 40

Translation Vince 1926. On Homer and the sublime, see Porter 2016: 360–381. Longinus Subl. 9.11 cites Il. 15.605–607 and makes Homer himself the grammatical subject of Hector’s actions. See Hunter 2018: 188–189. Subl. 9.13. Subl. 9.15. Subl. 9.13. On the semantics of ἐναγώνιος, see Ooms and De Jonge 2013.

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to say that the audience of the Odyssey is enjoying the pleasant stories of Odysseus as belonging to a different world, whereas the listeners of the Iliad are always on the edge of their seat, completely drawn into the exciting events. The Iliad, one could say, is more immersive than the Odyssey.41 Among the emotional authors of sublime texts we should of course also mention Sappho, who knows how to select the emotions from real life and how to bring them together in one unified poem, and Euripides, who is an expert in presenting madness and passion.42 There are however also writers who are less successful. According to Longinus one important cause of stylistic failure is misplaced emotion (πάθος ἄκαιρον): this is what Theodorus (possibly Theodorus of Gadara, teacher of emperor Tiberius) called the ‘pseudobacchanalian’ or ‘affectation of style’ (παρένθυρσος):43 For writers often behave as if they were drunk (ὥσπερ ἐκ μέθης) and give way to outbursts of emotions which the subject no longer warrants, but which are private to themselves and consequently tedious, so that to an audience which feels none of it (πρὸς οὐδὲν πεπονθότας ἀκροατὰς) their behaviour looks unseemly. And naturally so, for while they are in ecstasy, the audience is not (ἐξεστηκότες πρὸς οὐκ ἐξεστηκότας). Subl. 3.5

Longinus deems it crucial that there is a communicative connection between author and reader—only well-timed and well-placed emotion will produce the right emotion in the audience too.

41

42

43

Cf. Porter 2016: 360. On Homeric immersion, see Allan, De Jong, and De Jonge 2017. Compare also Allan in this volume, and—on immersion in general—the observations of Van Gils and Kroon, and the brief overview in the Introduction. See Subl. 10.1–3 and 15.3 (both cited above). Longinus cites several examples from Euripides’ messenger speeches in his chapter on φαντασία (visualization), which is closely connected with the emotion of the author: ‘through frenzy and emotion (ὑπ’ ἐνθουσιασμοῦ καὶ πάθους) you seem to see what you describe and bring it vividly before the eyes of your audience’ (Subl. 15.1). Cf. De Jonge 2020: 155. Note that the authors who fail to achieve sublimity are said to be ‘drunk, as it were’ (ὥσπερ ἐκ μέθης), whereas successful authors are ‘possessed, as it were’ (see above on Subl. 16.2).

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The Emotions of the Audience The sublime carries the reader or listener out of themselves, as we have seen. What kind of emotion is this ecstasy that the audience may experience? It can feel like ‘pride’:44 For our soul is naturally elevated by the true sublime: uplifted with a sense of proud exaltation, our soul is filled with joy and pride (πληροῦται χαρᾶς καὶ μεγαλαυχίας), as if it has itself produced what it just heard (ὡς αὐτὴ γεννήσασα ὅπερ ἤκουσεν). Subl. 7.2

This is a remarkable form of ecstasy: while listening to a sublime passage we may be so carried away that we believe that we ourselves have written the lines—for a moment we are Homer, we are Sappho, or we are Demosthenes. The ‘joy and pride’ that the audience experiences could be described as a triumphant exaltation that collapses the borderlines between author and audience. Again, we should not forget that this is just an illusion (‘as if’). Cognitive control will bring us back to reality, and we will soon realize that we are not Homer, Sappho, or Demosthenes after all. Not all texts will have the ecstatic impact that Longinus is looking for. He is well aware that rhetorical language, like the use of figures of speech, can actually have the opposite effect: audiences may be annoyed when listening to an orator employing asyndeton, hyperbaton, and rhetorical questions in order to impress them. Therefore, figures must be concealed, and here again emotion can help us: ‘sublimity and emotion (ὕψος καὶ πάθος) are a wonderfully helpful antidote against the suspicion that accompanies the use of figures’.45 If the writer or orator uses obvious artistic figures of speech that are not hidden by a display of genuine emotion and sublimity, the judge (κριτής), tyrant (τύραννος), king (βασιλεύς) or ruler (ἡγεμών) might develop emotions that are rather different from proud exaltation: He is promptly indignant (ἀγανακτεῖ) that he is being treated like a silly child and outwitted by the figures of a skilled speaker. Construing the fallacy as a personal affront, he sometimes turns downright savage (ἀποθη-

44 45

See also De Jonge 2020: 165. Subl. 17.2.

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ριοῦται); and even if he controls his feelings (κἂν ἐπικρατήσῃ δὲ τοῦ θυμοῦ), he becomes conditioned against being persuaded by the speech. Subl. 17.1

Is Longinus here thinking of a Roman emperor who might be annoyed by the tricks of a skilled rhetorician? The irritation (ἀγαντακτεῖν) of the tyrant stands in sharp contrast with the ecstatic emotions that Longinus is aiming at in his treatise. This passage makes it once more clear that the sublime could never be a matter of ecstasy and irrational possession alone: the art (τέχνη) of the rhetorician is needed to conceal itself (ars est celare artem). Ecstasy must be controlled by the sophisticated skills that we can learn by studying Longinus’ treatise.46

The Emotions of Characters Longinus believes that in a successful act of sublime communication the genuine (but still somehow controlled) emotion of the author will have an ecstatic impact on the audience. Both author and reader can be inspired by the characters within the narrative, whose emotions they can adopt or mirror. Among the emotional characters of narrative passages cited in On the Sublime Ajax is perhaps the most sublime one. This Homeric character appears twice in chapter 9, where Longinus discusses greatness of mind as the first source of ὕψος. First Longinus refers to Ajax’s silent response to Odysseus (significantly without citing the Homeric text, thereby ‘silencing’ it):47 The sublime is the echo of a noble mind (ὕψος μεγαλοφροσύνης ἀπήχημα). And so even without voice (i.e. without being spoken) the bare thought often of itself wins admiration for its inherent grandeur (τὸ μεγαλόφρον). How grand, for instance, is the silence of Ajax in the Summoning of the Ghosts, more sublime than any speech (παντὸς ὑψηλότερον λόγου)! Subl. 9.2

Greatness of thought cannot be separated from emotion here. It is Ajax’ irrepressible anger, shame, and indignation that cause him not to answer Odysseus’ questions. Ajax’ silence (famously echoed by Dido’s silence in Virgil’s Aeneid) 46 47

Halliwell 2011 interprets the tradition of ancient literary criticism (including Longinus) as a dialogue between ‘ecstasy’ and ‘truth’. Subl. 9.2 on Hom. Od. 11.563–565. See Porter 2016: 94–97.

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is ‘more sublime than any speech’, I suggest, because the audience can almost feel his anger, which has not yielded since he committed suicide.48 Nevertheless, his emotion is also collected and controlled. Indeed, ‘nothing makes so much for grandeur as noble emotion (γενναῖον πάθος) in the right place’.49 The second moment of Ajax’ emotional sublimity mentioned by Longinus is his prayer to Zeus when the battlefield is hidden in the darkness of the night: Ajax desperately but also proudly asks Zeus to bring daylight instead of darkness.50 Longinus’ commentary highlights Ajax’ πάθος: These are the true feelings of an Ajax (ἔστιν ὡς ἀληθῶς τὸ πάθος Αἴαντος). He does not plead for his life: such a prayer would demean the hero: but since the disabling darkness robbed his courage of all noble use, therefore, distressed (ἀγανακτῶν) to be idle in battle, he prays for light on the instant, hoping thus at the worst to find a burial worthy of his courage, even though Zeus be ranged against him. Subl. 9.10

The emotions of Ajax are analysed as heroic and noble. Ajax’ prayer for light resonates with God’s creation of light in Genesis 1 ( fiat lux), a paraphrase of which Longinus offers us in the section immediately preceding the Ajax example.51 Heroic and noble emotions connect sublime characters with the sublime authors in Longinus’ text, like Homer and Demosthenes. This becomes especially clear in Longinus’ discussion of a passage from the Iliad, where Hector angrily encourages the Trojans. Longinus’ analysis suggests that Hector can scarcely be distinguished from Homer himself:52 Ἕκτωρ δὲ Τρώεσσιν ἐκέκλετο μακρὸν ἀύσας νηυσὶν ἐπισσεύεσθαι, ἐᾶν δ’ ἔναρα βροτόεντα ὃν δ’ ἂν ἐγὼν ἀπάνευθε νεῶν ἐθέλοντα νοήσω, αὐτοῦ οἱ θάνατον μητίσομαι. hom. Il. 15.346–349, cited in Subl. 27.1

48 49 50 51 52

On this passage, see also De Jonge 2019; De Jong 2021. Subl. 8.4. See above. Hom. Il. 17.645–647 cited in Subl. 9.10. Subl. 9.9. On the connection between the examples from Homer and Genesis in chapter 9, see Usher 2007. The same passage is also discussed in the scholia (schol. A Il. 15.346 Nic.; bT Il. 15.347a ex.) and in Ps.-Plut. Hom. 57. The scholiasts debate whether the speech begins in line 347 or 348. See Nünlist 2009: 105.

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Hector lifted his voice and cried afar to the Trojans To rush back now to the galleys and leave the blood-spattered booty. Whomsoever I see of his own will afar from the galleys, Death for him there will I plan. Longinus cites this passage as an example of a specific grammatical figure, the ‘change of person’: the writer suddenly turns and ‘changes into the character himself’ (εἰς τὸ αὐτὸ πρόσωπον ἀντιμεθίσταται).53 In modern terms this would be called an ‘unmarked transition’ from narrator-text to speech; Irene de Jong has proposed to interpret this figure as a form of metalepsis.54 Longinus supposes that Hector’s direct speech starts with ὃν δ’ ἂν ἐγὼν (line 15.348), and remarks that the direct speech is not introduced by a phrase like ‘Hector said so and so’. Listeners therefore may understand that the author/narrator is still speaking, when they are in fact listening to Hector himself. In Longinus’ interpretation Homer has thus momentarily changed into Hector: author/narrator and character merge in a short moment of sublimity. Longinus tells us that a figure of this kind is ‘a sort of outbreak of emotion’ (ἐκβολή τις πάθους). Is it the poet’s emotion or Hector’s emotion? The best answer is probably ‘both’, as narrator and character have become one.

Conclusion Emotion deeply informs Longinus’ ideas on sublime narrative. There are sublime moments without emotion, to be sure, but nothing is as sublime as ‘genuine emotion’ (γενναῖον πάθος) that is well-timed. We have seen that the term γενναῖον on the one hand suggests that an emotion must naturally belong to the person expressing it; on the other hand it evokes a certain superhuman nobility and grandeur, which characterizes Homer and Demosthenes as much as Ajax and Hector. Although Longinus describes the authors, audiences, and characters of sublime narrative in terms of overwhelming ecstasy and confusing dislocation, an element of cognitive control is never absent. Sublime narrators are possessed ‘as it were’, but they can use their artistic skills to choose the right moment and to find the proper words. Readers experience a moment of proud exaltation when they are carried away by a poem or passage, up to the

53 54

Subl. 27.1. See also De Jonge 2020: 163–164. De Bakker and De Jong 2021: 10. For the ancient scholia on ‘unmarked transition’, see Nünlist 2009: 102–106.

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point that they strongly identify with the author of the text they have read; but this is an illusion that lasts for only a short moment. Even a character like the Homeric Ajax shows that in his proud anger he has ultimately controlled his intense feelings of shame and frustration: his silence is a noble display of emotion and grandeur. In several passages of his treatise Longinus suggests that a sublime text may facilitate the intersubjective communication between authors, audiences, and characters. Vehement emotions like great joy, fear, and anger are, as it were, stamped into the text, from where they connect all parties involved in the narrative. Longinus teaches us that emotion is a source of the sublime not only for writers like Homer, Demosthenes, and Sappho, but also for characters like Ajax, Hector, and Orestes, and most of all for us, readers of classical literature.

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Jonge, C.C. de, ‘Critique littéraire grecque et poésie latine: Denys et Horace, Longin et Virgile’, Lalies 39 (2019) 87–124. Jonge, C.C. de, ‘Ps.-Longinus on Ecstasy: Author, Audience and Text’, in J. Grethlein, L. Huitink, A. Tagliabue (eds.), Experience, Narrative and Criticism in Ancient Greece. Under the Spell of Stories (Oxford 2020) 148–171. Jonge, C.C. de, Nijk, A.A., ‘Longinus, On the Sublime 12.4–5: Demosthenes and Cicero’, Mnemosyne 72 (2019) 766–790. Lackenbacher, H., ‘Die Behandlung des πάθος in der Schrift περὶ ὕψους’, WS 23 (1911) 213– 223. Mazzucchi, C.M., Dionisio Longino Del Sublime. Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e commentario (Milano 2010). Murray, A.T., Dimock, G.E., Homer. Odyssey Books 1–12 (Cambridge, MA / London 1995). Nünlist, R., The Ancient Critic at Work. Terms and Concepts of Literary Criticism in Greek Scholia (Cambridge 2009). Ooms, S., Jonge, C.C. de, ‘The Semantics of ΕΝΑΓΩΝΙΟΣ in Greek Literary Criticism’, CPh 108 (2013) 95–110. Paglialunga, E., ‘El ⟨pathos⟩ en el tratado ⟨Sobre lo sublime⟩’, Logo 7 (2004) 145–151. Porter, J.I., The Sublime in Antiquity (Cambridge 2016). Rendona Moyano, E., ‘El término πάθος en los tratados de poética’, in J.V. Bañuls Oller, F. De Martino, C. Morenilla Talens (eds.), El teatro clásico en el marco de la cultura griega y su pervivencia en la cultura occidental 9. El teatro greco-latino y su recepción en la tradición occidental (Universitat de València, 4–7 de Mayo 2005), (Bari 2006) 581–618. Russell, D.A., ‘Longinus’ On the Sublime (Oxford 1964). Schenkeveld, D.M., ‘Prose Usages of ἀκούειν “To Read”’, CQ 42 (1992) 129–141. Too, Y.L., The Idea of Ancient Literary Criticism (Oxford 1998). Toolan, M., ‘Engagement via Emotional Heightening in “Passion”: On the Grammatical Texture of Emotionally-Immersive Passages in Short Fiction’, Narrative 20 (2012) 210–225. Usher, M.D., ‘Theomachy, Creation, and the Poetics of Quotation in Longinus Chapter 9’, CPh 102 (2007) 292–303. Vince, C.A., Vince, J.A., Demosthenes. Orations 18–19 (Cambridge, MA 1926). Woerther, F., Caecilius de Calè-Actè. Fragments et Témoignages (Paris 2015).

chapter 39

The Role of Anger in Epictetus’ Philosophical Teaching Gerard Boter

Introduction* One of the keywords in Stoicism is ἀπάθεια, usually interpreted as ‘absence of emotions’ but better understood as ‘being in control of one’s emotions’.1 To most people, positive emotions, though pleasant in themselves, are based on external factors, such as a happy marriage or good health, but they are often accompanied by the uncomfortable awareness that the cause of these positive emotions is subject to change, which will lead to sadness. Negative emotions disturb our peace of mind and trouble our perception of the perfection of the world order. Therefore, the last thing one would expect of a teacher of Stoicism is that he has frequent outbursts of anger, a negative emotion par excellence, towards his students. Yet this is what happens time and again in the Discourses by Epictetus (ca. 50–130ce).2 In this contribution I will give an account of what Epictetus has to say about anger in general and analyse the causes and effects of his own anger.3 It is almost universally accepted that Epictetus did not publish anything himself: everything that remains of his teaching is owing to the work of his pupil Arrian. The genre of Epictetus’ Discourses has been the subject of much debate. In the medieval manuscripts of the Discourses we find the title Διατρι-

* I thank the editors of this volume for helpful comments on an earlier draft and Nina King for correcting my English. 1 For a superb general account of emotions in Stoicism, see Graver 2007. For the ability to control one’s emotions compare also observations in the contributions of De Bakker (on Herodotus), Van Henten (on Second Maccabees) and Huitink (on Xenophon’s Cyropaedia) to this volume. 2 An excellent account of Epictetus’ life and philosophy, with extensive bibliography, is given by Fuentes González 2000. 3 Anger is mostly discussed in this volume in the context of archaic Greek epic: see the contributions of Bowie, Van Emde Boas, Kahane, Koning, Van der Mije, and Pelling. On the Stoic characterization of Heracles (contrasted with other ways in which he is portrayed, such as furens), see Bär in this volume.

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βαί. The Greek word διατριβή means ‘pastime’ (LSJ, s.v. 1), ‘serious occupation’, ‘discourse’, ‘short ethical treatise or lecture’, ‘school of philosophy’ (LSJ, s.v. 2). The diatribe as a fixed literary genre with strict rules is, however, an invention of late nineteenth-century scholarship. In the ‘diatribe’ a master discusses philosophical issues with a real or fictitious pupil.4 Epictetus’ main goal in his Discourses is to bring home to his pupils that they should put into practice what they learn in the classroom, namely to exclusively pay attention to the things under our control and to happily accept everything that befalls us.

Narratological Stances in Epictetus’ Discourses Arrian, who regarded himself as a Xenophon redivivus, probably intended his Epictetean writings to be understood as a counterpart to Xenophon’s Socratic works, especially the Memorabilia. Though this may be true with regard to the content of the two works, there are two major differences with regard to their form. To start with, Xenophon frames his Memorabilia as memories of discussions which he attended himself or which were reported to him by others, which allows room for personal adaptation; further, he intended his work to be published. Arrian, in the introductory letter to Lucius Gellius which precedes the Discourses in our mss.,5 claims that he made verbatim reports of Epictetus’ discourses, all of which he attended himself. He also states that they were exclusively for his own use and were divulged against his will. However, because it is probable that at least in some cases some kind of redaction took place (for instance 1.11; 3.7; 3.9)6 and because the report of Epictetus’ lectures concerns a selection of what was actually said, it is justified to speak of a narrator, to be distinguished from the author Arrian. Because the narrator claims to have been present at the lectures himself he is an internal narrator. In the second place, although the internal narrator in Xenophon’s Memorabilia is anonymous, he is visible everywhere.7 The internal narrator in Epictetus’ Discourses is almost completely invisible. The only way in which his presence becomes clear is in the introduction to a restricted number of discourses.

4 For a full discussion, see Fuentes González 2015, and, with special regard to Epictetus, Wehner 2000: 15–16. 5 For a full discussion of this introductory letter, see Wehner 2000: 27–36. 6 See Wehner 2000: 37–53. 7 For a narratological analysis of the Memorabilia, see Gray 2004: 380–382.

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Whereas Xenophon invariably starts a new pericope with some kind of introductory formula,8 this happens only rarely in the Discourses. The interlocutor who is introduced at the start of a discourse can be an outsider, as in 1.11.1: ‘Epictetus once received a visit from a government official, and after questioning him about various specific points, he asked him whether he had a wife and children.’9 Elsewhere a remark or question by a student marks the start of a discourse, as in 3.22.1: ‘When one of his pupils, who was showing an inclination towards the Cynic calling, asked him, “What sort of man should a Cynic be, and what idea should one form of that enterprise?,” Epictetus replied …’10 Incidentally, someone asks a question in the course of the discussion, as in 1.2.26, 30. In the long discourse 3.22 the student who asked the opening question is mentioned again at §§62, 67, and 77. Because the internal primary narrator is almost invisible, the presentation of the discourses is comparable to Plato’s dramatic dialogues.11 But while Plato’s dialogues often start with a chat on everyday subjects which leads to a philosophical discussion, the Discourses normally start with a monologue by Epictetus, intermingled with discussions with interlocutors who are actually present or with fictitious interlocutors. With the term ‘fictitious interlocutors’ I mean that Epictetus applies the stylistic device of hypophora, in which the speaker asks questions and answers these himself.12 The basic setting of all discourses is the classroom, in which the teacher Epictetus addresses his students. It regularly happens that outsiders are present as well. Whatever form the discussion takes, we always have to keep in mind that the discussion between Epictetus and his interlocutors takes place in front of a number of witnesses.13 In this respect, too, the Discourses resemble the majority of the Socratic dialogues of Plato and Xenophon.

8 9 10 11 12

13

See Gray 2004: 378–380. Translations are taken from Hard 2014. Other discourses where an outsider is mentioned at the start of a discourse include 2.14; 3.1; 3.4; 3.7; 3.9. Further instances include 1.13; 1.14; 1.15; 1.26; 2.24; 2.25; 3.6. Morgan 2004, in her narratological analysis of Plato’s dialogues, speaks of ‘non-framed dialogues’. For fictitious interlocutors, see Wehner 2000: 175–219. On p. 175 she writes: ‘Die Auseinandersetzung mit einem fiktiven Interlocutor wurde in der Forschung immer wieder als ein Hauptkennzeichen der Gattung “Diatribe” gewertet.’ With regard to 1.11 Wehner 2000: 40 assumes that Arrian was not present at the discussion between Epictetus and the official who visited him; on p. 40 she suggests that Epictetus told his students about his discussion with the official afterwards. I do not find this convincing because there is no indication of such an indirect report.

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In almost all Discourses Epictetus explicitly addresses people, real or fictitious, present or absent, individuals and groups.14 In the course of his lectures Epictetus frequently apostrophizes his students, both in the second person singular and in the second person plural.15 Discussions between Epictetus and individual interlocutors (students or outsiders) have already been mentioned above.16 Very often, Epictetus reacts to a question or remark made by an interlocutor but it is often impossible to decide whether the interlocutor is a real or a fictitious person. Schenkl, whose edition of the Discourses is still the standard text, introduces the remarks made by a real character with a dash, whereas he puts the remarks by fictitious interlocutors between quotation marks,17 but in many cases his choices are open to doubt. In 3.22.1 it is expressly stated that a student asked Epictetus what it means to be a Cynic philosopher, so this is presented as a report of a conversation with an interlocutor who was actually present. On the other hand, some remarks made by interlocutors are so nonsensical that it can hardly be assumed that they were actually made by a real person and instead can be ascribed to Epictetus himself, who invents a fictitious interlocutor (hypophora). For instance, in 1.6.29 Epictetus tells his students that they should make use of endurance and magnanimity in order to bear whatever happens. Then someone remarks (1.6.30): ‘Yes, but my nose is running’, to which Epictetus answers: ‘Then what do you have hands for, you slave? Isn’t it to be able to wipe your nose?’ Epictetus’ scornful reaction is followed by the interlocutor’s question: ‘But is there any good reason why there should be runny noses in the world?’ Schenkl prints the interlocutor’s first question in quotation marks, and prints a dash before the second question; thus, he assumes that the first question is made by a fictitious interlocutor, and the second one by a real person. To my mind this is wholly arbitrary: the second question is as silly as the first one and should therefore be attributed to the fictitious interlocutor too.18

14 15 16 17 18

Wehner 2000: 67–249 offers an excellent account of the dialogical structure of the Discourses. See Wehner 2000: 59–63; Boter 2010: 327. See Wehner 2000: 67–77; Boter 2010: 328. See Schenkl 1916: cxv. Oldfather follows Schenkl in the presentation of the Greek text but in his translation he prints both the first and the second question of the interlocutor in brackets. This illustrates the uncertainty of the attribution of a question to a real or fictitious character. In general, Schenkl’s attribution of texts to real or fictitious interlocutors should be used with great caution. See Wehner 2000: 64 (with n. 32), 176 (with n. 296), and especially 206–209; Boter 2010: 326 with n. 13.

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Wehner (2000: 60) remarks: ‘Die Grenze zwischen der Anrede im “fiktiven Du” und der Anrede im “kommunikativen Du” ist in Einzelfällen fließend.’19 As an instance she mentions 2.8.10–14. In §10 a fictitious character asks: ‘What? Isn’t it the case that these creatures, too, are works of God?’ In his answer, Epictetus uses the second person singular but gradually the fictitious interlocutor makes place for the actual students, who are addressed in the second person plural. Two categories of interlocutors who are certainly fictitious are rulers20 (for instance 1.1.22–25, where Epictetus makes an anonymous ruler threaten an equally anonymous citizen) and mythical characters21 (for instance 3.22.30–37, where Epictetus converses with Agamemnon). It is clear that Epictetus’ discourses show a great variety in the ways of presenting his philosophical lessons.22 It is important to keep these various narratological stances in mind when studying the role of anger in Epictetus, to which we will turn now.

Epictetus on Anger Among the emotions which Stoicism wishes to eradicate, it is anger which takes up an important place. For instance, in 3.2.16 Epictetus describes the mental position of a perfect Stoic as follows: ‘I don’t give way to anger (ὀργίζομαι), distress, or envy; I’m free from hindrance and constraint’ and in 3.22.13 he says: ‘you must harbour neither anger (ὀργήν), nor malice, nor envy, nor pity.’ Someone who feels anger damages his own soul; see for instance 2.18.5: ‘When you lose your temper (ὀργισθῇς), you should recognize not only that something has happened to you at present, but also that you have reinforced a bad habit, and you have, so to speak, added fresh fuel to the fire.’ In 1.18 Epictetus explains why we should not be angry with people who behave wrongly. About thieves and robbers Epictetus says (§ 3): ‘What does that mean, thieves and robbers? That they’ve fallen into error with regard to what is good and bad. Should we be angry (χαλεπαίνειν) with them, then, or merely feel pity for them?’ Thus, Epictetus subscribes to the Socratic tenet that

19 20 21 22

Wehner 2000: 60. See Wehner 2000: 136–156. See Wehner 2000: 157–175. Other didactic devices, which have not been discussed here, are the method of questionand-answer (see Wehner 2000: 63–65), the soliloquy (see Wehner 2000: 79–105), and the use of quotations (see Wehner 2000: 219–249; Boter forthcoming).

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nobody commits injustice willingly. When an interlocutor objects (§ 5): ‘So this thief here and this adulterer shouldn’t be put to death?’, Epictetus replies: Not at all, but what you should be asking instead is this: ‘This man who has fallen into error and is mistaken about the most important matters, and thus has gone blind, not with regard to the eyesight that distinguishes white from black, but with regard to the judgement that distinguishes good from bad—should someone like this be put to death?’ epict. 1.18.6–7

Anger is a main item in the list of emotions which should be eradicated by means of mental training (ἄσκησις): If you don’t want to be bad-tempered (ὀργίλος), then don’t feed the habit, throw nothing before it on which it can feed and grow. First of all, keep calm, and count the days in which you haven’t lost your temper (ὠργίσθης)—‘I used to lose my temper (ὀργίζεσθαι) every day, and after that, every other day, then every third day, then every fourth’—and if you continue in that way for thirty days, offer a sacrifice to God. For the habit is first weakened, and then completely destroyed. epict. 2.18.12–13

In addition to being harmful to the angry person himself and to being an inadequate reaction to what other people do, anger is not effective as a didactic device either, as Epictetus makes clear in 1.26.5–7. Here a young man who wants to study philosophy in order to learn how to lead a just life, talks to his parents, who are angry with him (ἀγανακτοῦντας) because of their son’s intention. The son admits that his behaviour in life is bad; he then says to his father: I’ve doubtlessly gone wrong, father, and don’t know where my duty lies or what is right for me. But if this can neither be learned nor taught, what reason do you have to criticize me? Or if it can be taught, teach me. If you’re unable to do so, however, allow me to learn from those who claim to know. Come, what do you suppose? That I willingly fall into evil and miss what is good? Heaven forbid! What is it, then, that causes me to go astray? Ignorance. So don’t you want me to deliver myself from that ignorance? To whom has anger (ὀργή) ever taught the art of music? When it comes to the art of life, do you suppose, then, that your anger (ὀργήν) will teach me what I need to know? epict. 1.26.5–7

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In the Discourses we frequently find mythological and historical anecdotes in which anger plays a prominent role. Such anecdotes are embedded in Epictetus’ philosophical instruction. In 1.28, which forms a diptych on anger together with 1.18, Epictetus starts by explaining that wrongdoers believe that they do what is good. In 1.28.7–9 he says about Medea’s killing of her children: ‘So how can Medea say, “I know that what I intend to do is bad, but anger is master of my plans?”23 Because she regarded this very thing, the gratification of her anger (θυμῷ) and exacting of vengeance against her husband, as being more beneficial than keeping her children safe.’ When an interlocutor objects, ‘Yes, but she is mistaken’, Epictetus says: Show her clearly that she is mistaken and she won’t follow that course; but as long as you haven’t shown it, what else can she do than follow what seems best to her? Nothing else. Why should you be angry (χαλεπαίνεις) with her, then, because, poor wretch, she has gone astray on matters of the highest importance, and has changed from a human being into a viper? epict. 1.28.7–9

As in 1.18.6–7, one should rather feel pity than anger for the one who is deceived with regard to the real good, just as one pities a physically handicapped person.24 With regard to the nature of Medea’s anger, it is important to stress that Epictetus does not treat Medea’s behaviour as the result of a battle between reason and passion, as is often thought; Dobbin (1998: 222) rightly comments: ‘E [= Epictetus—GJB] accepts for argument’s sake the traditional view, assumed also in Euripides’ lines, that thumos is a distinct faculty of the soul. But he insists that her action was determined by reason. He presents Medea’s decision to kill her children in terms as blunt and paradoxical as possible, as a question of what is “more profitable”. This shocking phrase describes a purely rational, cold-blooded act.’ To sum up. Anger is a negative emotion which must be combated. Anger is misplaced because people with whom one gets angry act wrongly because they are misguided about what is really good. The choice to get angry is in the last resort a rational choice, as is shown by the instance of Medea. Anger is ineffective as a didactic device, as is argued by the young man who wants to persuade his father to allow him to study philosophy.

23 24

E. Med. 1078–1079. For a full discussion of this passage, with references to the analysis of Medea’s behaviour in other Stoic texts, see Dobbin 1998: 221–224. See also Long 2002: 76–77.

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Epictetus’ Anger towards Others In the previous section we have seen how Epictetus speaks to his students about anger as a subject of philosophical importance. In the present section we will look at the way in which anger plays a role in Epictetus’ behaviour towards his students and other interlocutors. On the basis of the results of the preceding section we would expect Epictetus to abstain from anger, but in reality we see him getting angry very often. Before we try to find an explanation for this discrepancy between theory and practice we will look at the way in which Epictetus’ anger manifests itself and at whom it is directed. Because the primary narrator of the Discourses ‘Arrian’ is almost invisible we never find statements of the type ‘and then Epictetus got very angry’. Nor do we find remarks by Epictetus himself such as ‘you make me angry’ or ‘now I am really getting angry’. On the one hand I am well aware that it is impossible to recover what a historical individual really felt and this goes a fortiori for the character ‘Epictetus’ in Arrian’s report of his lectures. On the other hand it is possible to reconstruct how the primary narrator wishes his primary narratees to interpret his characters’ state of mind on the basis of textual signals. It has already been mentioned above that Epictetus addresses several types of interlocutors. In Boter 2010 I have studied the various ways in which Epictetus evaluates these interlocutors. He never hesitates to say what he really thinks but the ways in which he expresses his opinion to several types of interlocutors differ widely. Laymen cannot be blamed for not (yet) having knowledge of Stoic philosophy, and if they foster erroneous ethical convictions it is the teacher’s task to eradicate these by means of showing them the inconsistency of their views. Accordingly, when talking to laymen Epictetus’ tone is calm and self-possessed and he does not show signs of being emotionally involved.25 Although Epictetus often speaks about the philosophical tenets of competing schools, especially Epicureans and Academics, we never see him engaged in discussions with adherents of these schools who are actually present. Sometimes he addresses a hypothetical adherent of these schools (for instance at 2.20.28, where he speaks to an adherent of Scepticism), whereas at 2.23.20–21 he apostrophizes Epicurus in the second person. Epicureans and Academics can be held responsible for their wrong convictions.26 Accordingly, Epictetus often treats them with contempt, criticizing, ridiculing, and distorting their

25 26

See Boter 2010: 327–331. See for instance 2.20, ‘Against the Epicureans and Academics’.

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views. He seems to regard such philosophers as incurable and does not seem to feel any emotional attachment to them, nor does anger seem to play a role.27 The situation is different in Epictetus’ dealings with his students. Like all masters of all time he blames his pupils for not fulfilling his expectations. Time and again we see him reproaching his pupils; he often even uses terms of abuse, such as ‘slave’ (ἀνδράποδον, ἄνθρωπε), ‘fool’ (σαννίων, μωρέ) or ‘wretch’ (ταλαίπωρε, ἀταλαίπωρε, τάλας, δύστηνε).28 His reproofs sometimes concern their laziness during school but in most cases, he reproaches them for not bringing into practice in real life what they learn at school. Thus in 3.16.7 he addresses his students as a group, comparing their behaviour to that of non-philosophers: Why is it, then, that these people are stronger than you? Because all the rotten things that they say are drawn from their own judgements, while your smart talk comes only from your lips. As a consequence, it has no vigour, no vitality, and anyone would feel sick to hear your exhortations and miserable prattle about virtue, which you keep going on about. epict. 3.16.7

In 2.8.9 Epictetus addresses the group of his students in the second person singular;29 he puts an objection into the anonymous interlocutor’s mouth and then goes on as if he were talking to a real individual, ending with the reproach: Yet in front of a divine image, you wouldn’t dare to do any of the things that you do; but when God himself is present within you, and he sees and hears everything, aren’t you ashamed to think and act as you do, you who are ignorant of your own nature and are an object of divine anger? epict. 2.8.14

In such cases, in which Epictetus uses the device of hypophora, his outbursts of anger are directed against a fictitious interlocutor and therefore we can safely assume that his anger is merely fabricated. In 3.22 Epictetus answers a series of questions on Cynic philosophy posed by a student; in §83 he says: ‘If you care to, ask me too whether he [= the Cynic philosopher] should get involved in public affairs.’ Remarkably enough, he retorts to this self-asked question: ‘Blockhead (σαννίων), can you think of any 27 28 29

See Boter 2010: 331–335. For terms of abuse in Epictetus, see Zangrando 1998: 87–91. For terms of abuse in general, see Dickey 1996: 165–174. This is an instance of what Wehner 2000: 59–61 calls the ‘kommunikatives Du’.

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higher form of public business than that in which he is already engaged?’ In 1.7.31 it is probably a student who says that making a mistake in logical analysis is not as bad as killing one’s father; Epictetus replies: ‘Tell me, slave (ἀνδράποδον), where was your father present here for you to kill him? So what have you actually done? Committed the only fault that it was possible for you to commit in the present context.’ The general picture is clear: whether the addressee is a real or fictitious student, Epictetus often criticizes his students for not being good Stoics: they only pay attention to theory and fail to put into practice what they learn at school. Now the tone of Epictetus’ reproaches is harsh and, to all practical means and purposes, angry, condescending and insulting. But does this allow us to conclude that Epictetus is actually angry? Or is his anger just a consciously applied device to stimulate his students? I think that there are two sides to Epictetus’ anger toward his pupils: on the one hand it is part of the game, on the other it is presented as a reflection of genuinely angry feelings on the part of Epictetus. In Boter 2009 I have discussed the three modes of philosophical instruction mentioned by Epictetus in 3.21.19 and 3.23.33: the protreptic or elenctic method (associated with Socrates), the didactic method (associated with Zeno), and the reproving method (associated with Diogenes). The didactic method aims at giving information, but Epictetus’ students already know a lot about the theory of Stoicism. The protreptic method aims at removing the conceit of knowledge and is helpful in discussions with cooperative laymen, but not for Epictetus’ students who are convinced of the correctness of the Stoic tenets. And thus, the only available method left is Diogenes’ reproving method, which we might call ‘professional anger’.30 But there is more to it. Epictetus repeatedly expresses his personal frustration about his students’ inability to put into practice the Stoic way of life.31 For instance, 2.19 bears the title ‘To those who take up the teachings of the philosophers for the sake of talk alone’. In §§19–20 he tells his students that they are not justified in claiming themselves to be Stoics; in practice they are Epicureans or Peripatetics. In the following sections he begs his students to show him a real Stoic: Show me a Stoic, if you have one among you. … Show someone who is ill and yet happy, in danger and yet happy, dying and yet happy, exiled and

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See Boter 2010: 339–345. For the influence of Socrates’ elenctic method on Epictetus, see Long 2002, esp. ch. 3, ‘The Socratic Paradigm’ (pp. 67–96). See Hijmans 1959: 98–102; Boter 2010: 335–339.

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yet happy. Show me such a person; by the gods, how greatly I long to see a Stoic! But you can’t show me anyone who has been fashioned in such a way. epict. 2.19.21–24

In this way Epictetus disqualifies all of his students: they all claim to be aspirant Stoics but none of them is successful in this enterprise.

Epictetus’ Anger towards Himself In the previous section we have seen that Epictetus often shows himself to be angry with his students. In many cases it is difficult to decide whether his anger is professional or genuine. I think there are indications that in the last resort his anger is genuine. In 1.18, as we have seen, Epictetus argues that one should not be angry with wrongdoers because they simply do what they believe to be good. When we are angry with thieves, it is ‘because we attach value to the things that these people steal from us’ (1.18.11); this shows that we ourselves have a perverted opinion about the value of externals too. In general, when someone behaves wrongly, it is his problem, not yours; see 3.10.19: ‘“My brother shouldn’t have treated me in this way.” Indeed, he shouldn’t, but it’s for him to see to that.’ By the same token, Epictetus might have argued: ‘My students don’t put into practice the Stoic way of life; that is their problem, it doesn’t affect me.’ In that way he would behave like a real Stoic himself. Why, then, does he allow himself to get angry? It is because he feels responsible for the behaviour of his students. The rule which he applies in relation to wrongdoers, ‘just show them where they’ve gone wrong and you’ll see how they desist from their faults’ (1.18.4), he also applies to himself in relation to his students. If they do wrong, it is his fault. In 1.9.10–17 he sketches what really good students and a really good teacher should do: the teacher should encourage his students to comply with God’s plan and to obey all his orders. He then sadly concludes: Such is the stance that a teacher should adopt towards gifted young men. But what happens at present? Your teacher is a mere corpse, and you yourselves are corpses. epict. 1.9.18–19

Thus when Epictetus is angry with his students he is in fact angry with himself: his failure as a teacher is the cause of their failure as students of Stoic

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philosophy. He is personally touched by his students’ failure to live up to the standards of Stoicism: his anger is not merely a pedagogical device, it is deeply felt. At the beginning of the last section I stated that there is a discrepancy between Epictetus’ theory of anger and his getting angry himself. How is this discrepancy to be explained? In the last resort it results from Epictetus’ theory of virtue, more specifically from the role of the Socratic elenchus in his system. Epictetus embraces the Socratic view that knowledge is sufficient for virtue, as illustrated above. Therefore he considers it his task not only to teach his pupils the theory of Stoic philosophy but also to make his pupils live in accordance with it (2.19.29): ‘So here I am, your teacher, and you’re here to be taught by me. And this is the task that I’ve laid down for myself, to set you free from every obstacle, compulsion, and restraint, to make you free, prosperous, and happy, as one who looks to God in everything, great or small. And you for your part are with me to learn (μαθησόμενοι) these things and put them into practice (μελετήσοντες).’ A few lines further he explicitly states (§ 32): ‘Is this something that can’t be taught (διδακτόν)? No, it can be taught.’ Epictetus does not seem to realize that the task he imposes on himself is far above his power: his students can learn at school, and that is what Epictetus, being their teacher, is responsible for, but they should put into practice what they have learnt in real life, which is their own, not Epictetus’, responsibility. It appears, then, that Socrates’ claim that knowledge is sufficient for virtue just doesn’t work. Epictetus repeatedly recognizes that he himself is not a perfect Stoic either, thus bridging the gap between himself and his students.32 In 4.1.151 a student asks him: ‘And you, are you free?’ Epictetus answers: ‘By the gods, I want to be and pray to be, but I’m not yet able to look my masters in the face, I still attach value to my poor body, and I take great care to keep it whole and sound, despite the fact that it isn’t so.’ For Epictetus himself, as for the large majority of mankind, the highest attainable goal is to be on the right way, which the Stoics call making progress (προκοπή). Making progress is not only a matter of further theoretical study, it is first and foremost a matter of training to put theory into practice. See 1.1.25: ‘These are the thoughts that those who embark on philosophy ought to reflect upon (μελετᾶν); it is these that they should write about day after day, and it is in these that they should train themselves (γυμνάζεσθαι).’ Epictetus often compares philosophical training to the way in which a sportsman prepares himself for a contest; see for instance 3.20.9: ‘And what advantage does a wrestler gain from his training partner? The greatest. … And yet you say

32

See Wehner 2000: 57–59; Boter 2010: 345–349.

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that if someone trains me in abstaining from anger (πρὸς ἀοργησίαν), he brings me no benefit?’ Epictetus also often uses the concept of philosophical training (ἄσκησις), which means that one should start eradicating emotions in the case of small things, such as the loss of a vessel; this will help us to accept the loss of greater things, such as a child or a wife.33 Eventually, it depends on the efforts of the sportsman himself whether or not his training is successful; during the match the trainer stands at the sideline. By the same token, it is the task of Epictetus’ students themselves to put into practice what Epictetus teaches them; this is not under his control. In 2.19.33, after a long invective against his students, Epictetus concludes: So why do you fail to complete the work? Tell me the reason. For it must lie either in me, or in you, or in the nature of the task. Now the thing itself is possible and is the only thing that is wholly within our power. It follows, then, that the fault must lie either in me or in you, or more truly, in both at once. epict. 2.19.33

This recognition of mutual responsibility results in an exhortation to make a fresh start in order to make progress towards the good life (§ 34): ‘Well then, is it your wish that we should at last make a start here on carrying out this design? Let’s lay aside all that we have done up until now. Let’s just make a start, and believe me, you’ll see.’ Thus anger has been replaced by a benevolent and cooperative attitude. In our analysis Epictetus’ being angry with his students is caused by frustration with what he regards as his own shortcomings as a teacher, so that his anger is also directed towards himself. By recognizing their mutual weaknesses and mutual efforts he transcends his anger and replaces it with cooperativeness. Becoming a good Stoic means no longer indulging in passions, among which anger is one of the strongest. Thus Epictetus’ transcending of his (simultaneously professional and genuine) anger towards both his students and himself is ultimately a medicine against anger and other passions in general.

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See especially 3.24.84–88.

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Bibliography Boter, G.J., ‘Epictetus 3.23.33 and the Three Modes of Philosophical Instruction’, Philologus 153 (2009) 135–148. Boter, G.J., ‘Evaluating Others and Evaluating Oneself in Epictetus’ Discourses’, in R.M. Rosen, I. Sluiter (eds.), Valuing Others in Antiquity (Leiden 2010) 323–352. Boter, G.J., ‘“Look at Heracles!” The Role of Similes and Exempla in Epictetus’ Philosophical Teaching’, in A. Oegema, J. Pater, M. Stoutjesdijk (eds.), Parables and Fables in the Graeco–Roman World (Tübingen, forthcoming). Dickey, E., Greek Forms of Address. From Herodotus to Lucian (Oxford 1996). Dobbin, R., Epictetus. Discourses Book i (Oxford 1998). Fuentes González, P.P., ‘Épictète’, in R. Goulet (ed.), Dictionnaire des philosophes antiques, Volume 3 (Paris 2000) 106–151. Fuentes González, P.P., ‘La “diatribe” est-elle une notion utile pour l’histoire de la philosophie et de la littérature antiques?’ in B. Cassin (ed.), La rhétorique au miroir de la philosophie. Définitions philosophiques de la rhétorique et définitions rhétoriques de la philosophie (Paris 2015) 127–173. Graver, M.R., Stoicism and Emotion (Chicago 2007). Gray, V., ‘Xenophon’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A.M. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 377–388. Hard, R., Epictetus, Discourses, Fragments, Handbook, Translated by Robin Hard, With an Introduction and Notes by Christopher Gill (Oxford 2014). Hijmans, B.L., ἌΣΚΗΣΙΣ, Notes on Epictetus’ Educational System (Assen 1959). Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R., Bowie, A.M. (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004). Long, A.A., Epictetus. A Stoic and Socratic Guide to Life (Oxford 2002). Morgan, K.A., ‘Plato’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A.M. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004) 357–376. Oldfather, W.A., Epictetus. The Discourses as Reported by Arrian, the Manual, and Fragments (Cambridge, MA / London 1925–1928). Schenkl, H., Epicteti Dissertationes ab Arriano digestae (Leipzig 1916). Wehner, B., Die Funktion der Dialogstruktur in Epiktets Diatriben (Stuttgart 2000). Zangrando, V., ‘L’espressione colloquiale nelle Diatribe di Epitteto’, QUCC 59 (1998) 81– 108.

chapter 40

Emotions and Narrativity in the Greek Romance Tim Whitmarsh

The five fully extant ancient Greek romances, written in the first four centuries ce, are full of lovelorn, lachrymose and exuberant expressions of passion, grief, and joy.* Affect lies at the heart of the romance, for characters and (we must assume) readers alike.1 Scholars have, however, struggled with the emotionality of the genre. As the sophistication of the romances has been reappraised over the last fifty years, so has the posited demography of the readership;2 and with that reappraisal has come a focus on the intellectual to the exclusion of the emotional. Predictably, this process has been gendered:3 when, once upon a time, the romances were seen as ‘sentimental’ they were thought to be feminine;4 now that they have been reclaimed for the (male, elite) ‘second sophistic’ the accent has been upon intertextuality and narrative sophistication. The ‘affective turn’ has come slowly and imperfectly to classical literary studies in general, and to scholarship on the ancient romance in particular.5 In this brief chapter I cannot hope to do anything like full justice to the topic, which deserves a book-length study; I focus narrowly on the implications of

* It is a pleasure and an honour to write this chapter for Irene de Jong, one of the greats of classical literary scholarship. 1 ‘A central part of the author’s [Chariton’s] aim is to give us an imaginative apprehension of what his characters feel, and to make us feel it ourselves’ (Scourfield 2003: 163). Cf. Kaimio 1996 on Chariton’s ‘wish to guide the emotional reactions of his audience’ (50). Scholarship on romance emotions has focused primarily on the ‘conflict of emotions’ topos: see esp. Fusillo 1999; Kytzler 2003; Repath 2007; Cummings 2017 (for a recent, cognitively inspired reassessment). See also Redondo 2009 on erotic emotions. I use ‘novel’ for the broader field of Greek narrative fiction composed in the Roman era, and ‘romance’ for the erotic subset covering the texts of Chariton, Xenophon, Achilles, Longus, and Heliodorus. 2 Bowie 1994 and 2003; Stephens 1994; Cavallo 1996; Hunter 2008; Sanz Morales 2017. 3 For a feminist rereading of the politics of emotion (and its disavowal), see Ahmed 2004. 4 ‘The general tone of Chariton’s novel is sentimental, bourgeois, and rather similar to the tone of stories in ladies’ magazines today’ (Reardon 1969: 296). 5 Although earlier eras of classical scholarship thought much harder about ‘feeling’: see Güthenke 2020.

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the emotions for the romances’ narrativity, in terms both of the inner workings of the plot and of the cognitive-affective experience of plot on the part of (reconstructed) readers. Nor can I enter the debate around the primacy of biology6 or human culture7 in the shaping of emotional experience. For reasons of economy I have elected to focus not on the culturally determined quiddities of ancient Greek emotional terms, but to treat them as broadly translatable into modern English, even if lexemes do not correspond exactly. For the same reasons of economy I also treat some Greek terms (e.g. the ‘pity’ terms eleos and oiktos and the ‘fear’ terms phobos and deos) as functional synonyms (which is not to deny that an analysis of different resonances could be productive). More challenging is the non-equivalence of the modern English ‘emotion’ and Greek pathos.8 The well-known strangeness of Aristotle’s list of pathê at the start of Rhetoric 2 (which includes apparent anomalies like ‘gratitude’ and ‘indignation’)9 should caution us against assuming too hastily that we can intuit what counted as a pathos for Greeks. Fortunately, on several occasions Chariton and Xenophon (the earliest extant romancers) itemize pathê, in the context of the famous ‘mixed emotions’ topos.10 These include many uncontroversial ‘emotions’: anger,11 fear,12 joy,13 sorrow,14 pleasure,15 pity,16 and envy.17 They also, however, cover what might nowadays be classed as reflexive or second-

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Esp. Cairns 2003 and 2008. Esp. Konstan 2005 and 2006. On the challenges involved in defining ‘emotion’ cross-culturally, see Konstan 2006: 3– 4 and Cairns 2008: 44–45, both with further references. See also the Introduction to this volume. The inclusion of these has to do with Aristotle’s specific conception of emotion as fundamentally social, i.e. as a rational response to the behaviour of others: see Konstan 2005 and 2006. The Magna Moralia, meanwhile, has a simpler list: only ‘anger, fear, hate, yearning (πόθος), envy (ζῆλος), pity and the like: anything that is typically accompanied by pain (λύπη) or pleasure’ (1186a). Above, n. 1. I discuss here only examples where the emotions are specifically labelled pathê: Char. 3.4.1; 4.5.10; 5.8.2; 6.6.1; 8.5.8; Xen. Eph. 3.7.1; 5.13.3. θυμός, Char. 4.5.10; ὀργή, Char. 6.6.1; 8.5.8. φόβος, Char. 4.5.10; 6.6.1; Xen. Eph. 3.7.1; 5.13.3. χαρά, Char. 5.8.2; χάρις, Char. 8.5.8. λύπη, Char. 6.6.1; Xen. Eph. 5.13.1. ἡδονή, Xen. Eph. 5.13.1. ἔλεος, Char. 5.8.2. φθόνος, Char. 8.5.8.

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order responses: wonder,18 despondency,19 incredulity,20 regret,21 and astonishment.22 Clearly these too should be included in our coverage.23 My discussion falls into three sections. The first, ‘Narrativity’, considers the kinetic role of emotions within the plot. By this I mean that pathê can be narrative events in their own right: the act of falling in love, most obviously, always catalyses a chain reaction. The second, ‘Metanarrativity’, considers the marking of emotions that offer a focalized perspective on events, a perspective that we as readers may or may not choose to share (depending on the degree of our absorption or detachment).24 The distinction between ‘kinetic’ and ‘metanarrative’ emotions is general rather than absolute, naturally, but some pathê (e.g. anger) are evidently more ‘active’ and thus lend themselves to the kinetic; while others (e.g. astonishment) are more ‘passive’, and typically play metanarrative roles. A final section briefly considers what these findings mean for our understanding of the genre as a whole.

Narrativity: Desire, Anger, Jealousy25 The most important kinetic role is of course played by desire (usually ἔρως and derivatives, but also πόθος and—rarely—ἵμερος). Its onset initiates the narrative, and its satisfaction coincides with the stabilization of marriage at the plot’s close (‘the satiation of desire (κόρος … ἔρωτος) lies in the consummation of the acts (τῶν ἔργων τὸ τέλος)’, Hld. 1.15.8). The reciprocation of desire between the lovers is the crucial plot motor, and at the metanarrative level maps onto the reader’s own craving for closure.26 Indeed, the romancers like to credit a personified Eros with an instrumental role in the narrative. Chariton in particular presents the god metaphorically as one the architects of his plot (the other being Fortune).27 18 19 20 21 22 23

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θαῦμα, Char. 3.4.1; θάμβος, Char. 5.8.2. ἀθυμία, Char. 4.5.10. ἀπιστία, Char. 4.5.10. μετάνοια, Char. 8.5.8. ἔκπληξις, Xen. Eph. 3.7.1. I have, however, had to be selective. These lists also itemize as pathê a number of actions that are symptoms of prior emotions: weeping (κλαίειν, Char. 3.4.1; δάκρυα, 5.8.2), groaning (οἰμωγή, Xen. Eph. 3.7.1), and prayers (εὐχαί, Char. 5.8.2). I do not propose to treat these. On metanarrativity, see also the contributions of Bierl (on Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound) and Harder (on Apollonius Rhodius). The central role of these three emotions is noted by Cummings 2017: 321. Whitmarsh 2011: 168–176. Char. 1.1.4, 12; 2.4.5; 3.9.4; 4.4.5, 7.6; cf. Xen. Eph. 1.1.5–1.2.1; Long. 1.11.1; 2.27.2; 4.36.2. Compare

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Desire between the protagonists thus enables the romance plot. Manifestations of desire in others can play an analogously kinetic role, but in these instances the effect is usually to retard the primary romance plot (or to initiate a subplot). Love rivals appear in all of the romances; they are almost always unsuccessful.28 It is a law of the genre, where Eros is repeatedly described as all-powerful (e.g. Xen. Eph. 1.4.5; Ach. Tat. 1.2.1, 1.17.1; Hld. 4.10.5), that there can be no effective long-term suppression of desire;29 it can only be satiated or frustrated, with devastating results (‘an unsuccessful desire (ἔρως ἀτυχῶν) turns into madness’, Ach. Tat. 5.26.2). In such cases it metamorphoses into jealousy (ζηλοτυπία) and anger, two interconnected pathê to which we shall turn presently. Erôs is also the romance emotion that is most colourfully metaphorized. As so often in Greek culture, erotic imagery suggests a radical ambivalence. Erôs can be sensual or pleasant: one can be ‘drunk’ with it (Ach. Tat. 1.6.1; cf. 1.6.6; 2.3.3), flowers ‘exude’ it (Ach. Tat. 2.1.3). It can be imagined as a form of ‘initiation’ into a higher state (Ach. Tat. 1.7.1; 5.26.3; cf. 1.2.1). It can present as devotion towards the other, so as to overcome anger at them (Ach. Tat. 5.24.3). But it is also the most forcefully aggressive of Greek emotions, and most likely to be assimilated to an act from without. It can be violent and disruptive: it inflicts ‘injury’ (ὕβρις, Ach. Tat. 1.2.1), and ‘wounds’ (Char. 1.1.7; Ach. Tat. 1.4.4; 2.13.1); it ‘heats’ (Char. 4.3.8), and ‘burns’ (Char. 1.3.7; 2.3.8; 5.9.5; 6.7.1; 8.8.7; Xen. Eph. 1.3.4, 5.8; 4.5.4; Ach. Tat. 4.7.4; Long. 1.29.1); it ‘destroys’ (Ach. Tat. 1.4.4, 11.1), ‘seizes’ (καταλαβών, Ach. Tat. 5.13.3), and ‘harries’ (διώκει, Ach. Tat. 1.9.1; 8.5.7; cf. Long. pr. 4.1). It is a disease (Hld. 4.7.7; 7.10.6), and can lead to ‘wasting’ (Char. 4.2.5); it needs ‘curing’ (Char. 2.8.1; 6.3.7–8; Long. 2.7.7, 9.2; 3.14.1; Hld. 7.23.2). The personified god’s bow, arrows, and torch can be considered instruments of warfare and torture (Ach. Tat. 2.5.2). One can be enslaved to it (Char. 4.2.3; Xen. Eph. 1.4.1; Ach. Tat. 1.7.2–3; 5.25.6; Hld. 5.2.10). For females these violent effects extend beyond erotic affect into the sexual act itself, which can be imagined as a form of stabbing (Ach. Tat. 2.23.5; Long. 3.20.1). For males, however,

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in this respect the role of Eros in Hesiod’s Theogony, discussed by Koning in this volume, and in some of Herodotus’ stories, on which see Rutherford in this volume. For Eros as a ‘structural feature’ of Theocritus’ poetics, see Klooster in this volume. The partial exceptions are Chariton’s Dionysius, Achilles’ Melite, and Longus’ Lycaenion, each of whom has sex with a protagonist, albeit in a context in which the protagonists have an excuse (more or less). None is a rival in the sense of being aggressive. Chariton’s Persian king claims to be able to control his desire (6.3.8), but struggles painfully with it (and his assertion is undermined by the underlying echoes of Xenophon’s Araspas, whose claim that desire can be controlled by the will (X. Cyr. 5.1.13–14) is disproven by events). Heliodorus’ Theagenes is capable of short-term self-mastery (5.4.5).

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they are associated primarily with the onset of desire, and linked to the loss of childlike innocence and entry into a world of frustration and conflict. For males in particular it is the initial experience, when they must grapple with competing obligations, that is seen as violent. A personified Eros can be imagined as arguing against the male’s sense of social propriety (Ach. Tat. 2.5.2; Hld. 2.7.1), or against the hero’s father in a law-court (Ach. Tat. 1.11.3). As we have already begun to see, frustrated desire is convertible into anger and/or jealousy, the other two pathê that play a major kinetic role—and always with bad outcomes. ‘Whenever desire (ὁ ἔρως) is coupled with jealousy (ζηλοτυπίαν) it turns from a king into a tyrant’, runs a fragment of Iamblichus (fr. 4). In Achilles Tatius, Leucippe’s rejection of Thersander prompts a lengthy, physiologically-based rumination from Clitophon (the narrator) about the similarities and differences between desire and anger (6.26). Each is the result of a ‘fire’ in the organs (desire in the liver, anger in the heart). They are different in ‘nature’ (φύσις)—one prompts love, the other hate—but similar in ‘force’ (βία). When the two compete, everything turns on whether the desire is satisfied or not: if it is, then desire wins; if not, anger.30 Jealousy (ζηλοτυπία) is always erotic in the romances;31 anger (ὀργή, θυμός; much less commonly μῆνις, χόλος) is found in a broader range of contexts (for example Achilles’ Leucippe is angered by her mother’s accusations: 2.29.1–3). In erotic situations the two pathê are often paired—both are responses to rejection—but they carry different nuances. Jealousy is prompted by the triangulation of desire, and the perception that the beloved is devoted to another.32 Anger, meanwhile, is prompted by the rebuffing of a perceived entitlement, particularly where status is involved. We recall that the wrath of Achilles is prompted not just by his loss of Briseis but more specifically by the withholding of the honour that he felt was due to him.33 Similarly in Achilles Tatius the rich but louche aristocrat Callisthenes, after having his marriage proposal turned down by Leucippe’s father, is seized by anger (θυμός) ‘both because he thought himself dishonoured (ἠτιμᾶσθαι) by Sostratus and because his desire 30 31

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Anger is mostly discussed in this volume in the context of archaic Greek epic: see the contributions of Bowie, Van Emde Boas, Kahane, Koning, Van der Mije, and Pelling. In fact, it is often sexual in nature throughout the Greek tradition (Fantham 1986). Konstan 2006: 219–243 cautions against translating ζηλοτυπία directly as ‘jealousy’ for the pre-Augustan period (for which, see also Konstan and Rutter 2003), arguing that Horace is the first Graeco-Roman writer to conceive of something close to the conception of romantic jealousy. He does not, however, consider Chariton or the romances. On the ‘triadic’ nature of jealousy, see Konstan 2006: 221–222. Hom. Il. 1.244. See Konstan 2006: 48–49, discussing this passage in the context of Aristotle’s insistence that anger involves a perception of a ‘slight’ (ὀλιγωρία, Rh. 1378a).

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was unfulfilled (ἄλλως ἐρῶντα)’ (2.13.2). This anger has a major kinetic role in the narrative, in that Callisthenes proceeds to abduct Calligone (thus preventing Clitophon’s arranged marriage to her).34 Women too can be angered by affront to their status, particularly when the objects of their desire are in their power. In Xenophon the pirate captain’s daughter Manto falls for the captured Habrocomes and approaches the slave Rhode for help: ‘Know that you are my slave, and know that you will feel the anger (ὀργῆς) of a barbarian if she is wronged’ (2.3.5). She proceeds to threaten Habrocomes ‘think what will happen to you if you insult me (ὑβρισμένης), and this girl takes her revenge’ (2.5.2). Sure enough, the inevitable rejection sparks ‘uncontrollable anger’ (ὀργῇ ἀκατασχέτῳ, 2.5.5), and a Potiphar’s-wife revenge in which Manto accuses Habrocomes of assaulting her. In Heliodorus, the Persian satrap’s wife Arsace, who is smitten with the captured hero Theagenes, nicely exemplifies the difference between jealousy and anger: having long felt jealousy (ζηλοτυπίαν) towards Chariclea, she is tipped into ‘anger’ (ὀργῇ) when she has Theagenes’ rejection of her reported to her (8.7.1). Anger and jealousy are unequivocally violent emotions: they cause pain (Ach. Tat. 5.5.7), destroy (Char. 8.5.15), possess (Hld. 1.30.7), flood (Ach. Tat. 2.29.1–2), sicken (Hld. 7.2.4, 10.6), wound (Ach. Tat. 2.29.3), burn (Ach. Tat. 5.24.3; 6.10.5; 7.3.7), sting (ζηλοτυπίας κέντρον, Hld. 7.8.6; οἰστρηθείς, Hld. 7.29.1). Anger in particular is associated with ‘barbarians’ and pirates (Xen. Eph. 2.3.5, 4.5; Hld. 2.12.5).35 Relatedly, their outcome is often violent. In the case of jealousy (ζηλοτυπία), this violence is wired into the etymology: as Elaine Fantham has observed, the second part of the word derives from τύπτειν (‘beat’), and the word’s first extant appearance (at Aristophanes’ Wealth 1014–1016) describes a ‘beating’ provoked by jealousy.36 In most instances, it is domineering rivals who display anger or jealousy, and proceed to real or threatened violence. In one prominent instance, however, it is the protagonist. Chariton’s Chaereas, most significantly (and with the most dramatic consequences), is fed false rumours of Callirhoe’s infidelity by her disappointed suitors, and kicks her into a coma that resembles death. It is this act that triggers Callirhoe’s abduction and, in due course, the penitent Chaereas’ pursuit. These events are the result of a doubly compounded dose of jealousy/anger. First ‘envy’ (ὁ Φθόνος, 1.2.1) provokes the anger (ὠργίσθην, 1.2.2) of

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Cf. Ach. Tat. 7.1.1; Long. 2.34.3. Konstan 2006: 231 argues that ζηλοτυπία is generally ‘a barbarian trait’, but cites only one passage in support (Plut. Them. 26.4–5). ‘Has [Aristophanes] inherited the word and understood it as normally passive, but allowed himself a mild pun—construing it as “beating up out of jealousy”?’ (Fantham 1986: 47).

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Callirhoe’s rejected suitors. This fits the entitlement paradigm described above: the suitors identified are tyrants or sons of tyrants, and the rejection is labelled an ‘insult’ (ὕβριν, 1.2.2). The suitors discount the option of direct retributory violence, for fear of the consequences (an echo, perhaps, of the suitors’ covert plotting against Telemachus in the Odyssey). Instead they ‘arm Jealousy (Ζηλοτυπίαν) against Chaereas’ (1.2.5; cf. 5.1.1), and plant misleading signs of Callirhoe’s adultery for him to find. Thus Chareas himself is prompted to ‘anger’ (τὴν ὀργήν … τοῦ χόλου, 1.3.3–4); finally, overcome by anger (τῆς ὀργῆς) he delivers the fateful kick (1.4.12). At one level, Chaereas is simply the tool by which the suitors act out their own jealousy: his act of violence against Callirhoe is the manifestation of their anger at rejection.37 At another, however, the propensity to violence is a character trait, and quite distinctive in the romance corpus.38 Later in the narrative he acknowledges his ‘innate jealousy’ (τῆς ἐμφύτου ζηλοτυπίας, 8.1.15), a trait that Callirhoe too recognizes—and indeed still fears (8.4.4). Chaereas’ jealousy is thus the result both of his ‘miscasting’ as a love rival and of his own moral flaw, the consequences of which the plot arc works out. This is signalled at the divine level by the epicizing39 motif of the wrath of Aphrodite, introduced at the start of the final Book: Aphrodite, we are told, brought the trials of Chaereas to an end: ‘having previously been angry (ὀργισθεῖσα) with him for his misplaced jealousy (τὴν ἄκαιρον ζηλοτυπίαν)’ she now decided to pity (ἠλέησεν) him (8.1.3). The prospect of direct divine intervention has barely been mentioned before in Callirhoe40 (except in the form of plot twists attributed to conspicuously metanarrative figures such as Fortune and Eros). There are therefore good reasons to read this passage allegorically. Aphrodite is an amalgam, transcribed onto the divine plane, of three figures. The first is Callirhoe, who is compared to and mistaken for the goddess throughout the text: she will now forgive her husband.41 The second is Chaereas, whose anger is now expiated. The third is Chariton (of Aphrodisias) himself, whose narrator

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As Ameling 1986 notes (and many others have reaffirmed), kicking women who are pregnant—as Callirhoe is, unbeknownst to all for now—is a characteristic habit of tyrants (such as the suitors). Deacy and McHardy 2013 argue that this episode is emblematic of a cross-cultural tendency of violence towards women in controlling men: ‘The themes that appear in this narrative are universal ones, which match the modern case studies of intimate partner violence and uxoricide’. Chaereas’ behaviour contrasts with that of Callirhoe’s second husband, Dionysius, who is similarly consumed by jealousy (ζηλοτυπία, 3.7.6, 9.4; 6.6.7), but does not resort to abuse. See also De Temmerman 2018, esp. 569. Scourfield 2003: 167–168. See however 2.2.8, with Scourfield 2003: 166 n. 18. Hägg 2002.

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will intervene shortly to promise his readers that they will see no more of ‘the grim events of the previous books’ (τῶν ἐν τοῖς πρώτοις σκυθρωπῶν, 8.1.4). As scholars have noted,42 Chaereas’ anger is distinctively masculine in its violence and longevity. It can even be heroically redeemed in the epic fashion, notably when he and Polycharmus join the Egyptian revolt of Book 7.43 Chaereas’ (male) jealousy, which remains thematically central throughout the romance, can be contrasted with that of Achilles’ Melite: once she discovers that Clitophon is corresponding with Leucippe she is filled with ‘shame, anger, desire, and jealousy’ (αἰδοῖ καὶ ὀργῇ καὶ ἔρωτι καὶ ζηλοτυπίᾳ, 5.24.3). In this case, however, desire quickly wins out (ἐκράτησεν ὁ ἔρως, 5.24.3) and her jealousy peters out. From the reader’s perspective, ‘kinetic’ emotions within the plot allow us to analyse the moral consequences of various forms of action. Anger and jealousy are rooted in violent aggression. They can be stoked by malicious contrivance, by malign personalities, or by the failure to control reactions that are in themselves natural and proper (but which should not be given free rein). If acted upon, they always lead to destructive outcomes. The moral force of erôs, on the other hand, is context-specific. When reciprocated (and legitimized by heterosexual marriage within the Greek polis)44 it leads to joyous outcomes. When it is experienced asymmetrically, however, it is quickly converted into its destructive counterpart, anger/jealousy.45

Metanarrativity: Wonder and Astonishment; Pity and Fear; Sorrow, Despondency; Hope, Joy, and Pleasure If kinetic emotions encourage arm’s-length moral analysis, other emotions can prompt affective immersion. It is well beyond our scope here to explore such immersive readerly experiences in full: clearly we would have to take into account not just the vivid, multisensory, ekphrastic qualities of the romances in general but also their more general generation of what Hans Gumbrecht has called ‘presence effects’ (i.e. the embodied, sensory experience of a text’s

42 43 44 45

Scourfield 2003; Deacy and McHardy 2013. Scourfield 2003: 172–173. What Chariton calls ἔρωτες δίκαιοι … νόμιμοι γάμοι (8.1.4). This analysis does not, of course, pretend to exhaust the moral complexities of erôs in the romance.

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‘reality’).46 The description of emotional reactions, however, is quite clearly a crucial part of a reader’s encounter with ‘presentification’. In such cases, emotional response constitutes a form of narrative focalization. At the same time, however, it can also (I shall argue) prompt readers to assume a more critical, distanced vantage. As has often been said, scenes in which intense emotional reactions are attributed either to sympathetic characters (‘he was seized by all kinds of emotions (πάθη): anger, despondency, fear and incredulity’, 4.5.10) or to groups of observers (‘all were filled with pity (ἔλεος) for the young man in danger of death …’, Char. 1.1.10) seem designed to stoke similar responses in readers.47 This is in part the result of the romance’s generic appropriation of drama and Hellenistic historiography. Chariton and his peers drew heavily on tragedy (especially Euripides) and new comedy (especially Menander), two dramatic modes closely associated with the stimulation in audiences of ‘rollercoaster’ emotions.48 Drama also supplies the romance with models for intratextual response, in the form of characters and choruses who emote in reaction to dramatic events.49 While few now believe in a ‘school’ of Hellenistic ‘tragic historians’, it is clear that some works of Hellenistic historiography were associated (by their opponents) with the generation of pathos. In a well-known passage Polybius accuses Phylarchus of being ‘keen to provoke his readers’ pity, and to make them share the pathos (συμπαθεῖς ποιεῖν) that he describes’.50 Romance, however, can go one step further than historiography, since fiction writers are permitted more leeway than ‘realist’ writers in reconstructing the inner thoughts of participant-observers.51 Metanarrative emotions mark exciting or unpredictable events, and are therefore typically found during (or in the phase that initiates) the ‘liminal’ period, when normality is disturbed: that is to say, in the period of travel abroad 46

47 48

49 50

51

Gumbrecht 2003: 19 et passim. On immersion and experience in ancient literature, see, for instance, Allan et al. 2017 and the papers collected in Grethlein et al. 2019. See in this volume also Allan, Van Gils and Kroon, and the brief overview in the Introduction. See n. 1 and compare also De Jonge’s observation in this volume that, according to On the Sublime, intense emotions affect the reader/listener. Drama in general: Ruiz Montero 1994 and 2016; tragedy: esp. Paulsen 1992; Kaimio 1996: 55–57; Hirschberger 2001; Scourfield 2010; Trzaskoma 2010; Menander: Corbato 1968; Borgogno 1971. E.g. Lada 1993. Phylarchus FGrH 81 T3 = Plb. 2.56.7. Few now, however, would endorse the view of a coherent, Peripatetically favoured school of tragic historians (for an overview of the issues, see Hau 2018). On Chariton’s historiographical heritage, see Bartsch 1934; Hunter 2007 (esp. 742–743); Kaimio 1996: 65–67. Hodkinson 2010.

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(in all the romances bar Daphnis and Chloe), when the dominant themes are uncertainty and unpredictable episodicity.52 This is particularly true of the ‘mixed emotions’ topos,53 which encapsulates the open-endedness and indeterminacy of this period. But there is more to these representations of emotions than the obvious invitation to readers to share in narrative thrills and spills. They are also often implicitly theorized, carrying with them claims to aesthetic pre-eminence on behalf of individual romances, and of the romance as a genre. For example, wonder (θαῦμα/θάμβος) and astonishment (ἔκπληξις), closely allied emotions, are deeply rooted in the Greek aesthetic and literarycritical tradition. ‘Astonishment’ is the stronger and more intense: it is often associated in the Greek tradition with a kind of ecstatic loss of selfhood.54 In the tract On the Sublime it is even identified as the primary aim of poetry (15.2), and the source of literary power (σὺν ἐκπλήξει … ἀεὶ κρατεῖ τὸ θαυμάσιον, 1.4).55 It is no great surprise, then, to see these identified as conspicuous responses to the beauty of the novels’ central characters, or of their flamboyant plot reversals. Both respond primarily to unexpectedness: they are closely linked with ‘the paradoxical’.56 Both are associated, as they are more generally in Greek culture,57 with a state of sublime incapacitation: Chariton, for example, describes Dionysus as losing the power of speech in astonishment (καταπλαγείς) at Callirhoe’s beauty (2.5.4); Ach. Tat. 3.15.6 compares his experience of astonishment to Niobe turned to stone (cf. 4.14.5); Heliodorus speaks of the effects of wonder and astonishment as like being struck by a hurricane (1.2.5). Onlookers and lovers alike may experience wonder or astonishment at a female protagonist’s beauty (Char. 1.1.16; 2.2.2, 8, etc.; Ach. Tat. 1.4.5; Hld. 7.15.3); astonishment (or perhaps better in this context ‘shock’) is also shown at the news of a death (Ach. Tat. 1.13.1; 3.15.6) or a sudden attack (Ach. Tat. 2.18.4). But sometimes wonder in particular marks the response of an anonymous collective (in the manner of a theatrical audience) to a dramatic turn of events (Char. 5.8.2; Hld. 10.9.4). These emotions mark the author’s own aesthetic aspirations to communicate

52 53 54 55 56 57

On this liminal phase, see Whitmarsh 2011: 214–252. Above, n. 1. See e.g. Lada 1993: 97–98. On astonishment and ecstasy in On the Sublime, see De Jonge in this volume. Hld. 2.29.1 (τὸ παράδοξον θαυμάσαντος); 5.15.1 (ἐκπλαγείς … πρὸς τὸ παράδοξον). E.g. Longin. Subl. 1.4 refers to the capacity of ‘the wondrous, together with astonishment’ (σὺν ἐκπλήξει … τὸ θαυμάσιον) in literature to gain control over us and remove our autonomy. Lucian’s Hall contrasts the articulate response of an educated man to an impressive room with the mute gaping of the uneducated man, who leaves after ‘merely wondering’ (θαυμάσας μόνον, 1). That philosophers should not wonder (nil admirari) was a widespread claim.

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to the imagination sublime beauty, to conjure intense emotions, and to introduce unexpected twists into the plot. Pity (ἐλεός, οἶκτος) and fear (φόβος, δέος, τρόμος) also occupy privileged metaliterary positions in the pathetic repertoire because of their canonical position in tragedy, the most pathetic of genres. Tragic characters and choruses frequently express pity and fear;58 and indeed the role of pity (at any rate) is already marked in the Iliad.59 It may well be that these emotions are, biologically speaking, the most empathically contagious, the most likely to fire up our mirror neurons. At any rate, these emotions play a clear metanarrative role in the romances. A fragment of Iamblichus’ Babyloniaca, for example, reads ‘They were terrified (περιδεεῖς), given that they were not only in a deserted place but even without horses’ (fr. 21 S-W). Here, evidently, the focus on the characters’ terror invites readers to reexperience their peril and desperation. Similarly, when Longus’ Daphnis is on trial for letting his goats eat through the withy mooring of the Methymnaeans’ ship, he is said to have finished his speech with tears (ἐπεδάκρυσεν), and to have ‘inspired great pity in the rustics’ (εἰς οἶκτον ὑπηγάγετο τοὺς ἀγροίκους πολύν, 2.17.1). In obvious ways, this ‘pity’ could be shared by a readership who may be similarly anxious about Daphnis’ fate in the face of his wealthy, oppressive opponents. For all that we may share Daphnis’ anxiety, however, readers’ responses will be complex at this point. Pity is overdetermined by a number of factors. First, the use of tears in court to get jurors on one’s side is a cliché of ancient oratory (even if the naïve Daphnis cannot know that). Second, Longus’ aesthetics of rustic miniaturization lend themselves to irony. Third, we as readers know for sure that, for generic reasons, the life of the male protagonist cannot be seriously threatened at this point. Any feelings of pity, and indeed of fear for the protagonists’ lives, will therefore be tempered (at least for the experienced reader) by a sense of intellectual detachment from the sensation of peril and suffering. We shall return to this point shortly. With pity and fear, however, there is once again also a self-reflexive, literarycritical dimension. Aristotle famously claimed these to be the emotions experienced by audiences of tragic drama, who were then led, via the state of catharsis or ‘purgation’, to a kind of aesthetic pleasure.60 As has often been noted, the authorial intervention at the start of Book 8 of Chariton’s Callirhoe carries what

58 59 60

On the role of pity and fear in tragic drama itself, see esp. Lada 1993 and Munteanu 2011: 139–237. On tragic expressions of emotion, see Wakker in this volume. Most 2003, with further literature, and see Finglass in this volume. Po. 1449b (cf. 1452a, 1453a–b); cf. Gorg. Hel. 9. See also the Introduction and Frade’s contribution to this volume.

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is apparently antiquity’s only explicit literary reference to the Aristotelian doctrine of literary catharsis. In a passage that we have considered briefly above, Chariton’s narrator predicts that the last Book will be ‘the most pleasurable (ἥδιστον) one’ for his readers, for it will be a katharsion of the grim events (τῶν … σκυθρωπῶν) of the previous ones. The Aristotelian echo lies not just in the mention of catharsis but also in the aim thereby to generate consequent pleasure (ἡδονή).61 Chariton’s reading of Aristotle is not, however, a straight one. According to the Poetics, ‘the [tragic] poet should create the pleasure (τὴν … ἡδονήν) which comes from pity and fear through mimesis’ (Po. 1453b). Aristotle’s claim seems to be that (to quote Halliwell) ‘emotions which are normally painful in life (both pity and fear are defined in the Rhetoric in terms of psychological ‘pain’) get transmuted by the processes of artistic representation and expression into a (complex) source of pleasure’.62 Audience-members experience catharsis, then, when they recognize the aestheticizing effect of artistic representation (mimêsis) at work. In Chariton, by contrast, catharsis is created by a narrative transition from grim events to pleasurable ones: the reader feels pain when painful events are described, and pleasure when we shift to pleasurable ones. Albert Rijksbaron argued that Chariton had misunderstood Aristotle,63 but this is uncharitable and unnecessary. Chariton has, rather, ambitiously reinterpreted Aristotelian catharsis according to the optimistic providentialism of his day and his genre: pity and fear are converted into pleasure not by aesthetic reflection but by the passing of time, which ensures that good people will end up with good outcomes. But this lesson in itself constitutes a form of aesthetic distantiation: the romance lens teaches us that when we are beset by grim events we may detach ourselves, treat them as temporary, and trust that a happy ending will come. This brings us to a crucial point about the metanarrativity of focalized emotions, which I have discussed elsewhere, and will only recapitulate briefly here.64 Many of the romances’ metanarrative emotions fall into two broad classes, the ‘pessimistic’ (sorrow, λυπή; despondency, ἀθυμία; fear, φόβος, δέος) and the ‘optimistic’ (hope, ἐλπίς; ‘taking heart’, θαρσύνειν); these are different responses to the experience of the liminal phase of the romance. When 61

62 63 64

I think I also hear an echo of Hom. Od. 24.197–201, where Agamemnon contrasts the ‘delightful song’ (ἀοιδὴν … χαρίεσσαν) that awaits Penelope with the ‘hateful’ song (στυγερὴ … ἀοιδή) of Clytaemnestra. This passage has been read as a ‘poetological’ contrast between the gloomy outcome of the prior Nostoi traditions and the more optimistic ending of the present text (e.g. Tsagalis 2014: 243). Halliwell 2011: 223. Rijksbaron 1984. Whitmarsh 2011, esp. 223–232.

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encountered by a reader who knows how romances must inevitably conclude, pessimistic emotions are always misplaced. Male protagonists are particularly likely to fall into states of severe despondency, seeking death as a form of closure (τέλος) to what they misidentify as a resolutely tragic narrative. They may, however, be encouraged to take heart by either a companion (Polycharmus in Chariton; Hippothous in Xenophon of Ephesus; Satyrus, Menelaus, and Clinias in Achilles Tatius) or the female protagonist (Chariclea in Heliodorus). In my earlier study I connected pessimistic and optimistic tendencies respectively with ‘absorbed’ and ‘detached’ modes of reflection on the romances’ liminal phases, and with the perception of time as either acute, fragmented, and episodic or as chronic, patterned, and providential.65 This means that all pessimistic emotions, for all that readers may experience them fleetingly in moments of narrative aporia or peril, are inevitably ironized. The romance must conclude happily, in a phase typically coloured by the ‘closural’ emotions of joy (χαρά)66 and pleasure (ἡδονή).67

Emotions, Narrative, and the Greek Romance The Greek romance not only permits its characters to indulge a broad range of emotions but also encourages readers to evaluate and sometimes share in these. As we have seen, different emotions function in different ways. The primarily kinetic emotions are essentially erotic: they consist of erôs on the one side and, on the other, anger and jealousy, feelings that are prompted by frustration in love and invariably produce negative outcomes. Because they are embedded in chains of narrative causality, these emotions encourage readers to explore moral consequences, evaluated according to societal norms of gender (and indeed identity and class). The metanarrative emotions, meanwhile, play three roles. First, they stimulate the reader’s vicarious experience of an unpredictable, aleatory plot. Second, they ‘theorize’ the romance, and responses to it, in accordance with literary-critical precepts. Finally, they differentiate between responses to the romance plot’s liminal phase that are ‘absorbed’ (immersed, suffused with ‘presence’) and those that are ‘detached’ (generically aware, self-conscious and ‘providential’). It is crucial to emphasize that ‘wallowing’ is not the only readerly response that the romance solicits to the depiction of emotions. Our discussion, indeed, 65 66 67

Whitmarsh 2011: 207–211. Char. 8.6.8, 10; Long. 4.23.1; Hld. 10.3.3, 16.1, 22.4, 38.4, 39.1. Char. 8.1.4; Long. 4.22.1.

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has consistently highlighted the ambivalence of emotional response. For all that the romancers present erôs as an unstoppable, natural, primeval force, an emotion to which we must submit (albeit in the right circumstances), they are also aware that other emotions can be analysed, controlled, and suppressed— and indeed at times must be, for moral or societal reasons. Emotional states are not homeostatic; they are aberrations. Chariton writes of a ‘struggle’ (ἀγών, 2.4.4; μάχη, 5.10.6) between reason (λογισμός) and erotic passion; for him, ‘education’ (2.4.1; 3.2.6; 6.5.8; 7.6.5) and Greekness (7.6.5) help one to conceal chronic passions and to ride out acute ones. In all the romances, ‘shame’ (αἰδώς, αἰσχύνη) and ‘self-control’ (σωφροσύνη)—the internalized instruments of the social superego—are invoked as emotional brakes, and usually (Achilles Tatius being the exception) extolled.68 For all its celebration and (radical) legitimation of erôs, for all the emoting of its characters, the romance is not a straightforwardly ‘pathetic’ genre. Crucially, this is true for the reader as much as for the characters. Episodic plots, pivoting rapidly from false hope to desperation, invite emotional absorption, to be sure; but reading romance is also an education in the art of distancing oneself from emotional immediacy, and preparing oneself for the likelihood that the next twist may take us in a different direction. The reading practice invited by the genre balances absorption and detachment. The romance certainly stimulates vivid emotional ‘presentification’, but it also teaches the central importance of detachment, which can come in many forms, including moral problematization, irony, humour and literary-critical sophistication.

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See now Bird 2020.

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Braund, S., Most, G.W. (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003). Cairns, D., ‘Ethics, Ethology, Terminology: Iliadic Anger and the Cross-Cultural Study of Emotion’, in S. Braund, G.W. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003) 11–49. Cairns, D., ‘Look Both Ways: Studying Emotion in Ancient Greek’, Critical Quarterly 50 (2008) 43–62. Cavallo, G., ‘Veicoli materiali della letteratura di consume: maniere di scrivere e maniere di leggere’, in O. Pecere, A. Stramaglia (eds.), La letteratura di consumo nel mondo Greco-Latino (Cassino 1996) 13–46. Corbato, C., ‘Da Menandro a Caritone: studi sulla genesi del romanzo greco e i suoi rapporti con la commedia nuova’, Quaderni triestini sul teatro antico 1 (1968) 5– 44. Cummings, M., ‘The Interaction of Emotions in the Greek Novels’, in M.P. Futre Pinheiro, D. Konstan, B.D. MacQueen (eds.), Cultural Crossroads in the Ancient Novel (Berlin 2017) 315–326. Deacy, S., McHardy, F., ‘Uxoricide in Pregnancy: Ancient Greek Domestic Violence in Evolutionary Perspective’, Evolutionary Psychology (2013) internet publication. De Temmerman, K., ‘Chariton’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018) 561–577. Fantham, E., ‘ΖΗΛΟΤΥΠΙΑ: A Brief Excursion into Sex, Violence, and Literary History’, Phoenix 40 (1986) 45–57. Fusillo, M., ‘Les conflits des émotions: un topos du roman grec érotique’, MH 47 (1990) 201–221. Translated as ‘The Conflict of Emotions: A Topos in the Greek Erotic Novel’, in Swain, S. (ed.), The Greek Novel (Oxford 1999) 60–82. Futre Pinheiro, M.P., Konstan, D., MacQueen, B.D. (eds.), Cultural Crossroads in the Ancient Novel (Berlin 2017). Grethlein, J., Huitink, L., Tagliabue, A. (eds.), Experience, Narrative, and Criticism in Ancient Greece. Under the Spell of Stories (Oxford 2019). Gumbrecht, H., Production of Presence. What Meaning Cannot Convey (Stanford 2003). Güthenke, C., Feeling and Classical Philology. Knowing Antiquity in German Scholarship, 1770–1920 (Cambridge 2020). Hägg, T., ‘Epiphany in the Greek Novels: The Emplotment of a Metaphor’, Eranos 100 (2002) 51–61. Halliwell, S., Between Ecstasy and Truth. Interpretations of Greek Poetics from Homer to Longinus (Oxford 2011). Hau, L., ‘Tragic History’, in Oxford Classical Dictionary5 (2018) internet publication. Hirschberger, M., ‘Epos und Tragödie in Charitons Kallirhoe: ein Beitrag zur Intertextualität des griechischen Romans’, WJA 25 (2001) 157–186. Hodkinson, O.D., ‘Some Distinguishing Features of Deliberate Fictionality in Greek

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G.W. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger. Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003) 163–184. Scourfield, J.H.D., ‘Chaereas, Hippolytus, Theseus: Tragic Echoes, Tragic Potential in Chariton’, Phoenix 64 (2010) 291–313. Stephens, S.A., ‘Who Read Ancient Novels?’, in J. Tatum (ed.), The Search for the Ancient Novel (Baltimore 1994) 405–418. Tatum, J. (ed.), The Search for the Ancient Novel (Baltimore 1994). Trzaskoma, S.M., ‘Chariton and Tragedy: Reconsiderations and New Evidence’, AJPh 131 (2010) 219–231. Tsagalis, C., ‘Preface’, Trends in Classics 6 (2014) 239–246. Whitmarsh, T., Narrative and Identity in the Ancient Greek Novel. Returning Romance (Cambridge 2011).

chapter 41

Another Tale of Anger, Honour, and Love: Achilles in Philostratus’ Heroicus Kristoffel Demoen

What is Achilles without war? It was Thetis, his mother, who planned this (bridal and rest), but even the gods’ plans are shaped by another— Eros? Eris? H.D., Helen in Egypt, Part 2: Leuké (L’ isle blanche), i.5

… Surely the most intriguing and controversial Homeric character is Achilles. irene de jong 2018: 43

∵ In Philostratus’ dialogue On Heroes (Her.), a Phoenician merchant and a local vinedresser meet at the sanctuary of Protesilaus in Elaeus (Thracian Chersonese). The vinedresser claims to have regular conversations with Protesilaus, the first Greek warrior to die at Troy (Il. 2.698–709). The Phoenician gradually comes to believe the vinedresser’s claim that he has access to authentic information on the Trojan War. The largest part of the text is devoted to the ‘stories of heroes’ which the vinedresser ‘lavishes’ on his guest (τῶν ἡρωικῶν ἡμᾶς λόγων ἐμπέπληκας, 58.2).1 The eyewitness Protesilaus is the main source, acting both

1 Throughout the chapter, the text of Her. is De Lannoy 1977; translations are based on RustenKönig 2014.

© Kristoffel Demoen, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_043

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as a reported narrator and as a character in the heroic tales. These are told in a mixture of reported speech and plain narrative. Partly as a result of this change in speech modes, the vinedresser switches between the roles of reporter, interpreter, and seemingly omniscient narrator. The Phoenician merchant is the secondary narratee; in the narrative part of the dialogue he is reduced to a prompter. Her. has been interpreted in various ways. Some see it as a truly protreptic dialogue, a promotion of the hero cult in the imperial period; others point to its playful features and situate the work in the tradition of the satirical dialogues of Lucian and the sophistic epanorthôsis (correction) of Homer.2 Surely, Her. is to a large extent a commentary, a criticism, a complement, and a revision of the Homeric poems, especially the Iliad.3 But is this answer to Homer serious religious propaganda or tongue in cheek literary humour? Depending on the answer to this question, the intended response of Philostratus’ contemporary audience may have been religious fervour or intellectual pleasure. Correspondingly, Her. may satisfy modern readers’ historical curiosity or literary pleasure—or both. I myself do not approach the dialogue as a reflection of third-century religious feelings, and I do not take the internal narratee’s cognitive response to the stories (the Phoenician moves from scepticism to belief) as a model for their expected effect on the external audience. Whatever, the internal narratee’s reactions do tell us something about the emotional impact of storytelling. Throughout the tales Greek and Trojan heroes are described physically, and the accuracy of Homer’s rendering of their characters, words, and deeds is discussed. The final quarter of the dialogue, in many ways the climax of the text, is devoted to Achilles. He is the only hero to receive a full biography, starting with his birth and ending with his afterlife. Unlike the famous description of his meaningless existence in the Odyssean underworld (Od. 11.475–491, a passage absent from Her.),4 the Philostratean Achilles lives on as a cult hero and an immortal god. Whereas the other heroes are mostly presented as unidimensional characters,5 Achilles’ portrait is more nuanced. We meet him as a warrior, a lover, a friend and a musician. All these roles ultimately go back to his complex representation in the Iliad, but many episodes and character traits are indebted

2 Lucid discussion in Kim 2010: 175–215; he himself argues for the latter position. A more recent reading of Her. as ‘a defence of Greek piety’: Kirby-Hirst 2014. 3 Most thorough analysis of Her. in this respect: Decloquement 2019. 4 Protesilaus explicitly denies that Odysseus visited the underworld, Her. 35.10. 5 On compression as a feature of the characterization in Her.: Demoen 2018: 516.

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to the rich post-Homeric literary tradition surrounding Achilles.6 Yet the one characteristic that stands out is thoroughly Iliadic: his anger. This chapter will focus on the dialogue’s representation and framing of Achilles’ anger, and more generally of his extraordinary emotionality.7 I shall also pay attention to the emotions he arouses in other characters within the story world, and to the emotions the narratives about him arouse in audiences, internal and external. My discussion of anger is inspired by Douglas Cairns’ study of Iliadic anger.8 Cairns sees convergences between ancient definitions of anger (especially Aristotle’s) and both evolutionary and cognitivist approaches, in that the concept is located in reciprocal or hierarchical structures of honour, and that anger is fundamentally a response to a breach of co-operation in this respect. Following his example, I shall discuss terminology, verbal and non-verbal expressions of emotions, and scenarios of anger. In line with the narratological approach of this volume, I shall also pay attention to the level at which emotions are, explicitly or implicitly, labelled and interpreted: characters (the heroes), narrators (Protesilaus and/or the vinedresser) or narratee (the Phoenician). The chapter follows the narrative sequence of the dialogue, adducing parallel passages from two other works by Philostratus: Paintings (Imagines, Im.) and especially Apollonius (Vita Apollonii, VA).9

The Most Godlike of the Greek Army The first mention of Achilles in the dialogue is an oblique reference to his age: Protesilaus refers to him as a young man (νεανίας, 12.2),10 as opposed to the adult (ἀνήρ) Ajax. A bit later, the Phoenician is eager to hear about Achilles, ‘for we consider him the most godlike of the Greek army’ (θειότατον, 21.9). Both Achilles’ youth and his divine nature explain his excessive emotions, as we shall see. The vinedresser replies with an announcement of the structure of his narrative: he will tell the stories about Achilles in the Black Sea later (ἀπαγγελῶ ὕστερον, 22.1); for now, he confirms that Achilles still converses with people in 6 7 8 9 10

On changing emphasis in the picture of Achilles, see King 1987 (chapters on Achilles as ‘lover of war’ and ‘soldier of love’) and Fantuzzi 2012. Achilles’ anger in the Iliad is discussed by Kahane and Pelling in this volume. Cairns 2003. On the remarkable similarities between Her. and VA, Grossardt 2009. The chronology of the works is disputed: summary in Rusten-König 2014: 8–10. Similarly, when Apollonius recounts his meeting with Achilles’ ghost, he calls him a νεανίας (VA 4.16).

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the Troad, recognizable by his physical grace, his size and the brilliance of his armour (22.2; the same terms are used to describe Achilles’ appearance in VA 4.16). The ‘truer story’ of the Trojan War (Protesilaus is twice said to know ἀληθέστερα, 43.8 and 46.2) is not told chronologically, but as a portrait gallery of the protagonists—again, the vinedresser makes this narrative design explicit (δίειμι κατὰ ἕνα τοὺς ἥρως ἀπαγγέλλων, 25.17). Although Achilles is put off until the end, he inevitably turns up in several episodes related to his fellow warriors, especially his close friends Palamedes and Ajax. One major topic arising several times in the vignettes of other heroes is Achilles’ wrath. Protesilaus affirms that it was caused not by the Briseis affair, but by the assassination of Palamedes (μῆνιν … μηνῖσαι, 25.16). The same is true for Ajax: he and Achilles got inflamed with rage (ἐμήνισαν, 33.34) over the fate of Palamedes, but Ajax soon put aside his anger (τὴν ὀργὴν μετέθηκεν), whereas Achilles persevered in his wrath (ἀπεμήκυνε τὴν μῆνιν). Ὀργή and μῆνις are clearly used as synonyms here, but the distinctive lexical choice is revealing. The first term is more common in prose, for instance in Aristotle’s classical discussion of anger (Rh. 1378a30–32, see below); the latter is obviously associated with epic, and with Achilles in particular. Cairns reminds us that in Homer, μῆνις is mostly used for gods and demigods.11 This is clearly the case in Philostratus also. Ὀργή and its derivative ὀργίλος are used seven times in Her., each time referring to the emotions of other Greek heroes; μῆνις and μηνίω occur eighteen times, almost exclusively for Achilles, twice for Poseidon.12 Achilles’ anger, then, is something quite unique, also in its designation. The close association of Achilles with Ajax and Palamedes is further illustrated by the similar impact the latter two exert on their younger friend: both have a soothing effect on Achilles. When fighting together, the ‘wise and restrained’ Palamedes prevents the ‘careless’ Achilles from being carried away by his emotions (terms connected to Achilles in one sentence, 33.21: οὐ καθεκτῶς, θυμός, ἀταξία, φορά); Palamedes is likened to a lion tamer who calms (πραΰνοντι) a noble lion. Ajax’ friendship with Achilles is marked by the absence of jealousy and by Ajax’ calming his friend’s severe griefs (λύπας … ἐπράυνε, 35.5). Another way for Achilles to cope with his rancorous emotions is by turning to music: ‘he composed a song for the lyre on Palamedes, and sang of him as of the heroes of old’ (33.36). The scene of the wrathful Achilles in the Iliad, delighting his heart (θυμόν) by playing the lyre and singing of warriors (Il. 9.186–

11 12

Cairns 2003: 31–33. See also Muellner 1996. Except for θυμός, the other Greek terms for anger discussed by Cairns 2003 (χόλος, κότος, νέμεσις) are absent from Her.

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191), springs to mind—not for the last time. So, even before we get to his real entrance on stage, Achilles is characterized by strong emotions: μῆνις, θυμός, and λύπη.

Enter Achilles Achilles’ entrance is repeatedly announced and deliberately postponed. Besides the internal announcement quoted above (22.1), the vinedresser inserts prolepses to ‘the story of Achilles’ in 25.17, 36.4 and 42.4. The second one is especially meaningful. It explains why a catalogue of the Trojan heroes interrupts the survey of the Greeks: ‘I will tell you about the Trojans before the story of Achilles (τοῦ Ἀχιλλείου λόγου)—if their story is told afterward it will not seem so impressive (θαυμαστά)’.13 Clearly, the composition of the narrative works towards a climax and aims at the highest effect on the narratee. This way the section on Achilles is presented as the ne plus ultra of the dialogue. It starts like this: Phoenician: It is time for you to make appear (ἀναφαίνειν) Achilles, unless he is going to terrify us (ἐκπλήξει) as he did the Trojans, when he gleamed at them from the trench.14 Vinedresser: You need not fear (μὴ δέδιθι) Achilles, stranger; you will meet him (ἐντεύξῃ) as a child at the beginning of my story. philostr. Her. 44.5–45.1

This jesting interaction singles out the evocative quality of narrative (telling is showing) and the emotional involvement it can arouse in the audience.15 Previous ekphraseis of heroes have also demonstrated the effect of enargeia: after the vinedresser’s description of Protesilaus, the Phoenician replies that he ‘has seen (εἶδον) the young man’ (10.5), and later he asks to ‘behold (ἰδεῖν) Palamedes’ as he did (εἶδον) with Nestor, Diomedes, and Sthenelus (33.38). Meeting Achilles, though, is expected to have a special effect: ἔκπληξις. This term is multilayered: it may signify both a direct emotional response to a striking event by witnesses and the effect on a reader or listener being told

13 14 15

On the pleasurable and hence desirable effect of τὸ θαυμαστόν in literature, Arist. Poet. 1460a11–19. Il. 18.203–229. On enargeia, immersion, and metalepsis (all relevant for this passage), see Allan et al. 2017 and Allan in this volume.

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such an event. One can have both at once. The terrifying (φρικῶδες) shouting of Ajax’ ghost, for instance, strikes the Trojan bystanders with awe (ἐξεπλάγησαν) at the intradiegetical level (18.4–5); it has the same effect on the internal narratee who is struck with awe by the story (ἐκπληττομένῳ τὸν λόγον, 19.1). The metaleptic character of 44.5 makes it a borderline case: the narratee is afraid of being afraid when ‘meeting’ the main character of the story. Moreover, in ancient literary criticism (to which Her. is heavily indebted), ἔκπληξις is ‘appropriate to describe the impact of divine phenomena’.16 Philostratus’ use of the terms ἔκπληξις, ἐκπλήττω, and ἐκπληκτικός in Her. confirms this connection. Out of 13 occurrences, six refer to Achilles and three to Homer (on his being divine, see below). The marvellous factor causing ἔκπληξις is expressed in many instances, and implied in the others.17 To give but one example: Achilles’ ghost in the Troad is said to appear as ‘awe-inspiring and godlike’ (ἐκπληκτικόν τε φαίνεσθαι καὶ θεῖον, 26.11).

A Short and Intense Life As the vinedresser announced reassuringly, the story of Achilles starts at his birth, notably with Thetis promising to Peleus a child ‘greater than mortal’ (κρείττω ἀνθρώπου, 45.3). Already at a young age, Achilles tended to be carried away by his emotions (θυμοῦ ἥττων ἐφαίνετο), so Chiron taught him music, ‘since music is able to soften (πραΰνειν) zealous and excitable minds’ (45.6). Once again, the exact phrasing is revealing. There might be a conscious reference to Aristotle’s characterization of young men as irascible and prone to anger (ἥττους εἰσὶ τοῦ θυμοῦ).18 And this is the third time (all occurrences in Her.) we find the term πραΰνειν with respect to Achilles; in Aristotle’s list of emotions, πραΰνεσθαι is the opposite of ὀργίζεσθαι (Rh. 1380a6). A further parallel comes from Philostratus’ Paintings: in the description of Achilles being educated by Chiron, ‘irascible arrogance’ (θυμοειδὲς φρύαγμα) and ‘calming’ (πραΰνει) also appear together in one sentence (Im. 2.2.2). Achilles will die young, and controlling his temper will remain a permanent struggle.

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Nünlist 2009: 145. Achilles: 26.11 (collocation: θεῖον); 27.12; 44.5; 48.15 (δαίμονα); 51.8 (θαυμαστά); 56.1 (θεῖα). Homer: 14.2; 25.9 (θεῖα); 43.2 (θεῖα). On ἔκπληξις see also De Jonge’s discussion in this volume of emotions in On the Sublime. Compare also the ‘amazement’ (θάμβος) that Achilles and Priam feel when looking at each other after the latter’s supplication (Hom. Il. 24.480–484), discussed by Létoublon in this volume. Arist. Rh. 1389a9–12, where θυμός is to be equated with ὀργή.

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As Achilles’ tutors understood, music is intrinsically linked with emotions. Young Achilles sings of famous youths (Hyacinthus, Narcissus, Adonis) with much weeping (45.6). And when he decides on his career (music or war?), Calliope says that she gave him musical and poetical talents not as a profession, but in order to make his life sweeter and to calm his grief (κοιμίζοις τὰς λύπας, 45.7). Achilles’ singing for Palamedes (33.36, mentioned above) seems to be retroactively explained. Aristotle ascribes the proclivity of young men towards anger to their love of honour (φιλοτιμία): they cannot support being treated disrespectfully—for Aristotle the main trigger for anger. No need to underline that this mechanism is applicable to Achilles. According to the vinedresser, Achilles’ extreme ambition (τὸ φιλότιμον πλεῖστον, 45.8) renders the traditional episode of his hiding among maidens on Scyros out of character—and hence false. This is the start of the ‘more plausible and truer’ information (πιθανώτερα καὶ ἀληθέστερα, 46.2) about Achilles’ participation in the Trojan War. Part of the familiar story is corrected, such as the reason for his μῆνις against Agamemnon (again: Palamedes, 48.6, not Briseis, who is nowhere mentioned in Her.); part is confirmed, such as his withdrawal from the battlefield and the councils (48.8– 9)—withdrawal being a non-verbal expression of anger. The focus is on the violent episodes, as can be illustrated by the dialogue’s selectivity in touching upon Book 24 of the Iliad. Achilles’ gentle conversation with Priam, on the one hand, is passed over in silence;19 his ‘barbarous behaviour’ against the corpse of Hector, on the other hand, receives due attention. The vinedresser considers it understandable (ξυγγνωστόν), and explains Achilles’ extreme revenge by his divine nature (δαιμονίᾳ φύσει, 48.18–19). Achilles himself, in a dialogue with Ajax (48.21–22), calls the wound (τραῦμα) he was given by Hector his most painful grief (μάλιστα ἐλύπησεν); when Ajax replies that Hector did not wound him, Achilles makes clear that trauma is to be taken metaphorically. We get to know a more romantic Achilles in the post-Iliadic episodes. The vinedresser confirms the ‘famous poetic love story’ of Achilles and Polyxena, which started with love at first sight (unlike Achilles’ later erotic feelings for Helena, see below), and led to the death of the two lovers (51.3–4).20 Achilles’ human biography ends with his funeral and the erection of his mound. The

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None of the twelve instances of pity (ἔλεος, οἶκτος, and cognates) in Her. pertain to Achilles. A similar version of the Polyxena story is told to Apollonius by the ghost of Achilles (VA 4.16).

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vinedresser points this mound out to his guest on the other side of the Hellespont, thus bridging the gap between the past of the narrative and the present of the dialogue.

The Thessalian Cult in the Troad: A Tale of Destructive Wrath As the vinedresser mentions that the Thessalians started to visit the tomb of their countryman each year, with hymns, rites, and offerings,21 the dialogue turns from the myth of the Trojan War to the posthumous existence of Achilles. The Thessalian rituals, we are told, were ordered by the oracle at Dodona. It prescribed honouring Achilles both as a god (with offerings) and as a human (with burial customs). The ceremonies included a Doric hymn for Thetis, which makes explicit reference to Achilles’ dual (divine and human) nature, and to his twofold dwelling place: ‘Troy obtained what mortal nature provided; but what from your [i.e. Thetis’] immortal race the boy derived, the Black Sea has’ (53.10). Over the centuries, the rituals were performed with ups and downs; at one point they were neglected (ἀμεληθῆναι) because of the misinterpretation of an oracle that commanded the Thessalian tyrants ‘to honour Achilles as was proper’ (τιμᾶν τὸν Ἀχιλλέα ὡς θέμις, 53.15). After a brief restoration under Alexander the Great, the Thessalians again cut back on offerings. This triggered Achilles’ anger (ἐμήνισεν ὁ Ἀχιλλεύς, 53.17), and he inflicted lots of miseries on Thessaly. The vinedresser then jumps to the present day. No mention is made of the alleged restoration in the first century at the instigation of Apollonius, an episode worth recollecting here. In the VA, the ghost of Achilles asks Apollonius to do him a long-awaited favour: ‘the Thessalians long since have failed to bring their offerings to my tomb, and I do not yet want to show my anger, for if I do show my anger, they will perish (μηνίειν μὲν οὔπω ἀξιῶ, μηνίσαντος γὰρ ἀπολοῦνται)’ (VA 4.16). Apollonius goes as an ambassador to the Thessalians, who are so frightened (δείσαντες)— a familiar reaction to an Achillean threat—that they immediately resume the ceremonies at the tomb (VA 4.23). The future tense in Achilles’ words in VA (ἀπολοῦνται) turns out to be a prophecy of the final episode of the story in Her. In this final episode, Protesilaus steps back in as a participant in the events. The vinedresser tells that ‘about four years ago’ he had met Protesilaus right after one of the hero’s visits to Achilles in the Black Sea. Protesilaus is quoted in direct discourse:

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On this episode (most probably a Philostratean invention): Aitken 2001; Rutherford 2009.

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At the moment you find me quite estranged from him. I noticed he was enraged (μηνίοντα) at the Thessalians because of the offerings, and I said, ‘Achilles, please overlook this for my sake.’ But he refuses (οὐ πείθεται), and says he will send them some harm from the sea. I am afraid (δέδια) that he may contrive something against them with the help of Thetis, that dreadful and cruel man (ὁ δεινὸς ἐκεῖνος καὶ ἀμείλικτος22). philostr. Her. 53.19

Protesilaus’ fear comes true in an unexpected way: the Thessalians are convicted of producing purple dye illegally, and the huge fines imposed on them have driven them into poverty and misery. The causal relation between their neglect of the rituals at Troy, the implacable anger of Achilles, and the thirdcentury economic sanction imposed by the (unnamed) Romans,23 is a hypothesis by the vinedresser (ἡγώμεθα, 53.23). The reaction of the Phoenician raises the Thessalian story to epic dimensions: ‘The wrath you speak of, vinedresser, is destructive. But tell me …’ (Οὐλομένην, ἀμπελουργέ, μῆνιν λέγεις … ἀλλά μοι εἰπέ …, 54.1). The interpretative implications of this reply are manifold. Through the conspicuous borrowings from the prologues of the Iliad and the Odyssey, the Phoenician implicitly considers the vinedresser as a new Homer (in line with the overall epanorthôsis). At the same time, Achilles’ cruel punishment of the Thessalians is associated with his devastating revenge on the Achaeans. In case the reader of the dialogue had not yet noticed the parallels, the Phoenician here articulates the implied audience response. Indeed, the Thessalian story resembles the Iliad in its basic structure. Achilles’ anger is provoked by the withholding of deserved honour; an intervention by friends does not lead to appeasement; his wrath brings destruction on his fellow countrymen, with the help of Thetis. The origin of the conflict in this repeated scenario (wounded pride) is in line with Aristotle’s definition of anger (ὀργή) as ‘a desire accompanied by pain (μετὰ λύπης), for a perceived revenge for a perceived slight upon oneself or one of one’s own, the slight being unwarranted’.24 The same intrinsic link between anger and the lack of due respect is phrased also elsewhere in the dialogue: Protesilaus makes angry

22 23

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Same epithet in Il. 21.98, where Achilles refuses to give way to the supplication of Lycaon. On the Roman regulation of purple production in Thessaly, see Follet 2017: 273–274. Beschorner 1999: 235–240 cautiously advances a historical-political reading of the Thessalian story, relating it to Caracalla’s visit to Achilles’ tomb in 215ce. Arist. Rh. 1378a30–32. Translation from Cairns 2003: 17; other discussions: Konstan 2003; Viano 2003.

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pronouncements about the Thessalians (them again!) when slighted (ὀργίλα αὖ, εἰ ἀμελοῖτο, 16.5). Protesilaus, then, feels ὀργή and speaks harsh words when inadequately honoured, whereas Achilles flies into a fit of μῆνις and destroys his fellows and relatives.

The Wonders on the White Island ‘… But tell me what Protesilaus knows of the wonders (θαυμάσιον) on the island in the Black Sea’, the Phoenician goes on (54.1). As we have learned from the hymn to Thetis (53.10) quoted above, this is where the divine Achilles dwells: the island of Leukê, located opposite the mouth of the Danube. The tradition of Achilles’ transference to that island goes back to the epic tradition (Aithiopis) and is referred to by canonical authors such as Pindar and Euripides; the cult for Achilles on the island is also attested by archaeological findings.25 From imperial Greek literature, it is illuminating to mention the second-century authors Arrian (Periplus 21–23) and Maximus of Tyre (Dial. 9.7).26 Arrian tells about Thetis creating the island for Achilles,27 about the sanctuary and about Achilles helping sailors; he judges the reports about these interventions ‘not untrustworthy’, since he knows that Achilles ‘has become dedicated to love and friendship’ (τῷ ἐρωτικὸν γενέσθαι καὶ φιλέταιρον, 23.4). In his essay on supernatural beings, Maximus again refers to sailors who, passing the island, have seen Achilles in armour, or heard him singing paeans; one of them was even invited to the tent of Achilles, who played the lyre (ἐκιθάριζεν) in the company of Patroclus and Thetis. On this private Isle of the Blessed, therefore, one can expect to meet a kind and relaxed Achilles. And indeed, the first story located on Leukê is that about Achilles and Helen. They had fallen in love without having seen each other, a fact expressly signalled as a first-time deviation from the literary motif of love passing through the eyes (54.4).28 In their case, ‘the ear was the source of physical desire’.29 It is only on Leukê that they saw each other for the first time (54.8). Their wedding

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Survey of literary and archaeological sources in Hommel 1980; more recent references in Follet 2017: 274–276. Rusten-König 2014: 64–67. In Her. 54.5, Thetis asks Poseidon to do it for her. Instances of love at first sight and, also, love from hearsay in ancient literature: Follet 2017: 276–277. Whitmarsh 2009: 223–225 sees this as an expressive instance of ‘the erotics of description’ which pervades the whole Her.

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and immortal life are described in idyllic terms: ‘Achilles and Helen are said to drink together (ξυμπίνειν) and to engage in song: they sing their love for each other, Homer’s verses about Troy, and Homer himself’ (54.12).30 The vinedresser explains that Achilles fully develops the poetical skills received from Calliope, ‘now that his fighting is over’ (ἐπειδὴ πέπαυται τῶν πολεμικῶν). His song for Homer is a ‘divine and poetic’ masterpiece (θείως καὶ ποιητικῶς, 54.13), composed recently. Since it is also part of Protesilaus’ repertoire, the vinedresser has heard the song and can perform it at the Phoenician’s request. Before breaking into song, he compliments Achilles (in fact, Philostratus compliments himself) for a piece ‘most charming in style and content’ (χαριέστατα, 55.2). After the performance, the Phoenician joins in the praise of the marvellous composition (δαιμονίως, 55.4). The song itself is another short hymn, like that for Thetis written in Doric. It is addressed to Echo and appropriately teeming with intertextual echoes and metapoetic implications.31 Achilles invokes Ἀχώ as his Muse, and requests (verses 4–7): σὺ δὲ θεῖον Ὅμηρον ἄειδέ μοι, | κλέος ἀνέρων, | κλέος ἁμετέρων πόνων, | δι’ ὃν οὐ θάνον, … Sing for me divine Homer, / the glory of men, / the glory of our labours, / thanks to whom I did not die … philostr. Her. 55.3

In this game of reversals, the singer Achilles alludes to the opening lines of his subject Homer’s poems (v. 4) and to the latter’s description of himself singing the glory of men (Il. 9.189, ἄειδε δ’ ἄρα κλέα ἀνδρῶν). Moreover, the divine Achilles makes the sobering observation that his own immortality is due to literary fame (v. 7). Both the implicit self-praise by Philostratus (just before the hymn) and the association of Homer with κλέος (in the hymn) are reminiscent of the Homeric narrator who is himself aspiring to heroic-like fame.32 Despite his enduring obsession with glory (κλέος is repeated three times in the song), this singing and loving Achilles seems to have finally calmed down. At last, music appears to have softened his irascible mind. The song for Echo

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The most obvious parallel of heroes declaiming Homer’s epics at a symposium is Lucian, VH 2.15. Fine analysis in Miles 2004; see also Velardi 2014. As convincingly shown in De Jong 2006.

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and Homer might have been a suitable end of the heroic tales, and a smooth transition back to the bucolic setting of the dialogue. Yet the tone changes. The voice in which Achilles and Helen sing their songs, described as divine (θεῖα), can be heard over the sea and arouses shuddering (φρίκη) and amazement (ἔκπληξις) in the sailors who hear them (56.1). Once again, we observe the connection of the divine with the effect of awe, heightened by the physical sensation of shuddering.33 Other sailors report (ἀπαγγέλλουσι, 56.2–4) that they have heard the clash of armour and cries like those at war. One merchant is said to have been hosted by Achilles, as in the essay by Maximus. But this meeting takes a lugubrious turn. The story (56.6–10, starting with ἐμπόρῳ λέγεται) is told completely from the perspective of the merchant, at first in reported speech. Achilles appeared to him (φαίνεσθαι), told him (διηγεῖσθαι) about Troy, invited him for a drink (ξενίσαι) and asked him (κελεῦσαι) to fetch a Trojan slave girl, ‘the last of the blood-line of Priam’ (56.7). The merchant, who may have been familiar with the story of Achilles and Polyxena (as the reader is), misinterprets the implication of the request: he ‘thought that Achilles was in love’ (ἐρᾶν τὸν Ἀχιλλέα ᾤετο, 56.8). The narrative here switches to plain narrative, but it is clear that the focalization remains that of the merchant. He buys the girl, returns to the island, and abandons her on the shore, leaving the island with a generous fee from Achilles. In the final sentence of the episode, we listen, once again, along with the sailors: ‘they were not more than a stade away from shore, when the girl’s scream reached them—Achilles was tearing her apart, and ripping limb from limb.’ (56.10) This gruesome episode, unknown from elsewhere (just like the next and final one), is reminiscent of Achilles’ request in VA 4.12: Apollonius is urged to send away a young disciple because he is from the lineage of Priam. Achilles’ wrath against the Trojan royal family continues unabated, we have to infer from his actions—not a single emotion from Achilles’ side is mentioned expressly in the ferocious story about the Trojan girl. Of course, the revenge on the innocent late descendants of Priam is incomparably more savage in Her. than in VA. We have seen a similar augmented brutality from VA to Her. in the case of Achilles’ μῆνις against the Thessalians. Without any transition formula, the vinedresser moves on to the last topic, the Amazons—‘quite a story’, the Phoenician anticipates (μεγάλου λόγου, 57.1). The link between the two episodes might be the female character of Achilles’

33

Cairns 2014 on shuddering as a physical reaction and (metonymically) an emotion.

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victims, but this is not made explicit.34 Several traditional stories about the Amazons are refuted, starting with their fighting in the Trojan War (56.11). The vinedresser then relates a real, terrifying event, dated precisely to the year of a memorable athletic victory, 164bce (56.11). The Amazons launched an expedition against Achilles in order to plunder his sanctuary on Leukê. As they prepared to attack him on horseback, he ‘gazed ardently and grimly upon them’ (θερμόν τε καὶ δεινὸν ἐς αὐτὰς ἰδὼν, 57.15), and leaped ‘as he had at the Scamander and at Troy’.35 The mares are thrown into a panic (πτοία), their manes stand up (τὰς χαίτας ἔφριττον)—the effect of Achilles’ appearance sounds familiar. What follows is a horror scene, in which the horses attack the fallen Amazons, trample them with their hooves, gnaw at their limbs, tear open their chests and devour their intestines before casting themselves into the sea. In this final anecdote, Achilles’ emotions are once again suppressed, and the focus is throughout on the Amazons and their mares. Only in the very last sentence, after the massacre, we turn to Achilles for the last time. He ‘easily cleans the island’ (57.17). ‘What is Achilles without war?’ On Heroes sketches an intriguing portrait of an extraordinary hero, sentimental and cruel at once, affectionate and irascible, a lover and a warrior. Unsurprisingly, his most characteristic emotion is anger, the excessive vehemence of which is related to his youth and especially his divine nature. The awe-inspiring effects of his words, deeds, and appearances at the intradiegetic level are mirrored by the effect of the stories about him on the narratee. Her. is also an exploration, explicitly and implicitly, of the power of music and literature. Singing songs and telling tales can evoke amazement and fear, soothe anger and grief, and heighten love and friendship.

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McCloskey 2017 interprets the stories of Achilles’ posthumous violence as expressions of cultural resistance to Rome—an ingenious but in my view implausible political reading. See Il. 20.353 and 381–382; 21.233. Earlier in the dialogue, Protesilaus had dismissed the first Homeric passage as ‘hyperbolic and poetical, a mere straining after effect’ (48.11).

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Bibliography Aitken, E.B., ‘The Cult of Achilles in Philostratus’ Heroikos: A Study in the Relation of Canon and Ritual’, in S.R. Asirvatham, C.O. Pache, J. Watrous (eds.), Between Magic and Religion. Interdisciplinary Studies in Ancient Mediterranean Religion and Society (Lanham, MD 2001) 127–135. Allan, R.J., Jong, I.J.F. de, Jonge, C.C. de, ‘From Enargeia to Immersion: The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept’, Style 51.1 (2017) 34–51. Beschorner, A., Helden und Heroen, Homer und Caracalla. Übersetzung, Kommentar und Interpretationen zum Heroikos des Flavios Philostratos (Bari 1999). Braund, S., Most, G.W. (eds.), Ancient Anger: Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003). Cairns, D.L., ‘Ethics, Ethology, Terminology: Iliadic Anger and the Cross-Cultural Study of Emotion’, in S. Braund, G.W. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger: Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003) 11–49. Cairns, D.L., ‘A Short History of Shudders’, in A. Chaniotis, P. Ducrey (eds.), Unveiling Emotions ii. Emotions in Greece and Rome: Texts, Images, Material Culture (Stuttgart 2014) 85–107. Decloquement, V., Commenter, critiquer et réécrire Homère dans l’Heroikos de Philostrate (PhD Lille-Ghent 2019). Demoen, K., ‘Philostratus’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018) 503–520. Fantuzzi, M., Achilles in Love. Intertextual Studies (Oxford 2012). Follet, S., Philostrate. Sur les héros (Paris 2017). Grossardt, P., Einführung, Übersetzung und Kommentar zum Heroikos von Flavius Philostrat (Basel 2006). Grossardt, P., ‘How to Become a Poet? Homer and Apollonius Visit the Mound of Achilles’, in K. Demoen, D. Praet (eds.), Theios Sophistes. Essays on Flavius Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii (Leiden 2009) 75–94. Hommel, H., Der Gott Achilleus (Heidelberg 1980). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Homeric Narrator and His Own Kleos’, Mnemosyne 59 (2006) 188– 207. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018) 27–45. Kim, L.Y., Homer Between History and Fiction in Imperial Greek Literature (Cambridge 2010). King, K.C., Achilles. Paradigms of the War Hero from Homer to the Middle Ages (Berkeley 1987). Kirby-Hirst, M., ‘Philostratus’ Heroikos: Protesilaos, Achilles and Palamedes Unite in Defence of the Greek World’, AClass 57 (2014) 76–104.

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Konstan, D., ‘Aristotle on Anger and the Emotions: The Strategies of Status’, in S. Braund, G.W. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger: Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge 2003) 99–120. Lannoy, L. de, Flavius Philostratus. Heroicus (Leipzig 1977). McCloskey, B., ‘Achilles’ Brutish Hellenism: Greek Identity in the Herōikos’, CPh 112:1 (2017) 63–85. Miles, G., ‘Music and Immortality: The Afterlife of Achilles in Philostratus’ Heroicus’, AncNarr 4 (2004) 66–78. Muellner, L.C., The Anger of Achilles. Mênis in Greek Epic (Ithaca, NY 1996). Nünlist, R., The Ancient Critic at Work. Terms and Concepts of Literary Criticism in Greek Scholia (Cambridge 2009). Rusten, J., König, J., Philostratus: Heroicus, Gymnasticus, Discourses 1 and 2 (Cambridge, MA 2014). Rutherford, I.C., ‘Black Sails to Achilles: The Thessalian Pilgrimage in Philostratus’Heroicus’, in E.L. Bowie, J. Elsner (eds.), Philostratus (Cambridge 2009) 230–247. Velardi, R., ‘Achille, l’eroe che canta se stesso (Il. 9, 186–191; Philostr. Her. 55)’, in A. Gostoli, R. Velardi (eds.), Mythologeîn: mito e forme di discorso nel mondo antico. Studi in onore di Giovanni Cerri (Pisa 2015) 23–33. Viano, C., ‘Competitive Emotions and Thumos in Aristotle’s Rhetoric’, in D. Konstan, N.K. Rutter (eds.), Envy, Spite and Jealousy. The Rivalrous Emotions in Ancient Greece (Edinburgh 2003) 85–97. Whitmarsh, T., ‘Performing Heroics: Language, Landscape and Identity in Philostratus’ Heroicus’, in E.L. Bowie, J. Elsner (eds.), Philostratus (Cambridge 2009) 205–229.

part 8 Late Antiquity and Beyond

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chapter 42

Claudian’s De raptu Proserpinae: Grief, Guilt, and Rage of a Bereaved Mother Piet Gerbrandy

In Greek mythology and ancient literature, stories about fathers and sons are numerous. Cronus and Zeus come to mind, Laius and Oedipus, Odysseus and Telemachus. Due to restrictions on female participation in ancient societies, narratives about complex relationships between mothers and daughters are scant, Sophocles’ Electra being a notable exception. There is, however, one important myth in which a mother and her daughter take centre stage: the story of Persephone’s abduction by her uncle Hades and the subsequent quest of Demeter to retrieve her child. Since this was the pivotal myth in the mystery cult of Eleusis, it must have been one of the most frequently told stories in antiquity for more than a millennium, at least until 396ce when, in the wake of Alaric’s invasion, Christian fanatics destroyed the cult buildings.1 Persephone’s distress at being assaulted forms an integral part of the plot, but even more prominent is the mother’s grief, which in most versions of the story is paralleled by crop failure and famine.2 It has always been considered an enigma that Claudian (ca. 370–405?), panegyrical poet to the Christian court of the child-emperor Honorius and his general Stilicho in Milan and Ravenna between 395 and 404,3 composed an epic on the abduction of Persephone (Latin: Proserpina) in the decade witnessing the final abolition of all pagan cults. While over the last fifty years many interpretations of the poem have been proposed,4 insufficient light has been shed on one aspect: the unpredictable, sometimes even incomprehensible behaviour and extreme emotions of Ceres, Proserpine’s mother. This lack of attention is

1 Foley 1994: 65. 2 The standard version is the Homeric Hymn to Demeter. Other versions in Diod. Sic. 5.2–5; Ov. Fast. 4.393–618; Met. 5.341–661; the so-called Orphic tradition may be reconstructed from Orphicorum fragmenta 47–53, Kern 1922: 115–130, and the Orphic Argonautica 17–31, 1186–1196, Vian 2020: 75–76, 160–161; see West 1983, passim. 3 Biography reconstructed by Cameron 1970. 4 Surveys of scholarship in Kellner 1997: 11–37; Charlet 2000: 180–186.

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all the more remarkable since as much as one third of the text concerns the emotional turmoil driving the goddess. In the second half of this chapter, I will examine the way in which Claudian represents Ceres’ inner life. Without rejecting current interpretations of the epic in general, I will focus on this overlooked element, proposing that it may most successfully be understood as a study of a mother’s initial failure to accept her daughter’s coming of age. In order to prove the plausibility of my view, I will make use of insights taken from modern anthropology and psychology, and zoom in on the process of mourning in particular. To begin with, I will say a few words on the epic’s position within the classical canon and on Claudian’s representation of emotions in general.

De raptu Proserpinae in the Classical Tradition We do not know at which point in his career Claudian wrote De raptu Proserpinae (henceforth: DRP), although most scholars today seem to believe it was composed sometime between 394 and 397, connecting it with contemporary concerns about politics, economics, and religion.5 The poem as we have it is clearly unfinished, since the three books are unequal in length and the narrative as announced in the prooemium breaks off prematurely at the beginning of Ceres’ quest for her daughter.6 Seeing that the story is supposed to end in the establishment of agriculture, it is reasonable to suppose Claudian intended to write four books, making DRP a mythical response to Virgil’s Georgics.7 Claudian’s main sources are the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Fasti, Statius’ Thebaid, and possibly some Orphic accounts of the Eleusinian myth, but it is important to emphasize the poet’s eclectic use of the existing material and his audacious powers of invention.8

5 DRP was not an occasional poem dedicated to a patron, although Book 2 is preceded by a preface addressed to Florentinus, praefectus urbi in 395–397. On the date of composition see Guipponi-Gineste 2010: 17–18. 6 The books have 288, 372, and 448 lines respectively; Books 1 and 2 have prefaces in elegiac metre. 7 Ritoók 1994: 147–148. 8 See note 2. Commentaries and translations: Potz 1984; Gruzelier 1993; Charlet 1991; Friedrich and Frings 2009. Intertextual connections have been studied by Ware 2012 and Hardie 2019. There seem to be some links with Nonnus, Dion. 5.565–621; 6.1–168. Wheeler 1995 points to parallels with Stat. Theb. 8 (animosity between Pluto and Jupiter). Claudian apparently deemed his project an audacious one (Praef. 1.9 and 1.3).

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In Claudian’s version, Dis (Hades) is the prime mover. Longing to start a family, he threatens to confound the order of things if his brother Jupiter does not grant him a spouse. Jupiter immediately concedes. Realizing that his daughter Proserpine is left alone in Sicily after Ceres has unexpectedly departed to her own mother Cybele, he exhorts Venus to take the girl outside in order to give Dis the opportunity to kidnap her (Book 1). This is carried out as planned, followed by the pair’s entry into the Underworld and the wedding chamber (Book 2). Book 3 opens with a speech by Jupiter to the assembly of the gods in which he purports that Mother Nature complained to him about the sorry state of humanity ever since he took over the reign from his father. In order to help mankind, Jupiter says, he has arranged Proserpine’s abduction, expecting that Ceres will gratefully spread agriculture across the world once she recovers her daughter.9 The gods are forbidden to tell Ceres what happened. In the remainder of the book, Ceres, after having had disturbing dreams, breaks off her sojourn on Mount Ida and returns to Sicily where she finds Proserpine’s abode in disarray. Having learned that an unidentified villain kidnapped the girl and without being offered relevant information by the other gods, she enters the sacred wood on the slopes of Mount Etna (the former battlefield of the Gigantomachy) in a state of rage, cuts down two cypresses to use as torches, lights them at the volcano’s crater, and sets forth, guilt-ridden, to search for Proserpine.

Representation of Emotions in DRP Apart from the poem’s narrator, who in the proem gives the impression of being in a state of bacchic or sibylline ecstasy,10 it is especially in DRP’s protagonists Dis and Ceres that we observe powerful emotions, ranging from anger and rage to tender love, maternal concern, and feelings of guilt. What Proserpine and Jupiter experience, in contrast, is largely left implicit. In general, the primary narrator appears to be omniscient, as is conventional in epic from Homer onwards, since he has access to the feelings and motives of his characters. This inner life, however, is often merely hinted at in an indirect way. In this respect, the narrator’s approach resembles the one we see in Virgil’s Aeneid, which often

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Scholars systematically overlook Jupiter’s disingenuity: in 1.118–120 his only motive for having his daughter abducted was fear for Dis’ insurgence. Nature’s complaint may well be an invention by Jupiter himself. Allusions to Virgil’s Sibyl (Aen. 6.77–80) in 5–6; Eleusis in 7–15 (Triptolemus, Hecate, Iacchus); Iacchus as Bacchus 15–19. In order to avoid monotony, I may occasionally substitute ‘the poet’ or ‘Claudian’ for ‘the narrator’, as I may use ‘reader’ instead of ‘narratee’.

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leaves it to the readers to infer what is going on in the minds of the characters. To demonstrate Claudian’s technique in suggesting emotionality I will point out a few passages regarding Dis and Proserpine, followed by a brief analysis of some possibly symbolic fire imagery. Subsequently, Ceres’ emotions will be probed into.11 The narrative proper immediately introduces Dis’ anger:12 dux Erebi quondam tumidas exarsit in iras (1.32, ‘the leader of Erebus once upon a time blazed forth into swelling anger’).13 His fury is caused by indignation at being excluded from married life (1.33–36). One of the Parcae, worried about the cosmic consequences in case of a resumed Gigantomachy,14 urgently advises him to be careful: it might simply suffice to ask Jupiter to give him a wife. Dis instantly realizes he may have been too hot-headed: ‘he desisted and blushed at her prayers, and his fierce temper abated, though unschooled to bending’ (1.67–69). The change of mood is illustrated by a Homeric simile in which Boreas, ‘his wings stiff with Getic hail’, is restrained by Aeolus (1.69–75). The next time we meet Dis is in Book 2, when his epiphany on the pastures of Enna is accompanied by cosmic upheaval (2.151–203), illustrated in several similes taken from the domains of mythology, geology, and warfare. It does not seem far-fetched to interpret Dis’ difficulty of finding an exit from Hell (ianua nulla patet 2.170) as symbolic for the devastating state of suppressed sexual excitement he has been living in for so long.15 But once the abduction has been carried out and the victim has uttered a furious, indignant, and desperate complaint addressed to her parents (2.247–272), Dis for the second time experiences a change of emotional disposition: he instantly falls in love (2.273–274, ‘this fierce man was overpowered by the girl’s words and attractive weeping and felt the sighs of a first love’).16 It inspires him to a tender and consoling speech in which the Underworld, described by both the narrator and Dis as a dismal and gloomy place in Book 1,17 now appears as the most delightful abode in the

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Emotions of other characters (Diana, Pallas, Electra) will not be discussed. Anger is, of course, the force driving the plot of many epics: compare Achilles’ wrath in the Iliad (discussed by Kahane and Pelling in this volume) and Juno’s ira mentioned in the proem of the Aeneid. Text in Hall 1985; translations from Gruzelier 1993, unless noted otherwise. In Claudian’s works, the Gigantomachy is a frequent motif, often associated with the invasions of barbarians. See Ware 2012: 128–141; Coombe 2018: 93–122. On the symbolism of volcanism and earthquakes see Fauth 1988 and Guipponi-Gineste 2010: 41–51. My translation ‘attractive’ (decoro) shows Dis to be the focalizer. By the narrator: 1.79–83; by Dis himself in his message to Jupiter: 1.99–110.

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entire universe (2.275–306). Indubitably, it is only the lover’s enthusiasm that colours this paradisiac vision.18 In sum, Dis is represented as a hot-blooded character subject to sudden changes of mood. His emotions (and concomitant physiology) are mentioned explicitly,19 accompanied by symbolic natural phenomena and illustrated in Homeric similes. Moreover, his joy at having a beautiful consort at last is expressed implicitly in his own description of the Elysian fields. What goes on in the mind of Proserpine is less clear. Apart from the speech just mentioned, in which she conveys bitter feelings about being betrayed by her father and abandoned by her mother, she never speaks a word. The narrator, however, gives several subtle hints as to her inner life. In Book 1, she is depicted as a girl on the verge of sexual maturity: iam uicina toro plenis adoleuerat annis uirginitas, tenerum iam pronuba flamma pudorem sollicitat mixtaque tremit formidine uotum Already close to the marital couch, her virginity had matured in fullness of years, the bridal flame already stirred her delicate modesty and with a mingling of fear she trembled at the wedding-vow (or: mixed with anxiety, her desire shivered).20 claud. Rapt. Pros. 1.130–132

In other words, what the nubile girl experiences is expressed in social, ceremonial, and physical terms. She appears to be ready and willing to be married, notwithstanding a bit of nervousness. Her mother, on the other hand, inflexibly rejects all suitors, including even Mars and Apollo (1.133–137). When we next encounter Proserpine, she is weaving and embroidering a textile depicting the entire cosmos as a gift for her absent mother.21 Unexpec-

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For the thematic function of space in relation to emotions, see the Introduction to this volume. Compare in this volume also the observations of Adema on space in Dido’s Carthage, and of Kirstein on the spatial arrangement of the encounter between Odysseus and Nausicaa in Odyssey 6. exarsit in iras 1.32, impatiens 1.35, erubuit 1.68, ferox 2.273, suspiria amoris 2.274. My translation. While depicting the Underworld, she suddenly starts to cry, not knowing why (1.266–268). On this ekphrasis see Von Albrecht 1999: 317–327; Ratkowitsch 2006; Guipponi-Gineste 2010: 22–41; Coombe 2018: 79–83. On ekphrasis and emotions, see also Verhelst in this volume.

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tedly, her three half-sisters Venus, Diana, and Pallas open the door and come in. Proserpine, probably both excited and anxious at what adventures may happen, blushes, and ‘the torches of chaste modesty flared up’ (1.272–274).22 Her emotional state, again, is signalled by a physiological phenomenon, leaving implicit to what extent the girl is conscious of what she feels. The fact that the narrator never once spells out the nature of Proserpine’s state of mind suggests she does not realize what she is experiencing herself. Accordingly, the narratees are kept in a state of ignorance similar to that of the girl. Although serious theorizing about the unconscious only starts at the end of the nineteenth century, it is compelling to associate Claudian’s fire imagery with elusive psychic processes. Of course, using fire metaphors (and metonyms, like ‘wedding torches’) in an erotic context is highly conventional,23 but in DRP volcanic activity in particular may be seen as a metaphor for the pressure cooker of still undifferentiated emotions urgently in need of release. Mount Etna, the ominous backdrop to the abduction, in mysteriously maintaining a truce between fire and snow, appears to symbolize a precarious balance between cosmic powers (1.160–178). Psychological connotations are suggested when Ceres attempts to set her two cypresses alight. Filled with vengeful rage, she approaches the crater and thrusts the trees ‘into the middle of its jaws, covering over the crater on all sides and blocking off the chasm that brimmed with flames. The mountain thundered with suppressed fire and Vulcan struggled against his confinement: the smothered steam could not escape’ (3.394–397). If we confront this passage with the description of Dis’ struggle to leave his chthonic habitat and with the fire imagery characterizing Proserpine’s feelings, it seems inevitable to interpret the complex of blazing, glowing, and volcanism as symbolic of mental and emotional processes of which the divinities who experience them are not, or only partially, aware. Apparently, Freud wasn’t the first to acknowledge the power of the unconscious and the irresistible urge to let off steam.

Interpreting DRP This is not the place to attempt a comprehensive interpretation of DRP. In his important article ‘Comment lire le De raptu Proserpinae de Claudien’, JeanLouis Charlet, explicitly inspired by Thomas Kellner, offers a survey of schol-

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Allusion to Virgil’s Lavinia (Aen. 12.64–69), who is speechless throughout the Aeneid. See e.g. OLD s.v. ‘flamma’ (8) and ‘ignis’ (9).

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arship on the epic.24 Charlet identifies four different trends, a division that remains helpful in situating the research after 2000: 1. approaches focusing on Claudian’s position as a poet within the classical tradition (genre, intertextuality);25 2. research into the religious implications of DRP (Eleusis in Christian times);26 3. allegorical readings in which the conflict between the brothers Dis and Jupiter is brought to bear on contemporary politics;27 4. approaches interested in a host of possible symbolic meanings (cosmic order versus chaos; sexuality and gender).28 Kellner and Charlet rightly emphasize the rich potential of meanings the poem offers and believe the different interpretations should be seen as complementary instead of mutually exclusive: ‘Bien loin d’être exclusives l’ une de l’ autre, les quatre lectures proposées s’appuient mutuellement.’29 Kellner makes clear that Claudian’s contemporary readers were used to ambivalent texts, understanding the openness of literature as an invitation to construct inventive interpretations.30 Most interpretations focus on the political and cosmic tension between Dis and Jupiter, including Proserpine’s position as a helpless sacrificial object used to prevent open hostilities. As mentioned in my introduction, little attention is paid to the significant and ambiguous role played by Ceres whose emotions loom large in Book 3. This is what we will deal with in the second half of this chapter. My interpretation will take its point of departure in the anthropological concept of rite de passage.31 Of course, DRP is not anchored in contemporary rituals of initiation, unlike the Homeric Hymn to Demeter,32 but it is obvious that Proserpine’s katabasis may be seen as the representation of a young girl’s separation from her native home in order to enter the household of her husband. It has been suggested that in the Homeric Hymn, Demeter has to undergo

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Charlet 2000; Kellner 1997. E.g. Connor 1993; Ahlschweig 1998; Ware 2012; Coombe 2018; Hardie 2019. E.g. Potz 1984. E.g. Dutsch 1991; Duc 1994; Coombe 2018. E.g. Fauth 1988; Newbold 1991 and Newbold 2001; Wheeler 1995; Dupraz 2003; GuipponiGineste 2010. Charlet 2000: 193. Kellner 1997: 52; on the poetics of late antique Latin poetry see Pelttari 2014 and Elsner and Hernández Lobato 2017 (on Claudian in particular 236–251). A seminal article is Turner 1967; on anthropological approaches to myth see Versnel 2014. Foley 1994: 65–75, 95–96; cf. in contrast Kellner 1997: 52.

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a kind of rite of passage herself, seeing that her terrestrial quest parallels her daughter’s infernal journey.33 This calls to mind modern research into motherhood and the psychology of mother-daughter relationships. In a fascinating book on ‘maternal instincts’, the American primatologist Sarah Blaffer Hrdy deploys a range of biological, anthropological, and historical facts to demonstrate—convincingly—that motherhood, albeit genetically based, is a culturally diverse phenomenon. The ideal of a self-sacrificing mother is a myth, or rather a matter of ideology.34 More sociological and political in orientation, Adrienne Rich, in a chapter of an equally powerful book, concentrates on the often-precarious relationships between mothers and daughters. Having similar bodies and living in patriarchal societies, both parties tend to identify with each other. While mothers may try to protect their daughters from unpleasant experiences they have lived through themselves, some daughters do their best not to have lives similar to those of their mothers (matrophobia).35 The findings of Hrdy and Rich are confirmed by research in contemporary psychoanalysis and clinical psychology. Needless to say, one should be cautious in using modern data (predominantly taken from highly developed Western societies) for the interpretation of an ancient story. Moreover, the empirical basis of psychoanalysis is famously poor and its theories presuppose the nuclear family living together in one house in which a mother and a father raise a couple of children.36 Ceres, however, is an independent, voluntarily unmarried woman and in all versions of the story, Proserpine is reared without a father.37 Still, modern psychology makes clear that the relationships between mothers and daughters, whatever the circumstances, may be fraught with frustrations, irritations, and persistent feelings of guilt on both sides.38 I contend that Ceres’ behaviour and emotions in DRP fit into this picture. To assess the range of emotional states Ceres goes through, it may prove helpful to look at modern insights in the process of mourning. Sigmund Freud coined the concept of Trauerarbeit in 1917, which over the past century spawned a variety of theoretical treatises and therapeutic practices. An expert in this field is the Swiss psychologist Verena Kast, whose Zeit der Trauer (2006) 33 34 35 36 37 38

Foley 1994: 41, 118–135. Hrdy 1999: 3–26, 308–315. Rich 1986: 218–255; the Eleusinian myth is referred to in 237–240. Kulish and Holtzman (2008) propose to substitute the concept of the Oedipus complex by a Persephone complex when speaking about daughters; discussion of the myth 37–49. Not to mention the incestuous nature of her parents’ relationship. Moreover, in some versions of the story Ceres was raped herself. Ruebush 1994: 141; Guignard 2006; Hershberg 2006; Notman 2006.

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distinguishes four phases in the mourning process:39 1. refusal to believe what happened; 2. sudden eruptions of emotions; 3. searching and self-isolation; 4. finding a new position in the world. The second phase may be accompanied by feelings of guilt, particularly in case of unsolved conflicts between mourner and deceased.40 In addition, in 2018 Lonneke Lenferink defended her PhD thesis on psychological consequences and therapy in cases of ‘disappearance of a significant other’, a situation she calls ‘ambiguous loss’.41 When a person is missing, those left behind are confronted with the almost impossible task of mourning for one whose whereabouts are unknown. They may pass through the usual phases as mentioned by Kast, but not infrequently they have great difficulty in achieving a satisfying conclusion to the process.42 In my view, Ceres in Book 3 of DRP should be seen as a mother desperately grieving for the ‘ambiguous loss’ of a daughter whom she abandoned in a crucial period of her life.

Ceres’ Rite of Passage and Feelings of Guilt The prologue is situated in Eleusis, the narrator finding himself in a state of inspired frenzy (1.1–19). Different kinds of mania and mystery cults are referred to, ranging from mantic possession by Apollo and the Eleusinian apparatus of Triptolemus, Hecate, and Iacchus to the epiphany of Dionysus.43 The sanctuary seems to be shaking, spectacular light effects can be seen, strange sounds are heard, and Bacchus is heavily intoxicated. After establishing this context of religious ecstasy, the narrator invokes the gods of the Underworld who, in the role of Muses, are supposed to provide him with the information indispensable for telling the tale of Proserpine (1.20–31). Significantly, the Eleusinian cult is associated with bacchic mania. This will prove relevant to my interpretation of the Ceres character. The story of Persephone is multi-faceted, of course, but both in antiquity and today it was associated, among other things, with a young girl’s rite de 39 40 41 42 43

The book is an abridged version of her Habilitationsschrift titled Die Bedeutung der Trauer im therapeutischen Prozess (Zürich 1982). Kast 2006: 19–20, 50–57. Lenferink 2018: 11. Lenferink 2018: 13–14 does not mention Kast but refers to, among others, the SwissAmerican psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, who was a pioneer in the field of mourning. On the experience of participating in mystery cults see Burkert 1987: 89–114; Ustinova 2018: 113–144 demonstrates that in ancient literary sources different types of mystery cults are often confused.

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passage before getting married.44 We have seen above how Claudian hints at Proserpine’s erotic feelings. In the Homeric Hymn, Demeter’s trajectory mirrors her daughter’s katabasis in that she too experiences a descent (from the divine to the human sphere), she too refuses to eat, and her grief and anger transform the earth into a barren, deathly place, while in the end, at the temporary return of Persephone, both women regain at least part of their previous joy. Obviously, if Persephone has to undergo a painful rite of passage, so has her mother, to be able to accept her new social position as (post-menopausal) elderly woman and, possibly, future grandmother.45 Claudian must have observed the parallelism between daughter and mother. Differently from other versions of the story, DRP first emphasizes Ceres’ unwillingness to accept her daughter’s maturity. Since she is overly protective, her unmotivated departure to Cybele, also an innovation by Claudian, seems all the more incomprehensible. Her arrival on Mount Ida is sketched in colours reminding the reader of the epic’s proem (1.206–208): ‘Within are the frightening bands of worshippers and the wild shrine echoes with the mingled chants; Ida revels with shrieks; Gargarus sways his swelling forests.’ That she actually participates in the raucous rituals of the Great Mother becomes clear in Book 3, when after having had portentous dreams about Proserpine, she tells Cybele (3.130–131): ‘If I wish to blow into the boxwood flutes, they wail funereally; if I beat the timbrels, they return the sound of breast-beatings.’ Earlier, in her furious speech in Book 2, Proserpine had reproached her absent mother (2.267– 271): ‘Whether in the Phrygian vales of Ida the wild boxwood pipe sounds about you with Mygdonian tune, or whether you dwell on Mount Dindymus, which shrieks with blood-stained Galli, and behold the drawn swords of the Curetes, aid me in this disaster’. In my view, Ceres’ stay with her mother should be interpreted as the first phase of her own rite de passage, echoing her daughter’s transition to a novel state of adulthood. The mother’s ecstasy may symbolize a process in which she unconsciously forces herself to accept the necessity to let go of Proserpine. Unfortunately, what actually happens is not what both women had dreamt of. Accordingly, at the end of Book 3, Ceres feels terribly guilty about having abandoned Proserpine and reproaches herself for not having allowed the girl to marry in time. ‘I am the one who left you alone’, she cries, and ‘at the moment of your rape I was involved in frantic rituals’ (3.421–424). It should have been otherwise (3.407–410): ‘It was not such torches as these, Proserpina, that I hoped 44 45

See note 32. See note 33; in Orphic versions and in Nonnus, Persephone is raped by Zeus and gives birth to Zagreus.

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to carry for you, but I had wishes common to all mothers: of marriage-bed and festal torches and a wedding-song to be sung in heaven before everyone’s eyes.’ In fact, Ceres had persistently delayed the choice of a suitable husband. In the meantime, Proserpine has actually had her epithalamium, but not in heaven (2.367–372).

Anxiety, Shock, and Mourning After the abduction, Ceres is harassed by nightmares: ‘in every dream Proserpine dies’ (3.70). In one of these dreams, a phantom of the girl appears, chained and deadly pale in a gloomy prison (3.82–90), addressing her mother in an extremely reproachful way. You are worse than a lioness, she says, oblivious to your deceased (peremptae 3.97) child, ‘while you, cruel mother, give yourself over to dancing and are yet shrilling throughout the cities of Phrygia! But if […] it was not a Caspian tigress who bore me, rescue me, I beg you’ (3.102– 106). This is, to be sure, not Proserpine speaking (in that case she would have told where she was, which she doesn’t) but the mother’s guilty heart. Waking from the dream, she takes leave of Cybele and returns to Sicily. Impatient to meet Proserpine and full of anxiety, she is compared to a nervous bird that has left her nestlings unattended to fetch them some food (3.141–145). Probably, the focalizer of the simile is Ceres, who still considers herself a responsible mother, mistakenly so. On arriving at the Sicilian fortress, it finally dawns on her that some catastrophe has occurred. At the sight of the wreck, she goes into shock. Claudian merely shows us the physical symptoms: Without waiting to take a second look at the damage she rent her cloak in pieces and tore away the broken corn-ears along with her hair. Her tears would not flow and her voice and breath deserted her, and a trembling shook the inmost marrow of her bones. Her failing steps reeled. claud. Rapt. Pros. 3.149–153

The fact that Proserpine’s loom is occupied by an audacious, sacrilegious spider (3.155–158) is the ultimate proof of the girl’s disappearance. Then, Ceres’ emotions are evoked in an indirect way by the description of her actions. This is, in its recognizable realism, the most heart-breaking scene of the entire epic: She did not weep or lament the evil: she merely imprinted kisses on the weaving and stifled her complaints dumbly upon the threads; the shuttles

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worn by her daughter’s hand, the bundles of wool she had cast aside, and all her pastimes scattered about in girlish playfulness Ceres pressed to her bosom as if they were her daughter; she surveyed the chaste couch, the deserted bed, and all the places where Proserpina had once sat.46 claud. Rapt. Pros. 3.159–165

Although this appears to take place in a short span of time, Ceres’ behaviour perfectly matches the initial phase of mourning as distinguished by Kast: she knows her daughter is missing, probably dead, but still imagines her present, as if she refuses to admit to herself what has happened. Upon meeting Electra, Proserpine’s nurse, Ceres enters the phase of sudden outbursts of emotion (suspiria tandem | laxauit frenosque dolor: ‘at last her grief gave free rein to her sighs’ 3.179–180). In the remainder of the text, Ceres will time and again give in to her emotions, switching between grief, rage, and feelings of guilt. Partly simultaneously, she appears to live through the third phase of mourning in that she turns away from her fellow gods and sets off on her desperate quest, still ignorant of Proserpine’s fate. Within this trajectory (spanning some 200 lines), I will merely highlight one significant Homeric simile indirectly shedding light on Ceres’ mental disposition. After having been informed by Electra, Ceres flies into a rage and is compared to a Hyrcanian tigress whose cubs have been carried off to be the playthings of the Persian king.47 In pursuing the robber, ‘just on the point of engulfing the man in her cavernous maw she is delayed by the reflection of her shape in a glass’ (3.263–268). Claudian here refers to a technique in which wild animals are deluded by a glass ball working as a mirror.48 Gruzelier and other scholars believe that the relation ‘of some of the details of the simile to the narrative is rather tenuous’ (274), but I propose to interpret the mirror as a symbol of inner self-reflection. At last, Ceres begins to realize her conduct towards Proserpine has led to disaster: her daughter had been right in comparing her to a tigress. Nevertheless, she still shifts the responsibility on to Jupiter and the other Olympians, even to the point of transforming into a Fury herself (3.386– 391), transgressing divine law by entering the sacred forest at the foot of Mount Etna. It is only after she has lit her torches that, in a long monologue, she finally accepts full liability for her daughter’s disappearance (3.407–437).

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The final word is perlegit (‘surveyed’, but also: ‘read through’), suggesting a parallel experience in Ceres and the reader. In the dream, Proserpine had called her mother a tigress (3.105). Gruzelier 1993: 276–277.

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Conclusions I have argued that Ceres’ ostensibly irrational behaviour may be explained when read from the perspectives of modern anthropology (rite de passage) and the psychology of mother-daughter relationships, as well as theories of Trauerarbeit. To evoke his protagonists’ emotions, the narrator of DRP makes use of three different and complementary techniques. Firstly, as regards Dis and Ceres in particular, the poet often explicitly mentions the emotional state they are in, although the underlying motivations may be kept implicit. Secondly, Homeric similes shed light on what the characters feel or think. Thirdly, elusive inner stirrings are paralleled by and symbolized in landscape and geology. Since both Proserpine and Ceres initially appear not to fathom their own motives, which Claudian hints at in an indirect and sophisticated way, the poet seems to presuppose the workings of what we nowadays call the unconscious. That the narrator does not make this explicit may be seen as a striking case of iconicity, in the sense that formal aspects of the text mirror its content. As a result, the narratee is left in a state of unknowing similar to that of the characters. Finally, one may wonder why Claudian didn’t finish the poem. Apart from possible biographical (or political) reasons, I would suggest he realized that his ambitious project was extremely difficult to carry out.49 Making a poem on cosmic, religious, and political themes also psychologically profound and convincing demands the greatest of compositional skills. Did he give up?

Bibliography Ahlschweig, K.S., Beobachtungen zur poetischen Technik und dichterischen Kunst des Claudius Claudianus, besonders in seinem Werk de Raptu Proserpinae (Frankfurt am Main 1998). Albrecht, M. von, Roman Epic. An Interpretative Introduction (Leiden / Boston / Cologne 1999). Burkert, W., Ancient Mystery Cults (Cambridge, MA / London 1987). Cameron, A., Claudian. Poetry and Propaganda at the Court of Honorius (Oxford 1970). Charlet, J.-L. (ed.), Claudien, Oeuvres, tome 1: Le rapt de Proserpine. Texte établi et traduit (Paris 1991).

49

See note 8.

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Charlet, J.-L., ‘Comment lire le De raptu Proserpinae de Claudien’, REL 78 (2000) 180– 194. Connor, P., ‘Epic in Mind: Claudian’s De Raptu Proserpinae’, in A.J. Boyle (ed.), Roman Epic (London / New York 1993) 237–260. Coombe, C., Claudian the Poet (Cambridge 2018). Duc, T., Le ‘De raptu Proserpinae’ de Claudien. Réflexions sur une actualisation de la mythologie (Bern / Berlin 1994). Dupraz, E., ‘Sur la différence des sexes dans le De Raptu Proserpinae de Claudien’, REA 105 (2003) 251–266. Dutsch, D., ‘Is Claudian’s ‘De raptu Proserpinae’ a non-political poem?’, Eos 79 (1991) 217–222. Elsner, J., Hernández Lobato, J. (eds.), The Poetics of Late Latin Literature (Oxford 2017). Fauth, W., ‘Concussio Terrae. Das Thema der seismischen Erschütterung und der vulkanischen Eruption in Claudians ‘De raptu Proserpinae’’, A&A 34 (1988) 63– 78. Foley, H.P. (ed.), The Homeric Hymn to Demeter. Translation, Commentary, and Interpretive Essays (Princeton 1994). Freud, S., ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, Internationale Zeitschrift für ärtzliche Psychoanalyse 4 (1917) 288–301. Friedrich, A., Frings, A.K. (eds.), Claudian, Der Raub der Proserpina. Lateinisch und deutsch. Eingeleitet und kommentiert (Darmstadt 2009). Gruzelier, C. (ed.), Claudian, De Raptu Proserpinae. Edited with Introduction, Translation and Commentary (Oxford 1993). Guignard, F., ‘Maternity and Femininity: Sharing and Splitting in the Mother-Daughter Relationship’, in A.A. Alizade (ed.), Motherhood in the Twenty-First Century (London 2006) 97–111. Guipponi-Gineste, M.-F., Claudien. Poète du monde à la cour d’Occident (Paris 2010). Hall, J.B., (ed.), Claudianus, Carmina (Leipzig 1985). Hardie, P., Classicism and Christianity in Late Antique Latin Poetry (Oakland, CA 2019). Hershberg, S.G., ‘Pathways of Growth in the Mother-Daughter Relationship’, Psychoanalytic Inquiry 26 (2006) 56–69. Hrdy, S.B., Mother Nature. Maternal Instincts and How They Shape the Human Species (New York 1999). Kast, V., Zeit der Trauer (Stuttgart 2006). Kellner, T., Die Göttergestalten in Claudians De raptu Proserpinae. Polarität und Koinzidenz als anthropozentrische Dialektik mythologisch formulierter Weltvergewisserung (Stuttgart / Leipzig 1997). Kern, O. (ed.), Orphicorum fragmenta (Berlin 1922). Kulish, N., Holtzman, D., A Story of Her Own. The Female Oedipus Complex Reexamined and Renamed (Lanham, MD 2008).

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Lenferink, L.I.M., The Disappearance of a Significant Other. Consequences and Care (PhD Groningen 2018). Newbold, R.F., ‘Perinatal Imagery in Claudian’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 73 (1991) 7–15. Newbold, R.F., ‘The Character and Content of Water in Nonnus and Claudian’, Ramus 30 (2001) 169–189. Notman, M.T., ‘Mothers and Daughters as Adults’, Psychoanalytic Inquiry 26 (2006) 137– 153. Pelttari, A., The Space that Remains. Reading Latin Poetry in Late Antiquity (Ithaca, NY 2014). Potz, E., Claudian. Kommentar zu De raptu Proserpinae, Buch i (Graz 1984). Ratkowitsch, C., ‘Die Gewebe in Claudians Epos De Raptu Proserpinae—eine Bundeglied zwischen Antike und Mittelalter’, in C. Ratkowitsch (ed.), Die poetische Ekphrasis von Kunstwerken. Eine literarische Tradition der Großdichtung in Antike, Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit (Vienna 2006) 17–42. Rich, A., Of Woman Born. Motherhood as Experience and Institution (New York / London 1986). Ritoók, Z., ‘Über Claudians De Raptu Proserpinae’, AAntHung 35 (1994) 143–158. Ruebush, K.W., ‘The Mother-Daughter Relationship and Psychological Separation in Adolescence’, Journal of Research on Adolescence 4 (1994) 439–451. Turner, V., ‘Betwixt and Between: The Liminal Period in rites de passage’, in The Forest of Symbols. Aspects of Ndembu Ritual (Ithaca, NY / London [1964] 1967) 93–111. Ustinova, Y., Divine Mania: Alteration of Consciousness in Ancient Greece (Abingdon / New York 2018). Versnel, H.S., ‘What’s Sauce for the Goose Is Sauce for the Gander: Myth and Ritual, Old and New’, in L. Edmunds (ed.), Approaches to Greek Myth (Baltimore 20142) 86–151. Vian, F. (ed.), Les Argonautiques orphiques. Texte établi et traduit (Paris 2020). Ware, C., Claudian and the Roman Epic Tradition (Cambridge 2012). West, M.L., The Orphic Poems (Oxford 1983). Wheeler, S.M., ‘The Underworld Opening of Claudian’s De raptu Proserpinae’, TAPhA 125 (1995) 113–134.

chapter 43

A Desire (Not) to Die for: Narrating Emotions in Pseudo-Nilus’ Narrations Koen De Temmerman

This chapter explores a short, sophisticated, and narratologically labyrinthine Greek text to which scholars commonly refer as the Narrationes or Narrations.* The earliest manuscripts that preserve it (from the tenth and eleventh centuries), attribute it to a certain ‘Nilus the monk’ or ‘Nilus the eremite monk’,1 who as early as the eleventh century was identified with Nilus of Ancyra (also known as Nilus the Ascetic),2 the late fourth- and early fifth-century author of a corpus of letters, commentaries, and treatises on the monastic life. The text has been transmitted alongside other works attributed to him and was printed as part of his corpus in the Patrologia graeca, vol. 79;3 however, today most scholars no longer accept that traditional identification (hence ‘Pseudo-Nilus’, which I also adopt).4 They rather see it as an assumption built on thematic similarities between the Narrations and some of the other writings attributed to Nilus, such as his Letter to Heliodorus Silentiarius.5 The place of composition is equally uncertain, with Elusa (in Palestine), where part of the story is set, perhaps being * Ever since her classic Narrators and Focalizers (1987) was one of the first books on my reading list as a young graduate student in the early 2000s, Irene de Jong has been for me an admired and inspirational scholar, a dedicated and supportive reader, and a generous colleague. This chapter, dedicated to her with warmth and gratitude, illustrates, I hope, how narratology can ‘sharpen and enrich our interpretation of texts’ (De Jong 2014: v). I thank the editors of this volume, Evelien Bracke, John Morgan, and audiences in Cologne, Paris, and St Andrews for valuable comments on earlier versions of this chapter. It was written with the support of the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/2007–2013; European Research Council Starting Grant 337344: Novel Saints) and the European Union’s Horizon 2020 Research and Innovation Programme (European Research Council Consolidator Grant 819459: Novel Echoes). 1 See Conca 1983a: 1 for these and other variations across manuscripts. 2 The identification with Nilus of Ancyra is first found in the eleventh-century Codex Marcianus graecus (Conca 1983a: xi, 1). 3 See Migne 1865. 4 The traditional identification has been questioned since Heussi 1916, 1917. It is accepted by e.g. Degenhart 1915 and Ringshausen 1967: 9–31. 5 See Caner 2010: 73–75 and Link 2005: 4–8 on the different voices in this debate and their most important arguments.

© Koen De Temmerman, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_045

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the best educated guess so far.6 The dating of the text, too, is debated; common opinion has converged on the (possibly early) fifth century ce.7 The text was divided into seven parts by its seventeenth-century editor Pierre Poussines8—a division followed in the editions of Conca (1983a) and Link (2005), and in Caner’s (2010) English translation.9 But, as the following summary aims to demonstrate, these units cut across the story’s complex narrative structure. At the beginning of the story, an anonymous primary narrator reports to an unidentified primary narratee his arrival in the city of Pharan after an attack by barbarians (τῶν βαρβάρων, 1.1). He recounts that he overheard some locals praising the life of desert solitude (τὸν ἐρημικὸν … ἐπῄνουν βίον, 1.1) and reports the ensuing conversation that he had with them on that topic (1.1– 11). He then cites a long story that he told them about his earlier adventures (2.1–6; 2.15–4.14): how he had left his wife and departed for Sinai with his son Theodulus to live a life of desert solitude amongst a community of monks there (2.1–6); how barbarians had attacked and had killed a number of monks and abducted others, including Theodulus (4.1–6); how both he and other survivors had reacted to those events at the time (4.7–10); and, finally, how he had reached Pharan (4.11–14). At this point, the narrator recounts, the conversation between him and the Pharanites was interrupted by the arrival of a slave who had escaped from the barbarian camp (5.1) and who reported how the barbarians had been plotting to sacrifice both him and Theodulus, and how he had escaped while Theodulus had stayed (5.2–20). After citing the slave’s account, the primary narrator describes how he learned that Theodulus was alive, had been sold to the bishop of Elusa, and was being prepared to be ordained priest (6.11–20). He relates that upon his arrival in Elusa (6.22), he was reunited with Theodulus (6.23), who filled him in about his whereabouts (7.1–16). In the final paragraphs (7.17–19), he recounts how the bishop insisted that he too enter priesthood. Theodulus and he accepted and prepared to return home (7.18).10 As is the case for so much early Christian narrative, research into the Narrations has long focused on questions of authorship, authenticity, and historical enquiry.11 At the same time, this text has also been recognized for its rich inter6 7 8 9 10 11

As suggested by Caner 2004: 137–138. Klein 2018: 1077, Morgan 2015: 168, and Caner 2010: 76. Its terminus ante quem is a Syriac translation of an excerpt found in a manuscript dated to 886 (Caner 2010: 75). Poussines 1639, reprinted as Migne 1865: 589A–649B. In this chapter, I cite the Greek from Link’s edition (2005) and the English translation from Caner 2010. For more extensive summaries, see Solzbacher 1989: 202–208 and Morgan 2015: 171–175. See e.g. Henninger 1955; Ringshausen 1967; Christides 1973; Mayerson 1975. Tsames and Katsanes 2003: 340–342 take stock of the most important strands.

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textual design. It is sprinkled with quotations from the Old Testament and scholars have repeatedly drawn attention to motifs it has in common with Greek love novels.12 It is easy enough to read it as a so-called ‘family romance’, with a father and his son first being separated and then happily reunited.13 One novel that has been a particularly important source of inspiration for Ps.-Nilus is Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon: not only does Ps.-Nilus clearly draw for his treatment of sacrificial rites of the barbarians (3.2–3) on Tatius’ description of how Egyptian bandits (also called ‘barbarians’) prepare to sacrifice the heroine Leucippe (3.12.1, 15.2, 16.3),14 but the entire narrative procedure is also strikingly similar.15 This chapter takes issue with one claim that often surfaces in scholarship on the Narrations: that it is a straightforward glorification of eremitic monasticism as a way of life.16 Such a reading is facilitated by the fact that the eremitic monks are clearly depicted as heroes because of the fortitude and perseverance that they display in the face of death. They are associated, for example, with a number of Old Testament paradigms and sharply contrasted with the cruel, murderous barbarians.17 In addition, the text presents itself as an example of martyr literature. It explicitly refers to the monks as ‘holy’ (τῶν ἁγιῶν, 4.14), uses tropes commonly associated with martyrdom to describe both their extraordinary courage in facing death willingly and actual deaths,18 and

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Heussi 1916: 112–115; 1917: 138–144; Conca 1983b; Devreesse 1940: 220; Henninger 1955: 95– 97; Tsames and Katsanes 2003: 335–336; Bossina 2008. Degenhart 1918: 19–26 has reservations about the significance of a number of similarities. See also Messis 2014: 324. Robins 2000 discusses other such family romances dating to roughly the same era (Jerome’s Liber Tobiae, the Recognitiones, and the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri). Flusin 2011: 212 more generally reads the Narrations as ‘a novel’ and ‘novelistic fiction’. Henrichs 1972: 53–56; Link 2005: 8–11. Conca 1983b: 352 (in passing) and Morgan 2015: 184–185 (in more detail). See e.g. Heussi 1917: 156 (on the depiction of the monks’ life in the Narrations as ‘unverkennbar als Idealbild des asketischen Lebens gemeint’), Solzbacher 1989: 236 (on the depiction of the monks’ way of life as idealizing), Binggeli 2007: 164 (on both the Narrations and other Sinai narratives as ‘une importante production littéraire à la gloire du monachisme sinaïtique’), and Detoraki 2014: 79 (on the monks’ massacre as a sign of sainthood crowning their monastic career). To the best of my knowledge, only Morgan 2015 offers a deviant interpretation (to which I return in my conclusion). See e.g. Link 2005: 114, 136 on the negative characterization of the barbarians and positive depiction of the monks, and Ward 2015: 34–38, 105 on the uncivilized barbarians enhancing the spiritual power of the monks, and the ‘creation of two diametrically opposed groups, the heroic Christians and the villainous nomads’. On the paradigms, see Caner 2010: 79–81. For example, the monks’ deaths are presented as ‘prizes’ or ‘trophies’ (τοὺς ἀθλούς, 4.12,

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mentions the celebration of their commemoration in the liturgical calendar (on the 14th of January; 4.14).19 Indeed, it can reasonably be assumed that, together with other stories such as Ammonius’ Report, the Narrations echoes a local martyr tradition that goes back to bedouin raids in the fourth century.20 Later writings, which straightforwardly rehearse the information provided by Ps.-Nilus, testify to the veneration of the murdered monks as martyrs in Constantinople, where their relics were said to have been brought during the reign of emperor Justin ii (565–578).21 Both the self-presentation of the Narrations as martyr literature and the role it subsequently played as source material documenting the monks’ cult arguably explain to some extent why modern readers too have readily continued to interpret it as a straightforward glorification not only of the fortitude and perseverance of the monks in the face of death specifically, but also of their life of eremitic monasticism more generally. But is it? I argue that a reading of the story that takes into account its narratological configuration does not support that view. I will show that in Ps.-Nilus’ story the concept of eremitic monasticism is inextricably bound up with that of emotion, and that an analysis of how emotions are narratologically constructed can shed a different light on the appreciation of the concept of eremitic monasticism.

Emotions and Their Narratological Configuration To the best of my knowledge, emotions in the Narrations have never been examined in any detail. Yet, they are very prominent for different reasons. For one, they are instrumental in broadly contrasting the two groups around which the story revolves and therefore crucial in shaping its moral message. Whereas the monks are positively depicted as rejecting passions (e.g. 3.12–13;

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6.4), and the monks themselves as ‘athletes’ (τοῖς ἀθλοῦσιν, 4.12; τῆς ἀθλήσεως, 6.4; ἀγωνιστήν, 6.6) who receive victory wreaths (τοῖς στεφάνοις, 4.12; στεφάνους, 6.4) for their contests (τοὺς ἀγῶνας, 4.12; ἠγώνισαι, 6.4). On this rhetoric, see Ward 2015: 105–108. In the manuscript tradition, accordingly, the Narrations are read as a martyrium from the earliest manuscripts onwards (Heussi 1917: 139). Mayerson 1976; Solzbacher 1989: 240–242; Caner 2004: 142; Ward 2015: 97–102. The Menologium Basilianum (Patrologia graeca 117, ed. Migne 1894, col. 256, under 14 January), for example, characterizes them as ‘holy fathers’ and repeats the sharp contrast between their asceticism and their uncultivated assailers already present in Ps.-Nilus. The Synaxarium Ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae (ed. Delehaye 1902, AASS vol. 62, 389–391) again adopts the common metaphor of martyrdom as athlêsis to denote the death of the monks.

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5.14), the barbarians are characterized negatively precisely by their wild and uncontrolled impulses (e.g. 4.2).22 Moreover, emotions set the plot in motion at crucial junctures. Immediately in the first lines, the narrator is explicit that, when he arrived in Pharan, he was in great dismay (σφόδρα συγκεχυμένος) after the attack of the barbarians, his face ‘still bore a visible account of the calamity’ (φανερὰν ἐπὶ τοῦ προσώπου φέρων) and the Pharanites decided to speak to him because they were struck by his ‘tear-soaked eyes and most grievous lamentations’ (δεδακρυμένοις τοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς … καὶ λίαν ὀδυνηρὸν προσοιμώξαντος, 1.1).23 The fabula too (i.e. the events in their reconstructed, chronological order) is set in motion by an emotion—and one which is connected directly to the topic of the eremitic life: in the first episode of the narrated time the former self of the primary narrator experienced a vehement desire (πόθῳ, 1.3; σφόδρα … τεθαύμακα, 1.3; ἐπιθυμία πολλή, 2.2) for desert solitude, which made him leave home and depart for Sinai. In other words, both the fabula and the way in which it is told in the narrative are presented as determined by the force of emotional disposition. Just like other aspects of the story, Ps.-Nilus’ construction of emotions is strongly reminiscent of that of Achilles Tatius, but more complex, because the narratological configuration is more complex too. Whereas in Tatius’ novel the story is recounted almost entirely by one internal, secondary narrator (Clitophon), the Narrations accommodates three such narrators (the anonymous narrator in Pharan, the runaway slave, and Theodulus) who in subsequent, more or less extensive analepses cover different episodes of the story. Moreover, the portion of the story recounted by the primary narrator is not limited to the introductory frame (1.1) as in Achilles Tatius (1.1.1–2.3), but is resumed briefly over halfway through the narrative (5.1) and covers (in chronological order) the events following the narrator’s encounter with the Pharanites from the opening scene (5.1; 6.1–3, 8–24; 7.17–19). This configuration turns the story into a heuristic puzzle reminiscent of, for example, Heliodorus’ Aethiopica, where different narrators similarly present pieces of information about different episodes of the story.24 But unlike Achilles Tatius or Heliodorus, Ps.Nilus builds on this narratological configuration to break down his anonymous protagonist into three different ‘selves’ (i.e. the same character at different

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On this contrast, and more generally, the theme of rejecting vehement passions, see Caner 2010: 79, 85 n. 43; see also Van Henten in this volume on characterization in 2Maccabees. On the narrator’s tears as reminiscent of those of Odysseus preceding his own long and analeptic account to the Phaeacians (Hom. Od. 8.521–531), see Link 2005: 112–113. On Ps.-Nilus and Heliodorus, see also Conca 1983b: 353–354 (on narrative structure), 356– 357 (on style) and Morgan 2015: 185–186 (on narrative structure).

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moments in time). By definition, each of these ‘selves’ focalizes the events in a way that is determined by an unequal degree of cognitive access to the story as we read it: the primary narrator, first, has ex eventu knowledge about the entire story as he recounts it (to us), including its happy ending; secondly, the secondary narrator (who addresses the Pharanites) is the former self of the primary narrator (and a character in the story narrated by him) and has such knowledge only of events preceding and including his arrival in Pharan; and thirdly, the narrator’s former self in the more distant past is the character in his own story as he tells it (as a secondary narrator) to the Pharanites; he has, of course, no ex eventu knowledge at all.

Emotional and Spiritual Growth As I will argue, the depiction of emotions is both determined by and capitalizes on the protocols operative in this narratological configuration. Part of this depiction clearly echoes Achilles Tatius’ narrating methods. In both stories, for example, the narrator offers, for explanatory purposes, introspection into the emotions of his earlier self.25 And in both stories such introspection often takes the form of maxims. By means of these, the two narrators either rationalize their earlier emotional responses (by presenting them as instantiations of commonly-accepted human behavioural patterns)26 or explain the emotions of others.27 But in other respects, Ps.-Nilus’ construction of emotions is more complex than that of Achilles Tatius. A good example is the narrator’s account of how he heard the mother of one of the murdered monks address a prayer to God, not to lament but to glorify the death of her son (6.3–7).28 She was explicit that she had forced herself to master her pain and that she had repressed with reason feelings that had arisen from her suffering. The narrator recounts that, after hearing the woman’s courageous reaction, he felt ashamed (ᾐδούμην, 6.8) at his own earlier reaction to his son’s imprisonment and the death of the monks. This is a reference to a prayer that he himself had addressed to God 25

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Concerning the detailed digressions on emotions in both Ps.-Nilus and Achilles Tatius, see also Caner 2010: 78. For emotions in the Greek romances, see also Whitmarsh in this volume. E.g. 1.7, 2.1, 3, and 6.19. On the psychological content of many of Ps.-Nilus’ gnomic clusters, see Theodorou 1993. E.g. 6.16. On the same procedure also characterizing Clitophon’s narration in Achilles Tatius, see De Temmerman 2014: 176–187. See Caner 2010: 79–80 on the anonymous mother of the Maccabean youths in 4Macc. 14:11–17:1 as a possible model.

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after witnessing both the abduction of his son and the slaughter of the monks by the barbarians, and that he had cited in his narration to the Pharanites. In that prayer, he had questioned the point of eremitic life in the face of their slaughter: ‘Where now are your [i.e. the monks’] toils of abstinence? Where your feats of fortitude? Is this the victory you received for your great struggle? Are these the prizes for your blessed contest? Did you run the race for righteousness in vain? Is there no point in labouring for virtue? For divine Providence left you helpless just as you were about to be slaughtered. Justice did not oppose your killers. … Why did it [i.e. the power of God] let these righteous ones be attacked on every side, left alone and utterly helpless, letting them be thought unworthy of concern?’ ps.-nilus Narr. 4.7–9

When the narrator now contrasts his own prayer with that of the woman, he is explicit that ‘I had thought that the charges I had made against God for the things I suffered had been justified, but I knew I had erred (τότε ἔγνων ἁμαρτών) when, by the woman’s example (τῷ παραδείγματι τῆς γυναικός), I learned (ἔμαθον) that every onslaught can be borne, however dire. … the sobriety of someone who has suffered much the same, whose calm control of suffering teaches (διδαχθείς) one not to give in so easily to one’s own’ (6.8). The narrator, in other words, clearly presents his encounter with the dead monk’s mother as a profound moment of insight for his previous self, taught by example about proper emotional behaviour in the face of suffering: such behaviour, he then realized, should be driven not by emotion but by self-control and by reason. He thus presents his capacity to recognize and critically reflect upon his previous emotional disposition as the product of increased personal maturity.29 This too is a procedure familiar enough from Achilles Tatius’ Clitophon and other internal narrators in ancient fiction: the collocation of one’s previous and later selves so as to present the latter as having been psychologically enriched by experience.30 But in the case of Ps.-Nilus, the narratological configuration adds another layer of complexity. The primary narrator is not alone in commenting on the prayer of his former self: after citing it to the Pharanites as

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Both his (initial) penchant for reacting emotionally and the contrast with a female character align the protagonist with Greek novelistic heroes. See Konstan 1994: 15–26 on the contrast between resourceful novel heroines and their emotional male counterparts, and on the latter, see also Whitmarsh in this volume (esp. Chaereas in Chariton). On a similar procedure in Jerome’s Life of Malchus, see Gray 2020: 242–243.

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a secondary narrator, he had already commented on his own words of grief (ὀδυρόμενος, 4.7). He had been explicit that the prayer contained such harsh criticism of God because it ‘was spoken in grief and rage’ (ἀθυμία … καὶ λύπη, 4.9). He had, in other words, already distanced himself from his earlier, critical attitude towards the eremitic life by presenting it as the result of an ephemeral and emotional disposition rather than a genuine conviction. He had again drawn on gnomic wisdom so as to explain (and justify) this psychological dynamic: he had reasoned that grief and rage ‘can drive even those who strive for selfcontrol to utter blasphemies in the face of misfortunes’ and that in such cases one can be forgiven (συγγνώμην, 4.9) because of the strength of the emotion (τὸ πάθος … τυραννοῦν). The secondary narrator, in short, had been critical of his former blasphemous self, and had rationalized the emotions of that self in order to distance himself from them in his narration to the Pharanites. The primary narrator now goes one step further: after his encounter with the dead monk’s mother (which occurs at a point in time following his meeting with the Pharanites) and setting up her behaviour as an example for himself, he can now also identify the correct way to behave in the face of misfortune. This progression of insight into his own emotional housekeeping in the face of personal loss chimes with a similar progression on the spiritual front—the narrator’s appreciation of the virtues of the eremitic life. On this topic too there is an interplay of voices of the narrator’s different selves, which assess both the eremitic life and his own attitude towards it differently at various stages of the story. As we have seen, the secondary narrator takes care to reject the criticism of the eremitic life as advanced by his previous self (in the prayer), thereby reaffirming the validity of his initial desire for that type of life. But in another instance he is, in fact, critical of that desire: when he recounts to the Pharanites that he used to desire desert solitude so vehemently (σφόδρα … τεθαύμακα, 1.3; ἐπιθυμία πολλή, 2.2) that he left his home and family for it, he confirms that that desire allowed him to live happily and enjoy great serenity for a considerable time (2.6), until the attack of the barbarians (1.3). Ever since that terrible event, he explains, his emotions of suffering no longer allow him to praise desert solitude, although he does share the Pharanites’ sympathy for it in principle and recognizes that during his stay at Sinai he has known its benefits. Just as when he rejects the blasphemous comment in his own prayer as emotionally inspired, he is, here too, explicit that his reservations about the solitary life result from his current emotional disposition. Since, he explains, ‘a cloud of despair prevents me from seeing the truth clearly’ (τοῦ τῆς ἀθυμίας νέφος ἰδεῖν τοῦ ἀληθοῦς τὴν κρίσιν καλῶς οὐκ ἐπιτρέποντος, 1.3), he now looks back on this initial desire for desert solitude in negative terms: he refers to ‘a great desire for the places in which I have now been ruined’ (νῦν πεπόρθημαι, 2.2) and repeatedly

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characterizes it as a tyrannical passion (τὴν τυραννίδα τοῦ πάθους, 1.3; τυραννικῶς, 2.4) that has destroyed what was dearest to him (μοι τὸν πάντων φίλτατον ἀπολώλεκεν, 1.3) and has left him alone (μόνον), deserted (ἔρημον), and without consolation (παραμυθίας πάσης καταλέλοιπεν).31 Just as in his comment on his prayer, then, the secondary narrator presents to the Pharanites his doubts about the validity of his earlier desire for the eremitic life as an ephemeral disposition driven by the emotion of despair. But in this case, his self-presentation is inconsistent with the fact that the same criticism of the eremitic life also surfaces in primary narrator text. When the primary narrator recounts the reunion with his son, he mentions how he then unambiguously identified his earlier choice to pursue an eremitic life as the source of their misery and explicitly embraces that criticism as legitimate: I tried to apologize and persuade him that I was to blame for all of the evils that he had experienced. I was the one who took him from his homeland and made him dwell in a land that was constantly being ravaged: for truly it was as I’ve stated (ἦν ὡς ἔλεγον ἀληθῶς). ps.-nilus Narr. 6.24

The final words explicitly align the view of the primary narrator with that of his previous self at the time of the reunion with his son. In other words, his initial desire for the solitary life is criticized once again, this time not by the secondary narrator at a time of despair, but both by his later self when the reason of that despair has been lifted (he has recovered his son), and by the primary narrator, who in retrospect confirms, despite the story’s happy ending, that his initial desire for desert solitude was profoundly misguided. His critical attitude towards the eremitic life, then, has nothing ephemeral, as he first claimed as a secondary narrator; rather, it is consolidated as a part of the moral message of the story. The fact that the solitary life is criticized not only by the previous selves of the primary narrator but also by the primary narrator himself is further emphasized by metaliterary ramifications.32 The secondary narrator’s claim

31

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See Caner 2010: 85 n. 43 on human passions as negatively connoted forces that tyrannize a person in Stoic and Christian doctrine. On the virtue of being in control of one’s emotions, see in this volume also observations in the contributions of De Bakker (on Herodotus), Boter (on Epictetus), Van Henten (on 2 Maccabees), and Huitink (on Xenophon’s Cyropaedia). For a fuller account of the Narrations’ reflections on narrative as a concept (both its effect on its audience and its benefits for the narrator), see Morgan 2015: 176–181.

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that a ‘cloud of despair’ (τοῦ τῆς ἀθυμίας νέφος, 1.3) prevents him from praising the solitary life is picked up (and verbally echoed) by the Pharanites when they encourage him to tell his story: ‘What more worthy way to pass the time’, they said, ‘than to nurse (θεραπεῦσαι) a broken heart and relieve an unhappy soul of its grief? A cloud (νέφος) loses its gloom by discharging drops of rain; the darkness clears, little by little, by releasing its tinge of water. So too a saddened soul can be unburdened (κουφίζεται) by recounting its tragic reversals (τραγῳδοῦσα συμφοράς), and have its despair dispersed by describing its grievances. But if stifled by silence, a passion may very well swell up like moisture in a festering wound that constantly throbs and cannot be drained of pus.’ ps.-nilus Narr. 1.11

With these words, the Pharanites evoke the Aristotelian concept of catharsis through the allusion to tragedy and suggest that sharing the story may work therapeutically for the narrator: it may mitigate his despair. This possibility is confirmed a little later by the secondary narrator, who echoes this scenario and announces that he will (continue to) tell his story, ‘hoping that I might feel better (ἐπικουφισθείς) if I unload some of my unbearable pain’ (2.15). The fact that storytelling can have therapeutic effects is a time-honoured motif both in classical literature and elsewhere, but my point is that it is introduced here with language echoing the narrator’s initial claim about his despair being the reason for his inability to join them in praising the solitary life. These echoes underline the logical possibility that, if his storytelling would indeed work therapeutically, he would afterwards be able to join the Pharanites in praising the solitary life. And since the story to which both the Pharanites and the secondary narrator refer is, of course, part of the overall story as we read it, the possibility is raised simultaneously that the primary narrator, too, could be affected by this therapeutic development. The possibility is raised, in other words, that at the end of the day and because of its power as narrative, this story will be, precisely, a praise of the solitary life—which is how some scholars have read it, as we have seen. But significantly, that possibility, flagged up so emphatically by the Pharanites’ comment, never materializes: in actual fact, the narrator never joins them in praising the solitary life, neither at the time of his narration in Pharan, nor when he tells the story post factum as a primary narrator. On the contrary, when reunited with his son, as we have seen, he emphasizes the problems to which his initial desire for it has led, and as a primary narrator he unambiguously upholds that appreciation. This observation is made even more salient

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by the fact that the primary narrator elsewhere explicitly connects the therapeutic effect of storytelling with an awareness of the story’s happy ending: when he asks his son to tell his story, he assumes that the therapeutic effect of storytelling will be all the more likely since for his son the storytelling would happen post factum: His trials were over and no longer would be painful to recount. For as health after illness or healing after trauma brings cheer instead of despair, so too is it pleasant to describe sad affairs once they are over; their narration may even bring us as much pleasure as the original experience brought pain. ps.-nilus Narr. 6.24

This happiness post factum is exactly the position in which the primary narrator too (unlike his former selves) finds himself. But, strikingly, in his case that fact does not change his stance on the eremitic life, as the Pharanites implied it might. His story, the Narrations, is no straightforward praise of the solitary life; it rather raises important and critical questions about it that, through the narrative configuration of the story, ultimately become the core of the moral message of the story. The final plot development of the story underscores this reading. When the primary narrator recounts how he eventually recovered his son, he mentions that at that occasion he told him about a promise that he had made to God to assume ‘the harsh servitude of abstinence and other austerities’ if he would ever recover him (7.13). This promise chimes with the secondary narrator’s earlier claim that his rejection of the eremitic life was ephemeral and emotionally driven by despair (1.3; 2.2). But in actual fact, the narrator does not live up to this promise: the story rather ends with his and Theodulus’ ordination as priests, which implies, as he takes care to underline, heavy duties of ministry (τὸ βάρος … τῆς λειτουργίας, 7.18) and is therefore clearly set apart from the isolated life of eremitic monasticism.33 After all, their ordination is followed not by their return to Sinai but by their return home (οἴκαδε, 7.18), which provides a sense of closure reminiscent of that in the Greek novel and thus casts this final plot development as the story’s happy ending. This is made explicit by the

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On the ordination as the ‘happy end’ to the story, see also Link 2005: 154. Messis 2014: 324, on the other hand, reads the end of the story as a ‘refusal to re-enter social life and a new socialisation in the framework of a monastic community instead of a reaffirmation of the norms of urban culture’.

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narrator, who characterizes it as the beginning of a brighter life (τῆς φαιδροτέρας ζωῆς, 7.19) after so much adversity (μετὰ πολλὴν ταλαιπωρίαν).34 Finally, the idea of civic ministry may tie in with the one passage in the story where the primary narrator explicitly addresses the primary narratees: he recounts that soon after he himself had been taken captive by the barbarians, they were thrown into confusion by the sudden arrival of armed forces whom he enigmatically calls ‘the warriors of your forces’ (τῆς ὑμετέρας δυνάμεως μάχιμοι, 6.16). Caner speculates that ‘your’ refers either to an otherwise unmentioned escort from Pharan or to Roman forces posted in the Negev desert,35 but would it not be more logical to see in it a reference to the civic community whom the protagonist at the end of the story decides to join and serve as a priest? Should we imagine, in other words, the entire Narrations as being told by a priest to his flock?

Conclusion I have argued that a reading of the Narrations sensitive to its narratological construction of emotions does not support the common view that the story is a straightforward glorification of eremitic monasticism. I am not the first to challenge this orthodoxy. Following a different route, Morgan reaches a similar conclusion: he identifies a number of structural similarities between Ps.-Nilus’ Narrations and Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and interprets them as conveying the message that the Narrations, just like the Metamorphoses, is a ‘conversionnarrative, from a deviant to a correct religious position’ and that ‘[i]n Apuleian terms, eremitic asceticism equates to asinine servitude’.36 I would add that this conversion implies an emotional and spiritual evolution of the protagonist that Ps.-Nilus depicts much more subtly and accurately than scholars have realized so far. This evolution is presented as part of a broader pattern of psychological maturation. The narrator, in addition to his progression of insight on the spiritual front, also acquires a sense of being personally enriched in his ability to manage and control his emotions. On both fronts, maturation comes about through personal experience and suffering. Just as the narrator learns throughout the story how to behave in the face of despair and grief, he also learns what kind of life (not) to desire. 34 35 36

On these final words and their possible allusion to the end of Heliodorus’ Aethiopica (and its Platonic reminiscences), see Morgan 2015: 190–191. See Caner 2010: 123 n. 183. Morgan 2015: 188–190.

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Finally, my reading of this emotional and spiritual progress suggests that the Narrations, rather than being a straightforward glorification of eremitic monasticism, offers a polyphonic assessment of it that invites us to reflect critically upon it. At best, eremitic monasticism is an arduous road, potentially virtuous in itself but paved with danger, grief, and disaster, and ultimately abandoned altogether for the pursuit of an alternative, civically-oriented model for living a truly religious life. This ultimate pull towards society, away from the desert, inscribes the Narrations in a broader hagiographical tradition that values civicbased engagement over isolation. In Leontius of Neapolis’ Life of Symeon the Holy Fool (seventh century), for example, the protagonist eventually leaves the desert for the city in order to teach righteousness.37 This tradition can be traced back at least to Eusebius of Caesarea (third-fourth centuries), who in his depictions of Pamphilus, Origen, and others upholds a model of sanctity based not on ascetic isolation, as promoted by Athanasius’ Life of Antony, but on communality, as has recently been shown by James Corke-Webster (2020). He finds that the two different approaches of Athanasius and Eusebius ‘reveal a debate over the nature of sanctity from the earliest days, played out in a literary arena’ (11). I submit that it is time to recognize Pseudo-Nilus as a voice in this debate— one that ultimately is more Eusebian than Athanasian.

Bibliography Binggeli, A., ‘L’hagiographie du Sinaï d’après un recueil du ixe siècle (Sinaï arabe 542)’, Parole de l’Orient 31 (2007) 163–180. Bossina, L., ‘Romanzo, agiografia e ritorno. Per una lettura della Narratio del monaco Nilo’, in M. Catto, I. Gagliardi, R.M. Parrinello (eds.), Direzione spirituale e agiografia (Alessandria 2008) 127–164. Caner, D., ‘Sinai Pilgrimage and Ascetic Romance: Pseudo-Nilus’ Narrationes in Context’, in L. Ellis, F.L. Kidner (eds.), Travel, Communication and Geography in Late Antiquity. Sacred and Profane (London 2004) 135–147. Caner, D., History and Hagiography from the Late Antique Sinai (Liverpool 2010). Christides, V., ‘Once Again the “Narrations” of Nilus Sinaiticus’, Byzantion 40 (1973) 5–17. Conca, F., Nilus Ancyranus. Narratio (Leipzig 1983a). Conca, F., ‘Le “Narrationes” di Nilo e il romanzo greco’, Atti del iv Congresso nazionale di Studi Bizantini (Galatina 1983b) 343–354.

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See Johnson 2013: 263–264 on Symeon challenging the concept of ascetic renunciation away from society.

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Corke-Webster, J., ‘The first Hagiographies: The Life of Antony, the Life of Pamphilus, and the Nature of Saints’, in C. Gray, J. Corke-Webster (eds.), The Hagiographical Experiment. Developing Discourses of Sainthood (Leiden 2020) 29–62. Degenhart, F., Der hl. Nilus Sinaita. Sein Leben und seine Lehre vom Mönchtum (Münster 1915). Degenhart, F., Neue Beiträge zur Nilusforschung (Münster 1918). De Temmerman, K., Crafting Characters. Heroes and Heroines in the Ancient Greek Novel (Oxford 2014). Detoraki, M., ‘Greek Passions of the Martyrs in Byzantium’, in. S. Efthymiadis (ed.), The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography. Volume ii: Genres and Contexts (Farnham / Burlington, VT 2014) 61–101. Devreesse, R., ‘Le christianisme dans la péninsule sinaïtique, des origines à l’arrivée des Musulmans’, RBi 49 (1940) 205–223. Flusin, B., ‘Palestinian hagiography (fourth-eighth centuries)’, in S. Efthymiadis (ed.), The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography. Volume i: Periods and Places (Farnham / Burlington, VT 2011) 199–226. Gray, C., ‘How to Persuade a Saint: Supplication in Jerome’s Lives of Holy Men’, in C. Gray, J. Corke-Webster (eds.), The Hagiographical Experiment. Developing Discourses of Sainthood (Leiden 2020) 231–255. Henninger, J., ‘Ist der sogenannte Nilus-Bericht eine brauchbare religionsgeschichtliche Quelle?’, Anthropos 50.1–3 (1955) 81–148. Henrichs, A., Die Phoinikika des Lollianos. Fragmente eines neuen griechischen Romans (Bonn 1972). Heussi, K., ‘Nilus der Asket und der Überfall der Mönche am Sinai’, Neue Jahrbücher für das klassische Altertum, Geschichte und deutsche Literatur und für Pädagogik 37 (1916) 107–121. Heussi, K., Untersuchungen zu Nilus dem Asketen (Leipzig 1917). Johnson, C., ‘Between Madness and Holiness: Symeon of Emesa and the ‘Pedagogics of Liminality’’, Studia Patristica 68 (2013) 261–266. Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London [1987] 2nd edn. 2004). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narratology and Classics. A Practical Guide (Oxford 2014). Klein, K. ‘Nilus, Narrations of’, in O. Nicholson (ed.), The Oxford Dictionary of Late Antiquity, vol. 2 (Oxford 2018) 1077–1078. Konstan, D., Sexual Symmetry. Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres (Princeton 1994). Link, M., Die Erzählung des Pseudo-Neilos—ein spätantiker Märtyrerroman (Munich / Leipzig 2005). Mayerson, P., ‘Observations on the “Nilus”Narrationes: Evidence for an Unknown Christian Sect?’, JARCE 12 (1975) 51–74.

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Mayerson, P., ‘An Inscription in the Monastery of St Catherine and the Martyr Tradition in Sinai’, DOP 30 (1976) 375–379. Messis, C., ‘Fiction and/or Novelisation in Byzantine Hagiography’, in. S. Efthymiadis (ed.), The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography. Volume ii: Genres and Contexts (Farnham / Burlington, VT 2014), 323–341. Migne, J.P., Patrologiae cursus completus, series graeca, vol. 79: ΤΟΥ ΕΝ ΑΓΙΟΙΣ ΗΜΩΝ ΝΕΙΛΟΥ ΑΒΒΑ ΤΑ ΕΥΡΙΣΚΟΜΕΝΑ ΠΑΝΤΑ. S.P.N. Nili abbatis opera quae reperiri potuerunt omnia (Paris 1865). Migne, J.P., Patrologiae cursus completus, series graeca, vol. 117: ΛΕΟΝΤΟΣ ΔΙΑΚΟΝΟΥ ΙΣΤΟΡΙΑ. Leonis Diaconi Historia. Menologium Graecorum Basilii Porphyrogeniti imperatoris jussu editum (Paris 1894). Morgan, J.R., ‘The Monk’s Story: the Narrationes of pseudo-Neilos of Ankyra’, in S. Panayotakis, G. Schmeling, M. Paschalis (eds.), Holy Μen and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel (Groningen 2015) 167–193. Poussines (Possinus), P., (recensuit et latine vertit) Nili opera quaedam nondum edita ex bibliotheca Illustrissimi Domini Caroli de Montchal archiepiscopi Tolosani (Paris 1639). Solzbacher, R., Mönche, Pilger und Sarazenen. Studien zum Frühchristentum auf der südlichen Sinaihalbinsel—Von den Anfängen bis zum Beginn islamischer Herrschaft (Altenberge 1989). Theodorou, F., ‘Nilus’ Narrations: Micro-level Teaching, a new Criterion of Stylistic Differentiation’, Byzantion 63 (1993) 224–236. Tsames, D.G. (ed.), Katsanes, K.A. (tr.), ΤΟ ΜΑΡΤΥΡΟΛΟΓΙΟΝ ΤΟΥ ΣΙΝΑ (Thessalonica 2003). Ward, W.D., The Mirage of the Saracen. Christians and Nomads in the Sinai Peninsula in Late Antiquity (Berkeley / Los Angeles 2015).

chapter 44

From Myth to Image to Description: Emotions in the Ekphrasis Eikonos of Procopius of Gaza Berenice Verhelst

Text and image have different toolboxes for representing emotions, as they have for telling stories.1 Images use colour and light to create an emotional atmosphere; they have an almost photographic way of capturing facial expressions and body language, but can only suggest the accompanying sounds and movements. Words can be used to name feelings and describe them—including those one tries to hide. Texts can also use sound effects, allow direct representation of speech, screams, and sighs, and explain their cause and effect. Both text and image are combined in the object of this study: an early sixth-century ce prose text by the rhetorician Procopius of Gaza that describes a painting of Phaedra and Hippolytus, and does so in great detail and with much attention to emotion. The Ekphrasis Eikonos is an ekphrasis according to the narrow modern definition of this ancient term: it is a ‘verbal representation of a visual representation’.2 As regards the visual representation, probably a mural, we can assume that it existed in the city of Gaza and could be admired by Procopius as well as his contemporary audience, although it is unfortunately lost to us now.3 This is an important difference from other, more famous works of art described in ancient literature, like the shields of Achilles and Aeneas, and the paintings described in the Eikones by Flavius Philostratus (Senior and Junior). The former are unquestionably imaginary (also called notional ekphrasis),4 while there has been much debate as to whether the latter are real artefacts or rhet1 Aristotle at the beginning of his Poetics already distinguished between two forms of mimesis, one imitating shapes and colours, the other using the voice (1447a). See Koopman 2018: 15– 30 for a comprehensive summary of the relevant theory about the distinction between verbal and visual narration. 2 Heffernan 1993: 3. 3 See Maguire 1974; Bäbler 2010. For a reconstruction drawing of the painting based on the description, see Friedländer 1969: T. xi–xii, and a slightly reordered version in Amato 2014: 613, whose edition I use for the Greek text of the Ekphrasis Eikonos. The English translations are my own. 4 See Hollander 1995: 7 for the distinction between notional and actual ekphrasis.

© Berenice Verhelst, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_046

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orical creations.5 Procopius’ description (an example of actual ekphrasis) is not embedded within a larger narrative framework, nor is it part of a series. It is a self-standing literary text of a respectable length (ca. 4000 words). It has convincingly been argued that it was meant for declamation in front of the painting described, and perhaps written for its inauguration.6 Its original goal, therefore, does not seem to be to replace or reconstruct the painting, but rather to elucidate and complement it. The painting as described by Procopius consists of two main scenes from the story of Phaedra and Hippolytus (§8–35: Phaedra and her nurse; the nurse and Hippolytus’ hunting party), a particularly popular subject in Roman art. There are several smaller scenes as well, in separate panels or subsections of the painting: a series of scenes from the story of Theseus, Ariadne, and the Minotaur (§5–7), and a series of scenes from the Trojan War (§ 36–41). Together, these images present at least three narrative threads, and it is interesting from a narratological point of view to investigate how Procopius’ narrator interprets the story elements that are visually present and (re-)constructs a verbal narrative in the textual form of the description. The voice of the narrator is that of the art critic, who interprets and comments on the visual narrative of the painting. He also directly engages with his narratee, whose approval he seeks (e.g. § 30: ‘but if this seems right to you, let’s not forget the mountain’) and whose expectations he tries to meet (e.g. §27: ‘So you are hoping that I will also talk about them?’). The narrator does not mention whether there are textual elements present on the surface of the painting, such as titles for the scenes or, more probably, name tags for the characters, as is the case with the contemporary Hippolytus mosaic from nearby Madaba.7 In any case, we can safely assume that his interpretation of the painting at least partly relies on his prior knowledge of its mythological and literary subject matter. He tells more than he could possibly 5 Overview in Bryson 1995. 6 Amato 2014: 170–171. There is also a description of a water clock from Procopius’ hand. As an extensive description of an existing art object, the closest parallels for Procopius’ two descriptions are the description of a cosmic tableau by John of Gaza and of the Hagia Sophia by Paul the Silentiary, both also sixth century ce, but in hexameters instead of rhetorical prose. Maguire 1974 discusses also later Byzantine examples of similar art descriptions. 7 Bäbler 2010: 601 quite convincingly argues that also Procopius’ painting must have had name labels for its characters (based on § 38: ‘the poems called him Antenor and the painter did not ignore that fact’). See Talgam 2004; Bäbler 2010 for further discussions of Procopius’ painting in light of contemporary representations of the same and similar mythological subjects. The only other reference to anything written on the painting is in §23, where Phaedra’s letter falls and ‘shows its content and letters.’ It is difficult to imagine that the painting would have been so detailed that one would have been able to read the letter.

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deduce from a purely visual representation. As a ‘narrative without language’ the painting is a classic example of an ‘illustrative’ painting, a painting with a well-known historical or mythological subject.8 Aron Kibédi Varga describes this type of painted narrative as follows: it ‘refers to a text and often even to preexisting paintings and retains only the rhetorical effect of the tale, which the spectator already knows: it dramatizes the verbal tale, functions like a hypotyposis.’9 Or, in the words of Marie-Laure Ryan: ‘Its narrativity is parasitic on the narrativity of the original text.’10 For the smaller scenes from the Trojan War, this original text is Homer, more specifically Iliad 3.259–447, the armistice and duel of Paris and Menelaus, Paris’ rescue by Aphrodite, and his reunion with Helen. Our narrator-interpreter explicitly states that he is trying to ‘remember the lines’ (§ 37) as he describes the armies ready to attack. The story of Phaedra and Hippolytus as depicted and described corresponds most closely to Euripides’ Hippolytus 170–600: first love-sick Phaedra’s confession to her nurse, later the nurse’s encounter with Hippolytus. There are, however, a number of remarkable differences from Euripides, as well as from other written versions and iconographical representations of the Hippolytus myth.11 There is the presence of Theseus in the palace, whereas in Euripides he is absent (explicitly stated in Hippolytus 281 and 660). And there is the striking presence of a young woman named Daphne as a hunting companion for Hippolytus.12 Is she Apollo’s Daphne, a namesake, or simply a female huntress with a laurel wreath (§ 28: ὁμωνύμῳ στέμματι, ‘with a wreath of the same name’), and therefore identified as Daphne by our narrator?13 Third, there is the letter of Phaedra to Hippolytus, which in the literary tradition is only attested to in Ovid’s Heroides—in the iconographical tradition it is a recurrent feature.14 Aside from the description of Phaedra’s nurse as a ‘tragic old woman’ (τραγική τις γραῦς), which could either refer to Euripides’ version or more generally to her portrayal as a character type associated with

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Ryan 2014: 19. Varga 1988: 204. Ryan 2014: 19. Amato 2014: 179; Talgam 2004: 211–214. The figures of Theseus and Daphne are also absent from the iconographical tradition. See Bäbler 2010: 569, 590–592. Talgam 2004: 212 suggests that the identification as Daphne may be a misunderstanding on Procopius’ part, whereas Bäbler 2010: 591–592 explains the joint appearance of Hippolytus and Daphne, two examples of virtuous chastity, as a typical example of late antique ‘pasticcio’—an artistic combination of elements from different contexts. Bäbler 2010: 593–594; Amato 2014: 179 n. 72. A case in point is the mid-second century mosaic of the ‘Red Pavement’ house at Daphne. See Huskinson 2003: 134.

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the tragic genre, there are no explicit references to a written version of the story in these parts of the description, either as a model for the artist or as a point of reference for the interpreter. The narrator here really seems to take the lead from the painting, and does not comment on its apparent innovations. It is of course difficult to determine which (other) literary version(s) of the myth he knew and how well. In passing, I will briefly point out a few potential allusions to Euripides below.15 In this contribution I will map the different means by which emotions are represented in the painting and in the description. The first two sections focus on the narrator’s interpretation of visual elements, the later sections examine aspects such as speech and thought, which cannot be visually represented, and the narrator’s ‘own’ emotional response to the painting’s immersive qualities.

Body Language and Facial Expression The most direct way of representing emotions in a painting is by showing their effect on the characters’ faces and physical attitudes. These are described in great detail, especially regarding the main characters of the Hippolytus story. The phrase ‘her whole body shows that she is in love’ (§ 17) introduces a meticulous description of Phaedra, summing up every part of her body. Her eyes are wet, her mind absent, and her limbs and entire body are described as loose (λυόμενον, λυομένῳ) and in dire need of support, ‘because she needs to support herself’, an observation which may be reminiscent of Euripides’ λέλυμαι μελέων σύνδεσμα φίλων (Hippolytus 199, ‘the bonds of my limbs are loose’). According to the narrator, the stature of her body thus reflects her overall state of mind—an important principle for the art critic trying to interpret the visual story.16

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Euripides was an important school author and remained popular in late antiquity, also in Christian circles (see Schramm 2020). Phaedra and Hippolytus also figure in three anonymous poems from Procopius’ circle in Gaza (with possible allusions to Eur. Hipp., see Ciccolella 2007) and Procopius himself jokingly refers to ‘Euripides’ rags’ (cf. Ar. Ach. 412) in one of his letters (Ep. 140) (Ter Haar Romeny 2007). Procopius therefore must have known Euripides’ Hippolytus, but it is quite impossible to determine how well he knew it, or whether he had access to summaries and alternative literary versions of the myth. Bäbler 2010: 581–583 considers the possibility that Procopius and the learned members of his community may also have had access to Latin versions of the myth (esp. Seneca’s Phaedra). Compare emotions as described in Sappho’s fr. 31, discussed in this volume by De Jonge (in the context of On the Sublime) and Lardinois (in relation to its performance).

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By directly and repeatedly addressing the narratee in the course of this description of Phaedra, the narratee is invited to make the observations himself and draw the same conclusions. ‘You see’ (ὁρᾷς) is used twice in the description of Phaedra (§17) from a total of five occurrences in the entire description. This apostrophe of the narratee is used in the opening paragraph of the description (§1) to draw attention to the painting after a general introduction of the theme of love. On two more occasions, it is used to invite the narratee to see for himself the emotional state of a character described: the anonymous falconer (§ 26), whose face shows compassion for Phaedra’s nurse, and Helen (§ 41), whose downcast face betrays her disapproval of Paris’ rescue by Aphrodite.17 Other clear examples of characters whose emotional state is deduced from their body language and expression are Hippolytus and his company in the second main scene (§23–29). Hippolytus reacts with disgust on receiving his stepmother’s love letter (§23). Unfortunately, this passage is partially damaged in the manuscript, but it is clear that he is described as ‘affected’ (συνεχόμενον): he immediately drops the letter, disgusted by its content (βδελύττεται), and pushes it away. The servants depicted in the painting seem to mirror the emotions and the behaviour of their masters, and the narrator’s interpretation highlights these similarities and takes them as a starting point for further assumptions. Hippolytus’ hunting party is an interesting case in point, but similar patterns can be discovered regarding Phaedra and her maids or Theseus and his servants. ‘By order of his master’, Hippolytus’ servant attacks the nurse who brought Hippolytus the love letter. His emotional state is described as follows: He hates licentiousness because he was raised by a virtuous master (σωφρονοῦντι δεσπότῃ παρατραφείς) and shares his master’s anger (συνθυμοῦται τῷ δεσπότῃ). procop. gaz. Ekphr. Eik. 24

The emotions of anger and disgust, which they share, are shown by different actions. Whereas Hippolytus drops the letter in disgust, and thus creates a physical distance between himself and its message of adulterous love, the servant physically attacks the nurse. And whereas Hippolytus’ reaction is praised in what follows, his servant’s reaction is not approved of. In both cases the narrator explicitly ascribes the moral evaluation of their actions to other characters who are present as onlookers in the painting and whose reactions may

17

For apostrophe in ekphrasis see also Van den Broek in this volume.

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seem to reflect the expected reaction of the narratee. About Hippolytus, he exclaims (§27) ‘How happy is Hippolytus, that his virtue has witnesses’. The most important of these witnesses is Daphne (§28), who is highlighted with an apostrophe to the narratee (‘you now, look at Daphne’), and whose body language mirrors that of Hippolytus. She ‘turns her head away, together with Hippolytus’ (ἀποστρέφει σὺν Ἱππολύτῳ τὸ πρόσωπον) and does so, according to the narrator, ‘almost in praise of Hippolytus’ (πλὴν ἐπαινεῖ τὸν ῾Ιππόλυτον), because they share the same ‘point of view and physical attitude’ (καὶ θέας καὶ σχήματος). For the servant attacking the nurse, the most important witness is an anonymous falconer who is introduced by the narrator in another exclamation (§26) containing an explicit positive evaluation of his character and attitude. ‘How humane is that servant (Ὡς φιλάνθρωπος οἰκέτης) with his receding hairline’. As mentioned already, his face shows compassion, but he also seems to be saying something. The narrator’s assumptions about what the falconer might be saying are quite detailed. He seems to blame the attacker for his excessive violence, to call him ‘a Scythian’, and to claim that his actions are not appropriate for a servant of a ‘humane master’ (φιλανθρώπῳ δεσπότῃ). The use of φιλάνθρωπος for both the falconer and Hippolytus suggests that this too is an aspect of Hippolytus’ own character. The compassionate falconer embodies this character trait of his master, in the same way that Daphne embodies his virtue and the aggressor his anger and indignation. In this way, the painter is able to represent different and successive emotions of one key character. In ancient descriptions of art, praise for the artist’s ability to depict two conflicting emotions in one character is a common topos.18 In this case, however, this is not achieved by means of hyper-realistic facial expressions, but by simultaneously depicting the separate emotions in the members of the main character’s retinue (or at least, that is what the interpretation by the narrator suggests).

Symbolical Representation of Emotions The painting also makes use of the language of symbols and iconographical conventions for the representation of certain abstract concepts, including emotions. Most conspicuous are the personifications Hypnos ‘Sleep’ and Erôs ‘Love’, respectively accompanying the sleeping figures of Theseus (§ 11) and love-struck Phaedra (§18–19). Sleep is of course no emotion, but rather represents a state of relaxation, free from emotions. The presence of two Eros

18

Maguire 1974: 132.

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figures is more relevant for our purposes. They not only confirm to the ‘viewer’narratee that Phaedra’s weakness and wet eyes are indeed symptoms of lovesickness, but their presence also helps to supply details which are more difficult to represent visually. The torch of the first Eros represents Phaedra’s burning desire. His hand points towards the image of Hippolytus, who is depicted in a different section of the painting (a second hunting scene in one of the smaller panels). This metaleptic gesture serves to indicate the object of Phaedra’s desire. In her 2004 article, Talgam argues that the animals depicted serve a similar purpose.19 They embody emotions that may indeed have a certain relevance for the overall interpretation of the painting, although this is not made explicit in the course of the description. A pair of courting doves represents mutual love (§9), a terrified (δειλιᾷ) little bitch who is mounted by a stray dog represents unreciprocated love that leads to sexual violence (§ 15), and a selfabsorbed, happy peacock, cleaning its feathers and rejoicing in the sight of its own tail, may represent an uncomplicated state of narcissistic self-love (§ 8).20 The animal portraits resonate with the central theme of Love and invite the ‘viewer’-narratee to compare these alternative images of love with the tragic story of Phaedra and Hippolytus. I would also like to argue that the sleeping figure of Theseus has a symbolic function that may help to explain why the painter chose to introduce it. Its presence allows the painter to visualize two things that are otherwise difficult to represent in a single image. First, it visualizes the loveless relationship between Phaedra and her husband.21 The sight of his body and the light colour of his skin22 makes Phaedra ‘probably feel a revulsion (βδελύττεται) for it, since she is incapable of seeing the beauty of his spirit’ (§ 12). Note that the same verb of loathing is also used for Hippolytus’ reaction to the love letter (see above). Moreover, in §16 the narrator directly addresses Phaedra in an apostrophe (see below) and incites her to ‘briefly look back and give your husband a glance instead of blaming what is present (τὸ παρόν), and searching for what is not (τὰ μὴ παρόντα)’. The same thought is expressed in similar terms in Euripides’ 19 20 21

22

Talgam 2004: 217. See also Bäbler 2010: 572, 583–588. Bäbler 2010: 584–585 argues that the peacock, associated with the goddess Hera, has to be interpreted as a symbol of matrimony; doves are likewise associated with Aphrodite. Bäbler 2010: 571. Their positions in the room (man on the bed, woman next to it) strongly suggest an erotic scene—with numerous parallels in Roman art—but it is clear from their expressions that there is no love lost between the two. There is a long tradition in Mediterranean art to depict women with a light skin and men with a darker, tanned skin. Theseus’ white skin is therefore unattractive and considered effeminate. See Bäbler 2010: 570.

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play, by Phaedra’s nurse: ‘What is present is not to your liking, you desire what is absent taking no pleasure in what is at hand but loving instead what you do not have’ (οὐδέ σ’ ἀρέσκει τὸ παρόν, τὸ δ’ ἀπὸν | φίλτερον ἡγῇ, Hipp. 184–185). Second, the fact that Theseus is asleep can be interpreted as a form of absence (he is unaware of all that is going on), but with the imminent possibility of his return (he can wake up any moment and discover everything). This absence of mind allows Phaedra to confide in her nurse and act on her feelings for Hippolytus. The risk of being discovered is highlighted in the description of the body language of the nurse (§20), who seems to whisper to Phaedra ‘in case Theseus should hear and only pretend to be asleep.’ This creates a tension as to what will happen later in the story of Phaedra and Hippolytus, when Theseus comes home (in most versions) or wakes up (in Procopius’ version) and takes revenge. In 1882, Bertrand explained Theseus’ presence by pointing at the moralizing message of the painting. ‘He wanted to denounce the act of adultery by showing how the adulterous woman takes advantage of the secured absence of the husband to contrive her criminal project.’23 The painting also shows the effect of Theseus’ (mental) absence and possible return on the behaviour of the servants, who have abandoned their tasks and are sleeping too. The risk that Theseus might wake up and catch them unawares is shown to the ‘viewer’narratee by means of the body language and facial expression (§ 14) of a servant who is hiding behind one of the palace’s columns and preparing to wake up his companions. This particular scene is very much alive with movement, almost as though it were describing the comic gestures of a mime actor. The suggestion of movement in the description of a still image is a standard technique of the ekphrasis genre, and is here used to highlight the contrast between the sleeping figures, frozen in time like the painting itself, and those that are fully awake. Finally, colours can also be used symbolically to represent a certain mood or emotion. This is an aspect that is only commented on once, when the narrator describes Phaedra’s nurse. She is dressed in grey (§ 20) ‘as appropriate for old age but perhaps also for her mistress’ emotional state (πάθει)’, in apparent reference to Phaedra’s pitiable condition of lovesickness. Why grey would be an appropriate colour is not explained. Grey is a colour of mourning (cf. Polybius’ Histories 15.25.11), with similar properties to black. Perhaps here it refers to Phaedra’s melancholia (‘black bile’). In any case, it can be noted once again that a servant embodies an aspect of his or her superior.

23

Bertrand 1882: 293, my English translation.

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Speech and Thought It is already quite clear from the passages discussed that, while the narrator takes the painting as his starting point, he also adds elements that cannot realistically be present in a still image. He makes assumptions about the characters’ motivations, about cause and effect, and describes consecutive actions. Emotions are described as private thoughts and even expressed in speech. The ability to convey the ‘experience of living’, ‘the pressure of events on real or imagined consciousnesses affected by the occurrences at issue’ is one of the basic elements of ‘narrative’ as opposed to ‘description’.24 The description of Ariadne in the scenes with the Minotaur is a good example of a predominantly narrative section of the ekphrasis in which the omniscient narrator seems able to read the (painted) character’s mind. The daughter of Minos is in love with Theseus […] and because of her love she pities his fate. Her eyes, her words, express love. As soon as he returns, she will make sure that he marries her and that she will receive as a wedding gift the fruit of her bravery, the blood of the Minotaur. How terrible (Ὡς δεινός …) is this tax for the Athenians. The children are downcast, they are in tears as they are delivered to the Minotaur, facing certain death. Ariadne sees them and Theseus is one of them: she loves him, she cries and suffers and thinks of a plan to free these unhappy souls. procop. gaz. Ekphr. Eik 6–7

In the painting and the description as a whole, Ariadne is a natural foil for Phaedra. The two sisters are both in love and share a connection to Theseus, but Ariadne’s love of Theseus is more positive, altruistic, and compassionate (compare the two doves), and less grey and destructive like Phaedra’s love for Hippolytus (compare the two dogs). The narrator not only reads Ariadne’s mind to reveal her plans but even makes her temporarily into a focalizer. In the emotional climax of this paragraph, the exclamation ὡς δεινός, the narrator’s voice merges with the character’s perspective. As regards speech representation, the narrator is more cautious in distinguishing between his own interpretation and what is depicted in the painting. References to sound and (mostly indirect) speech are recurring features in the ancient tradition of art descriptions.25 Like Philostratus, who claims that 24 25

Herman 2009: 1; Koopman 2018: 17–23. See especially Laird 1993; De Jong 2011: 5 lists all references to sound and indirect speech in Homer’s shield ekphrasis.

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it seems possible to hear something that is in fact only seen in a mute visual representation (‘it seems possible to hear them (ἀκούειν δόκει) urging on their swans … for this is all present in the expression of their faces (τοῖς προσώποις ἔπεστιν)’, Imagines 1.9.4), Procopius’ narrator explicitly states in each of the following examples that he only quotes what the characters seem to say (§ 20 and § 26: ἔοικε) or what he, as a viewer of the painting is almost able to hear (§ 40: ‘I can almost hear him shout’).26 It is important to distinguish between direct and indirect forms of speech representation. Direct speech is much rarer in extant ekphraseis (the most conspicuous example being the long speech of Ariadne in Catullus Poem 64, lines 132–201)27 and is an even stronger element of narrativity. The most elaborate example of indirect speech representation in Procopius is the reaction of the falconer (§26, see above). ‘He blames the attacker’ is a form of RSA (record of a speech act, without revealing the content of his words), combined with indirect speech (‘he calls him a Scythian and states that he does not serve his philanthropic master as he should’). There are two striking examples of direct speech, and it may be significant that it is not any of the protagonists who speak, but rather two of the supporting characters. The old nurse speaks to Phaedra with words of compassion and encouragement (§20): ‘What are you suffering from, my child? Why are you in such state of perplexity? Write and take heart and accept me as your helper in need.’ She urges Phaedra to confide in her, and in doing so she sets the plot in motion (cf. Hippolytus 175–361). In the scene of the Homeric duel, it is one of the onlookers whose speech is quoted. Odysseus shouts a few words of encouragement at Menelaus (§40): ‘Hit him, hit the man who took Helen from you, and who is the cause of our wanderings.’ Note that neither Odysseus nor anyone else encourages Menelaus in Iliad 3. This is an addition in Procopius’ version, and adds vividness to the scene, but does not affect the plot. Amato explains Odysseus’ reaction as being inspired by the cheering audiences at the popular races of sixth-century Gaza.28 What the nurse and Odysseus have in common is that they sympathize with the main character of the scene. They may be regarded as models of sum-patheia, and as such, they once more present the narratee with a mirror for emotional response.29

26 27 28 29

On Philostratus and ekphrasis, see also comments by Demoen in his contribution to this volume. Laird 1993. Amato 2014: 178. Compare also, in this volume, Jurriaans-Helle’s observation on the role of bystanders

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Metalepsis By making it explicit that characters only seem to speak or to move, the narrator reminds the narratee that it is a painting he is describing. Throughout, there is the constant explicit awareness that this is no eyewitness report but a representation in words of a representation in paint. Notwithstanding this communicative setting and the frequent reminders of it, the narrator twice seems to become carried away by the painting, addressing its characters as if they were living persons before him. The first and most elaborate of these character apostrophes is in §16–17, to Phaedra: What is the matter with you, poor woman? You are suffering in vain for an ill-fated Love. How would you ever win over someone you know is virtuous? Why would you bring shame on yourself by desiring an illegitimate union? Just briefly turn around and grant your husband a glance. Don’t blame what is present and seek what is not (καὶ μὴ τὸ παρὸν μέμφου, τὰ μὴ παρόντα ζητήσασα). Respect your husband even when he is sleeping. And turn away from that image which you are staring at, because even in painted colours Hippolytus seems virtuous. But what is happening to me now? I have let myself be carried away by the skill of the painter (τῇ τοῦ ζωγράφου τέχνῃ πεπλάνημαι καὶ ζῆν τα̣ ̣ῦ̣τα νενόμικα καὶ λανθάνειν τὴν θέαν, ὅτι πέφυκε γράμματα). I thought that this was real life, and it escaped my sight that it is a picture. Therefore let us talk about Phaedra, rather than to her. procop. gaz. Ekphr. Eik. 16–17

The apostrophe in itself enhances the immersive qualities of the description— and again provides an appropriate emotional response to the scene in the painting as a model response for the narratee.30 The immediate realization by the narrator that he has been tricked by the realism of the painting, however, breaks the illusion and draws attention once more to the painting as a skilfully crafted object. The clearly deliberate and playful confusion of image and reality is a typically sophistic gesture. The same remark is made by Philostratus (Imagines 1.28.2).31 Simultaneously, the allusion to Euripides in this passage

30 31

painted on vases in mediating the reception of the scene by the viewer, and Van Peer’s ideas about the role of the chorus in Greek Tragedy. See Allan, De Jong, De Jonge 2017, 44; De Jong 2009, 94–97 for the apostrophe as a pathetic, immersive device in Homer, and see also Allan in this volume on metaleptic apostrophe. See also Maguire 1974: 128. Imagines 1.28.2: ‘How I have been deluded! I was deceived by

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(see above) may also highlight the learned narrator’s skill as an art critic and literary scholar. It seems no coincidence that the second apostrophe is directed at Menelaus, who is also repeatedly addressed with an apostrophe by the Homeric narrator in the Iliad (Il. 4.127, 146; 7.104; 13.603; 17.679, 702; 23.600). But hold back your blow, Menelaus, so that you do not accidently fight a deity by fighting Alexander, because you almost hit naked Aphrodite, who is pouring a liquid around Paris. […] Aphrodite is stealing your victory, Menelaus, as she stole your wife from Sparta. procop. gaz. Ekphr. Eik. 40

In the Iliad, Patroclus and Menelaus are the only heroes who are addressed repeatedly by the narrator, albeit not in the episode of Book 3 that is the painting’s literary model.32 The Homeric flavour of the description combines elements of Book 3 with elements that belong to other episodes. The form of the apostrophe echoes the frequent Homeric apostrophes to Menelaus; the content of the first part of the apostrophe (the warning) rather echoes Iliad 5.297–362, where Diomedes hurts Aphrodite when she saves Aeneas from the battlefield. In the second part of the apostrophe to Menelaus, finally, the narrator draws a parallel between Aphrodite stealing Paris from Menelaus on the battlefield and stealing Helen from him in Sparta. The narrator seems to sympathize with Menelaus and Phaedra, but simultaneously his response also betrays that he primarily remains a sophist displaying his rhetorical skills and entertaining his audience with his sophisticated comments.

Conclusion Procopius’ Ekphrasis Eikonos is one of a kind. It is an exceptionally long, exceptionally detailed, and thanks to its rhetorical qualities and wit, also a very enjoyable description of a single but composite work of art. A whole array of different emotions is represented in the painting and commented upon by the narrator.

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the painting into thinking that the figures were not painted but were real beings, moving and loving—at any rate I shout at them as though they could hear and I imagine that I hear some response.’ For an overview of the narrator’s apostrophes in Homer’s epics, see Allan in this volume, p. 78, n. 1.

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To the extent that his comments suggest an emotional response to the narratee, I think it is possible to conclude that they also invite a whole array of different responses. Once more, Philostratus’ Imagines offer a fitting point of comparison. In his description of a painting of Hippolytus (Imagines 2.4—depicting Hippolytus’ death) the Philostratean narrator claims with an apostrophe to Hippolytus (2.4.3): ‘the painting itself mourns you, having composed a sort of poetic lament in your honour’. One painting, one scene, one emotion, and even the mountain peaks ‘take the form of mourning women’. In Procopius’ Ekphrasis there is no dominant emotion. Love (Erôs) is the central theme (and the first word of the description), but the description and painting not only show different types of love, but also a whole array of different emotions as the effect of Love’s actions. It contains clear praise for Hippolytus’ chastity, as befits the sixth-century context of Christianized Gaza. But, as pointed out by Drbal, the narrator avoids moral rigourism and instead promotes a humane response when confronted with sinners (see the falconer’s philanthropia).33 The Ekphrasis also contains sincere compassion for Phaedra’s lovesickness and clear disapproval of the physical violence towards the nurse, notwithstanding the fact that they are both associated with adulterous, incestuous love. Talgam and Drbal, moreover, both point out that the narrator draws particular attention to the erotic appeal of the painting, with emphasis on Phaedra’s transparent garments, the physical attraction of Hippolytus’ naked chest, and even the naked arm of Daphne, while both Hippolytus and Daphne otherwise serve as symbols of chastity.34 This combination of chaste characters, Christian virtues and an erotic gaze can be connected to contemporary tendencies in literature and art.35 At first sight, the erotic appeal of the chaste characters might seem to undercut the painting’s moralizing message of sôphrosunê, but it can indeed be argued that both aspects could be present together, serving different ends. Ultimately, the painting and its description seem to be meant primarily to entertain, and for that purpose variation (poikilia, lit. ‘abundance of varied colours’) is an important strategy. This is a key poetical concept in late antiquity, used and referred to by poets and rhetoricians alike.36 I would be inclined to translate it as ‘abundance of varied emotions’ in this case. In the description itself, this is at its most clear at the start of §36: ‘The painter thought it wise to add a few scenes from Troy to his painting, to provide us with images that make our story extra colourful’ (καταποικίλλων τὰ διηγήματα). 33 34 35 36

Drbal 2016: 119. Talgam 2004: 218; Drbal 2016: 113. As demonstrated e.g. by Bossu, Praet, De Temmerman 2015; Schoess forthcoming. Greatrex 2015: 1.

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Bibliography Allan, R., Jong, I.J.F. de, Jonge, C.C. de, ‘From Enargeia to Immersion. The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept’, Style 51 (2017) 34–51. Amato, E. (ed.), Procope de Gaza. Discours et Fragments (Paris 2014). Bäbler, B., ‘Prokop von Gaza: Der Gemäldezyklus’, in E. Amato (ed.), Rose di Gaza. Gli scritti retorico-sofistici e le Epistole di Procopio di Gaza (Alessandria 2010) 560–618. Bertrand, E., Un critique d’art dans l’antiquité. Philostrate et son École (Paris 1881). Bossu, A., Praet, D., De Temmerman, K., ‘Erotic Persuasion and Characterization in Late Antique Hagiography: The Passio Caeciliae and the Passio Susannae’, Latomus 74 (2015) 1059–1072. Bryson, N., ‘Philostratus and the Imaginary Museum’, in S. Melville, B. Readings (eds.), Vision and Textuality (London 1995) 174–194. Ciccolella, F., ‘Phaedra’s Shining Roses: Reading Euripides in Sixth-Century Gaza’, SCI 26 (2007) 181–204. Drbal, V., ‘L’Ekphrasis Eikonos de Procope de Gaza en tant que reflet de la société de l’Antiquité tardive’, in V. Vavřínek, P. Odorico, V. Drbal (eds.), Ekphrasis. La représentation des monuments dans les littératures Byzantine et Byzantino-slaves. Réalités et imaginaires (Prague 2011) 106–122. Friedländer, P., Johannes von Gaza, Paulus Silentiarius und Prokopios von Gaza. Kunstbeschreibungen justinianischer Zeit (Hildesheim 1969). Greatrex, G. (ed.), Shifting Genres in Late Antiquity (Farnham 2015). Heffernan, J.A.W., Museum of Words. The Poetics of Ekphrasis From Homer to Ashbery (Chicago 1993). Herman, D., Basic Elements of Narrative (Malden, MA 2009). Hollander, J., The Gazer’s Spirit. Poems Speaking to Silent Works of Art (Chicago 1995). Huskinson, J., ‘Theatre, Performance and Theatricality in Some Mosaic Pavements from Antioch’, BICS 46 (2003) 131–165. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Metalepsis in Ancient Greek Literature’, in J. Grethlein, A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation (Berlin 2009) 87–116. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Shield of Achilles: From Metalepsis to Mise en Abyme’, Ramus 40 (2011) 1–14. Koopman, N., Ancient Greek Ekphrasis. Between Description and Narration. Five Linguistic and Narratological Case Studies (Leiden 2018). Laird, A. ‘Sounding out Ecphrasis: Art and Text in Catullus 64’, JRS 83 (1993) 18–30. Maguire, H., ‘Truth and Convention in Byzantine Descriptions of Works of Art’, DOP 28 (1974) 111–140. Ryan, M.-L., ‘Narration in Various Media’, in P. Hühn et al. (eds.), The Living Handbook of Narratology (Hamburg 2014) (25/11/2020). Schoess, S., ‘Objects of the Lusting Gaze. Viewing Women as Art Objects in Late Antique

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Poetry’, in B. Verhelst, T. Scheijnen (eds.), Greek and Latin Poetry of Late Antiquity. Form, Tradition and Context (Cambridge, forthcoming). Schramm, M. (ed.), Euripides-Rezeption in Kaiserzeit und Spätantike (Berlin / Boston 2020). Talgam, R. ‘The Ekphrasis Eikonos of Procopius of Gaza: The Depiction of Mythological Themes in Palestina and Arabia during the Fifth and Sixth Centuries’, in B. BittonAshkelony, A. Kofsky (eds.), Christian Gaza in Late Antiquity (Leiden 2004) 209–234. Ter Haar Romeny, B., ‘Procopius of Gaza and his Library’, in H. Amirav, B. ter Haar Romeny (eds.), From Rome to Constantinople. Studies in Honour of Averil Cameron (Leuven 2007) 173–190. Varga, A.K., ‘Stories Told by Pictures’, Style 22 (1988) 194–208.

chapter 45

How to Write and Enjoy a Tale of Disaster: Eustathios of Thessalonike on Emotion and Style Baukje van den Berg

In the year 1185, Normans of the Kingdom of Sicily sacked Thessalonike, the second most important city of the Byzantine Empire.* The city’s archbishop, the learned Eustathios, witnessed the catastrophic event and recorded his experiences in a historiographical account of the city’s capture and its aftermath.1 In the preface to the work, Eustathios reflects on different ways of narrating the sack of a city in keeping with the narrator’s emotional involvement in the catastrophe: a historian who had not personally experienced the disaster would narrate it differently from an eyewitness who had experienced it first-hand.2 The differences concern the content of the narrative as well as its literary form: a historian without any personal involvement may recount not only what happened but may also include more or less credible rumours in a bid to survey the events with objectivity. In terms of form, he would produce a more ornate account in a more polished style, with linguistic embellishments as well as descriptions of places and monuments. ‘In short,’ Eustathios argues, ‘since he is speaking without having been affected by the disaster, he can choose his words to please the listener.’3 The eyewitness, on the other hand, focuses foremost on the tragedy itself and underscores the pathos of his narration—excessively if he is a layman, and showing restraint if he is a man of God.4 He stays closer to the facts and reins in his writerly ambition: * Irene introduced me to Eustathios and his work on Homer more than ten years ago. It is with much gratitude for her support and inspiration throughout my doctoral studies and beyond that I dedicate this essay to her. 1 Edition: Kyriakidis 1961; translation and commentary: Melville Jones 1988. On Eustathios’ life and works, see Cesaretti and Ronchey 2014: 7*–30*, with further bibliography. 2 On emotion and style in Eustathios’ preface, see also Goldwyn 2021: 48–57. Adam Goldwyn and I discussed how Eustathios’ emotional response to the event shaped his narrative. I would like to thank Adam for pointing me to some of the passages cited below and for helpful comments on an earlier draft of this paper. For another eyewitness account of the sack of a city in the Aeneid, see Harrison in this volume. 3 Capture of Thessalonike 3.17 (tr. Melville Jones). Eustathios discusses the unaffected historian in 3.14–20. See also Papaioannou 2010: 20–21. 4 Capture of Thessalonike 3.20–26; cf. 152.15–18. © Baukje van den Berg, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_047

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And just as such a person would not dance playfully (παίζοι χορεύων) in the midst of sorrows, so he would not greatly beautify (καλλύνειν) his language by embellishing it when relating a tale of gloomy disasters (σκυθρωποῖς πάθεσι). Again, following the same principle, he will make use of other narrative techniques with restraint, and he will not introduce incredible rumors … or use other material of the kind that is contrived by those writers who have played no part in the catastrophe, but seize the opportunity to show their ambition (φιλοτιμία) and display their erudition (πολυμαθία). eust. Capture of Thessalonike 3.26–4.2, tr. melville jones, adapted

This statement has been read as a justification for a less polished style, as an attempt to pre-empt criticism of the work at hand.5 Yet more seems to be at stake when we delve deeper into the underlying ideas, especially those concerning the relations between the emotionality of the narrative content and its literary form and those between the ambition of the writer-narrator and the form of the account.6 Eustathios reflects on these and similar issues at greater length in his philological works, in particular in his monumental commentaries on Homer, where he analyses Homeric poetry from a rhetorical perspective.7 As a professor of rhetoric and professional orator, Eustathios is interested in the narrative techniques and stylistic features of the Iliad and Odyssey as rhetorical masterpieces that educated, entertained, and moved their audiences. Their success as analysed by Eustathios depends to a large extent on emotions, whether those of their characters, the poet-narrator, or the listener-narratees. The first part of this paper explores how Homer, according to Eustathios, balances the emotions evoked by the narrated events with their verbal expression. The second part takes its cue from the writerly philotimia of the historian and explores how such ambition finds its literary expression and wins the audience’s admiration in Homeric poetry.

5 Melville Jones 1988: 164; 232. Many earlier historians, starting with Thucydides (1.21–22), similarly stress that they witnessed the events they narrate and prioritize truth over ornate style. See also Lucian, How to Write History 9–10. 6 Eustathios does not distinguish between writer and narrator or between audience (‘listeners’) and narratees. Throughout this paper I therefore use these terms interchangeably or in combination. 7 Commentary on the Iliad (in Il.): Van der Valk 1971–1987; Commentary on the Odyssey (in Od.): Stallbaum 1825–1826; Cullhed 2016 (Books 1–2).

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The Beauty of War: Balancing Content and Form In Eustathios’ view, the dissimilar subject matter of the Iliad and Odyssey makes them different in overall mood: while the poet is gloomy (σκυθρωπός) throughout the Iliad, in the Odyssey he is playful and includes many cheerful elements (ἱλαρότητες), such as witty mockery, poetic descriptions, and outlandish tales.8 Even if Eustathios commonly refers to gloominess and cheerfulness as qualities of the narrative, they in fact mirror the emotions of the narratees: in his view, dark stories of war and death evoke gloominess; fantastical tales about mythical creatures evoke cheerfulness. Eustathios postulates as Homer’s typical narratee someone who shares the poet’s partiality for the Greeks and consequently experiences distress and grief when hearing about Greek heroes being killed or the Greek army suffering defeat.9 Because such pro-Greek narratees cannot be distressed all the time—lest they close their ears and stop listening10—the poet seeks to comfort them by creating a balanced mixture between gloominess and cheerfulness throughout the Iliad. Battle scenes are particularly gloomy and taxing for the narratees and therefore need to be alternated with more pleasant material: Eustathios mentions as examples the friendly encounter of Glaucus and Diomedes and Hector’s meeting with his family in Iliad 6, as well as the dinner prepared by Hecamede and the embedded narrative of Nestor’s ‘Pylian epic’ in Iliad 11.11 Eustathios considers verbal expression a powerful means by which Homer lightens the mood of the narrative. By beautifying (e.g. καλλωπίζειν, καλλύνειν) or sweetening (γλυκαίνειν) his style, the poet can balance the gloominess or bitterness of the narrated events, as he does in Iliad 2, where Odysseus goes around the camp to reprimand the rioting army after the troops failed Agamemnon’s test. ‘And whatever man of the people he saw, and found brawling, him he would drive on (ἐλάσασκεν) with his staff, and rebuke (ὁμολκλή-

8

9

10 11

In Od. 1837.6–8 = 2.166.45–167.2 (on Od. 18.37). Cf. in Il. 1154.7–11 = 4.216.16–21 (on Il. 18.474– 482) for a similar idea. For Eustathios’ ideas on gloominess and cheerfulness in the Iliad, see Van den Berg forthcoming b. References to Eustathios’ commentaries give the page and line numbers of the editio princeps by Niccolò Maiorano (Rome, 1542–1549), which are followed in modern editions, as well as the volume, page, and line numbers of the modern editions, which are followed in the TLG. On the partiality of poet and audience, see Van den Berg forthcoming a. Ancient scholiasts similarly designate Homer as pro-Greek (e.g. schol. b Il. 8.274–276a1; schol. bT Il. 10.14; schol. bT Il. 11.0) and are attentive to the psychological effects resulting from the audience’s partiality: see Nünlist 2009: 36–39 and 140–141 for examples. In Il. 1035.28 = 3.777.17 (on Il. 15.635–636). In Il. 650.5–12 = 2.342.21–343.8 (on Il. 6.399); 867.5–8 = 3.266.21–26 (on Il. 11.627).

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σασκε) with words’ (Il. 2.198–199).12 Eustathios considers the two verbs to be neatly balanced (the technical term is parisa or parisôsis) in a figure of speech that brightens the mood of the gloomy passage and ‘sweetens the somewhat bitter content’.13 With the beauty of similar verbal parallels, Homer also embellishes the fierce battle of Iliad 15, heartens the listener in the mournful context of Patroclus’ funeral, and stylistically adorns Hector’s funeral in order to alleviate its sadness.14 Other literary devices are used to the same effect: the alliteration of στυγεροῦ (Il. 8.368), Στυγός (369), and στυγέει (370) lightens and sweetens the references to the world of Hades;15 the epanaphora or repetition in ‘at times I indeed ease my heart with weeping, at times I cease’ (Od. 4.102– 103) beautifies the sadness of Menelaus’ lament for the men he lost at Troy;16 and the sweetening simile about catching fish (Od. 12.251–255) that Odysseus weaves into his account of how Scylla killed most of his companions serves to prevent his Phaeacian listeners from being worn out by unadulterated pathos.17 These and numerous similar examples illustrate an idea that pervades Eustathios’ analysis of the Iliad and Odyssey: that a beautiful style tempers gloomy content. Eustathios’ analysis is grounded in the rhetorical theory of Hermogenes of Tarsus (second century ce). More specifically, his comments evoke the discussion of beauty (κάλλος) as one of the types of style in Hermogenes’ influential treatise On Forms. Hermogenes explains that a beautiful style involves linguistic embellishment, which is primarily produced with diction, figures of speech, and rhythm.18 He identifies various devices for enhancing the beauty of one’s style, such as climax, novel expressions, and various types of parallelism, including epanaphora and parisôsis.19 And he reminds the reader that Isocrates already noted how the latter can make an audience cheer and applaud (Panathenaicus 2).20 Eustathios thus builds his analysis of the pleasure that Homer’s 12 13 14 15 16 17

18 19

20

Translations of the Iliad and Odyssey are based on Murray 1999 and 1995, respectively. In Il. 199.26–28 = 1.304.24–27. See also Harder’s discussion of this passage in this volume. In Il. 1035.26–30 = 3.777.14–21 (on Il. 15.634–635); 1293.35–36 = 4.704.9–10 (on Il. 23.153–154); 1376.30–32 = 4.990.11–14 (on Il. 24.796; 798). In Il. 718.25–27 = 2.599.1–5. In Od. 1487.28 = 1.153.34–36. In Od. 1720.11–15 = 2.22.5–9. De Jong (2001: 305) conversely interprets the simile as enhancing rather than tempering the pathos of the scene. On the immersive function of similes, see also Allan, De Jong, and De Jonge 2017: 39–40. Hermog. Id. 1.12.7–8 ed. Patillon. Hermog. Id. 1.12.11–39. On these devices and Hermogenean beauty in Eustathios’ Homeric commentaries and his own rhetorical works, see also Van der Valk 1971–1987, 2:lv–lvi and Cullhed 2014: 49*–54*. Hermog. Id 1.12.7.

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verbal beauty elicits on a solid rhetorical basis, even if the idea that a gloomy tale can be brightened by a beautiful style has no parallel in Hermogenes or the Homeric scholia vetera, on which Eustathios’ Homeric commentaries frequently draw. For Eustathios, this idea goes to the core of the question of how we can find joy in a tale about disaster.21 Even if the primary narratees at times sympathize with the characters and are affected by the sorrows of war and death, they can simultaneously observe the spectacle from a distance and delight in the beauty with which Homer presents it. Eustathios formulates this idea most explicitly in his commentary on Iliad 13.343–344, where the Homeric narrator comments that ‘bold-hearted would a man be who rejoiced at sight of such toil of war and did not grieve’. Even if, Eustathios explains, this might be so for the observer on the battlefield, it does not hold true for the primary narratee: Instead, Homer’s listener would only admire (θαυμάσοι) the things that are being recorded here, and would surely not be very grieved (λυπηθείη), but, to put it more accurately, he would even rejoice (γηθήσοι), greatly delighting (ἀγαλλιώμενος) in Homer’s style. eust. in Il. 936.33–34 = 3.482.24–483.2

A similar remark by the Homeric narrator at the end of Iliad 4 prompts a similar explanation by Eustathios. After the first day of battle, many Trojans and Greeks lay dead with their faces in the dust, which brings the narrator to comment as follows: Then a man could not any more enter into the battle and make light of it, one who still unwounded by missile or by thrust of sharp bronze might move through their midst, being led by Pallas Athena by the hand, and by her guarded from the onrush of missiles. hom. Il. 4.539–542

In Eustathios’ view, the primary narratee, Homer’s listener, is such a spectator who remains beyond the reach of the arrows and does not need to fear for his life.22 Without taking part in the disasters of war, he can enjoy the beau-

21 22

See Introduction, pp. 17–18 for answers from the field of cognitive/affective narratology. Eustathios alludes to this passage in Capture of Thessalonike 106.7–12, where he argues that an unaffected man could have observed the battle at Thessalonike from a distance so as to take notes and be able to describe the whole situation accurately; someone entangled in the disaster would not be able to do so.

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tiful spectacle that he sees unfolding before his mind’s eye. The poet’s rhetorical expertise (= Athena) guides him by the hand and allows him to make light of the fierce battle by delighting in Homer’s style and narrative technique.23 Eustathios’ Homer thus has much in common with the unaffected historian of the preface to the Capture of Thessalonike, who narrates a catastrophic event with stylistic embellishment to please the listener.24 Yet Homer, as an expert in rhetoric, knows that beautifying one’s style excessively does not befit the seriousness of his subject matter or his dignity as poet-rhetorician. Eustathios repeatedly points out how the poet occasionally embellishes his style only discreetly and ‘uses beauty always moderately and heroically, unlike later authors who do not follow his example’.25 Aware that, strictly speaking, embellishment does not befit gloomy tales, Homer employs only subtle parisa in contexts where outright beauty would be inappropriate. Eustathios observes such hidden parisa in Agamemnon’s regretful speech in Iliad 9, where the parallel words are separated by a line. ‘For someone who is affected by emotions (παθαινομένῳ) does not care about the beauty of his speech.’26 Elsewhere, the poet conceals the parisa by eliding the sounds that would make them obvious ‘because it does not please him to lighten the gloominess of the passage completely with a pure figure of beauty, lest he dance in triumph at the misfortune of his beloved hero’.27 The occasion of this comment is Achilles’ battle with the river Scamander in Iliad 21, which—at least for a moment—threatens the life of Homer’s favourite hero.28 Just as an eyewitness does not dance in the midst of sorrows, so does Homer refrain from performing a stylistic dance in the midst of Achilles’ plight.

23 24 25

26 27 28

In Il. 506.1–15 = 1.802.6–19. On this passage, see also Pizzone 2016: 238–239. On Athena as Homer’s rhetorical skilfulness, see Cullhed 2014: 70*–71*, Van den Berg forthcoming a. In Eustathios’ view, Homer did not witness the Trojan War but lived later: see e.g. in Il. 549.43 = 2.78.1–2 (on Il. 5.304) and 986.16–17 = 3.642.17–19 (on Il. 14.287). in Od. 1524.6–11 = 1.200.18–23 (on Od. 5.66). Comic poets in particular gain Eustathios’ disapproval for embellishing their writing to absurd extents to elicit cheap laughter. He gives a fragment of Mnesimachus as quoted in Athenaeus 9.403c–d as an example. Cf. in Il. 261.14–21 = 1.398.1–9 (on Il. 2.485), with references to fragments of Antiphanes as quoted in Athenaeus 7.295f and 9.402e. In Il. 743.59–60 = 2.688.21–689.2 (on Il. 9.156–158). In Il. 1235.17–20 = 4.495.18–22 (on Il. 21.245–246). On ‘dancing’ and similar theatrical terminology, see Agapitos 2015: 231, with n. 46. On Homer’s fondness of Achilles, see below. For Achilles’ battle with the river Scamander, see the contributions of Van Emde Boas and Coray and Krieter in this volume.

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On the same principle, the poet occasionally avoids beautifying his style altogether. Eustathios explains that Homer could have used parisa in the battle scene of Iliad 11 but deliberately refrained from doing so because he did not want to make light of battle and its difficulties.29 In Odyssey 9, he refrains from elaborating his description of Polyphemus’ dwelling with further detail ‘in order not to beautify with a compositional smile (λογογραφικῷ … μειδιάματι) the episode about the savage Cyclops’.30 And in Iliad 24, he does not use an elaborate type-scene for the preparation of the meal that Achilles and Priam share on the premise that such an ornate and ‘cheerful’ figure would not befit the mournful context.31 Such explanations tie in with the general idea that style should reflect content or enhance the narrated events. This means that beautiful style suits beautiful content: the beauty of parisa befits, for instance, a reference to the beautiful Penelope, an appreciative description of Aphrodite’s appearance, or a scene about the illustrious Ajax.32 Eustathios repeatedly underscores this correspondence between content and style with verbs starting with the preposition συν-. He argues, for example, that Homer uses parisa to make his style as splendid (συναγλαΐζει) as the noble Eudorus about whom he speaks in Iliad 16 and employs beautiful figures that shine as bright (συνεκλάμπει) as the weapons that the best of the Achaeans don in Iliad 14.33 In the same way, Homer makes his style rough when the content is unpleasant: the harsh sound of the verb ῥοχθεῖ in Odyssey 12.60, for instance, makes the verbal expression of Circe’s gloomy tale as dreadful as the Wandering Rocks that she describes.34 In Eustathios’ view, such correspondence governs the verbal expression of the Iliad and Odyssey throughout: the poet ‘deliberately makes his words and their arrangement either rough or smooth in accordance with the matters they express’.35 Eustathios’ focus lies foremost on the aural aspects of style: pleasant content should be pleasant to hear; less 29 30 31 32 33

34 35

In Il. 839.43–47 = 3.180.25–28 (on Il. 11.213–216). In Od. 1621.34–39 = 1.330.43–46 (on Od. 9.183–186). Cf. in Od. 1641.62 = 1.359.43–44: the savage Cyclops is unworthy of the admirable parisôsis in Od. 9.507. In Il. 1342.8–11 = 4.878.12–16 (on Il. 24.125). In Od. 1437.8–9 = 1.86.19–21 (on Od. 2.104–105); in Il. 428.31–34 = 1.674.32–675.3 (on Il. 3.396– 397); in Il. 863.16 = 3.255.18–19 (on Il. 11.566–568). Eudorus: in Il. 1053.44–46 = 3.831.4–6 (on Il. 16.179–180); weapons: 992.50–51 = 3.663.26– 28 (on Il. 14.382). See also 816.58–65 = 3.105.24–106.1 (on Il. 10.437): novel syntax matches novel content (discussion in Van den Berg 2018: 228–229). In Od. 1711.51–52 = 2.8.43–45. In Il. 145.31–32 = 1.223.30–31 (on Il. 1.530). For the same idea in the scholia vetera, see Nünlist 2009: 215–217. See also Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On Composition, esp. 15–16. For Dionysius’ ideas on the interaction of sound and content in Homer, see most recently Purves 2019.

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pleasant content—danger, battle, mourning, death—should be less easy on the ear.36 This means that a style that is deliberately rough rather than beautiful is not a matter of negligence but of careful rhetorical crafting. To some extent, the principles that gloomy content should be lightened with beautiful style and that content and style should correspond to one another appear to be mutually exclusive. Yet both can be at work at the same time, as Eustathios’ comments on Iliad 23.393–396 illustrate. He explains that the neat balance of ἐλύσθη (393), ἐξεκυλίσθη (394), ἐδρύφθη (395), and ἐθρυλλίχθη (396) sweetens the emotionality of the passage at hand, where the unfortunate Eumelus is defeated in the chariot race at the funeral games for Patroclus; whereas the first two forms are ‘smooth and well-sounding’, the latter two sound rough, in line with the pathos of the scene.37 This example demonstrates once again how Eustathios considers each of Homer’s words to be carefully chosen: whether beautiful or rough, the style of the poems is purposely crafted to achieve certain effects. By explaining the principles at work, Eustathios dissects the exemplary style of the Iliad and Odyssey and provides his target audience of rhetors with a stylistic matrix, with a range of principles to keep in mind when composing their works and striving to please their own listeners.38 The same principles, we may assume, govern Eustathios’ work, including the Capture of Thessalonike: even if a tale of disaster leaves no room for overt beauty, the narrative may still be crafted with the utmost rhetorical skill.

The Writer’s Ambition, the Audience’s Admiration When Eustathios argues in the preface to the Capture of Thessalonike that the eyewitness does not use a catastrophe to display his writerly ambition (philotimia), this again has implications for the style of the work. The Homeric commentaries once more shed light on the underlying ideas. Φιλότιμος is among the various φιλ- compounds that Eustathios applies to the Homeric narrator. The

36

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Figures such as epanaphora and parisôsis are also intended to create acoustic effects: see Bourbouhakis 2017: 138*–141* for such devices in Eustathios’ funeral oration for Manuel i Komnenos. On the aural aspects of Byzantine literary production, see e.g. Hörandner 1981, Valiavitcharska 2013, Bourbouhakis 2017: 125*–158*. In Il. 1307.36–37 = 4.753.8–10. Cf. schol. bT Il. 23.396: ἐθρυλλίχθη is onomatopoeic and reflects the trouble of the wounded person. Eustathios identifies the prose writer/rhetor as his target audience in the preface of the Commentary on the Iliad (2.27–30 = 1.3.12–15): see Van den Berg forthcoming a for discussion and bibliography.

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poet is fond of Achilles (φιλαχιλλεύς) and makes his entire narrative revolve around him; he is fond of the Greeks (φιλέλλην), as is his typical narratee (see above); and he is fond of the truth (φιλαλήθης), which makes him acknowledge the weaknesses of his beloved Greek heroes and refrain from appearing all too partial.39 Although they may not be emotions in the strictest sense of the word, these qualities have an affective aspect that often leads to emotional or psychological consequences. Homer’s fondness of Achilles, for instance, stops him from extending the Iliad beyond Hector’s funeral so as to prevent the poem (and its narrator?) from being overcome by tears at Achilles’ (rather unheroic) death.40 These affective attitudes of the Homeric narrator are driving forces that shape the narrative to large measure.41 The same goes for his philotimia, his ambition or fondness for honour. Whether one calls it an emotion or not,42 philotimia as a desire for public recognition was a significant social force in antiquity and beyond. It motivated euergetism, governed political life, and prompted cultural competition. As Peter Brown puts it, ‘philotimia committed members of the upper class to a blatant competitiveness on all levels of social life’.43 Brown writes about Late Antiquity, yet his statement equally applies to the competitive worlds of, for instance, the Second Sophistic or Byzantium under the Komnenian and Palaiologan emperors.44 In such competitive societies, social and cultural credentials were only worth as much as the admiration and public recognition they elicited when put on display.45 Accordingly, philotimia involves a good kind of pride, ‘a positive sense of pleasure that one’s own or one’s associates’ achievements are admired by others’.46 It is a virtuous quality provided it be

39 40 41

42

43 44

45 46

On these qualities, see Van den Berg forthcoming a. In Il. 1336.40–41 = 4.860.12–13 (on Il. 24). Much has been written about the overlap between modern and pre-modern emotions or the lack thereof. See e.g. Hinterberger 2010, who argues (p. 126) that some Byzantine passions are now rather considered driving forces. See also Introduction, pp. 5, 14–15. For example: Cairns (2008: 56–57, with n. 60) calls philotimia a motivation connected to a positive sense of pride, to the pleasure of being admired; Konstan 2015: 401–402 doubts that it should be considered an emotion; R.M. van den Berg 2017 labels it a political emotion. Brown 1978: 31. On philotimia in the Second Sophistic, see e.g. Whitmarsh 2005: 12, with further references, and the papers collected in Roskam et al. 2012. On philotimia in Palaiologan Byzantium, see Gaul 2011: 23–25. On the competitive climate in Komnenian Byzantium, see e.g. Garzya 1973 and Agapitos forthcoming. For Byzantium, see Magdalino 1984: 69; 1993: 339; for reflections on rhetorical epideixis by Eustathios’ student Michael Choniates, see Magdalino 1993: 337–339; Bourbouhakis 2014. Cairns 2008: 56.

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directed at noble goals or the benefit of the community. When used towards the wrong ends, it can soon turn into arrogance and ostentation.47 In his commentaries, Eustathios turns Homer into an author as competitive as the authors of his own time: he repeatedly points out how the poet is always eager to display his broad erudition (πολυμάθεια) and purposely creates opportunities to showcase his rhetorical virtuosity. With potential critics in mind, moreover, Homer strives to always make his work plausible, unambiguous, and wholly irreproachable, in content as well as formulation.48 In the same vein, Eustathios makes Homer a poet driven by philotimia. He recognizes this philotimia in the poet’s inventiveness and versatility, in the richness of his narrative in content as well as verbal expression. For instance, Homer demonstrates ambition by turning even the limited subject matter of the Odyssey into a rhetorical masterpiece,49 by ingeniously inventing for Achilles a spear that appears to fly,50 and by adding more detail to the occasion of Pandarus’ death in Iliad 5 and the preparation of Priam’s wagon in Iliad 24 than strictly necessary.51 In competition with Hesiod, Homer ambitiously includes a technical detail about an oaken axle (Il. 5.838), thus showing that he is equally versed in such technicalities yet, unlike Hesiod (Works and Days 423–427) he does not make them the (trivial) focus of his narrative but an incidental detail in his magnificent and heroic poem.52 Eustathios observes Homer’s philotimia particularly in the verbal expression of the poems. Rather than choosing the most common words and the most straightforward means of expression, Homer often opts for more ambitious alternatives. The poet for instance uses expressions such as ‘pass the gates of Hades’ (Il. 5.646) or ‘give your soul to Hades’ (Il. 5.654) instead of simply saying ‘to die’ (ἀποθανεῖν).53 In Iliad 4.170, Homer uses both a common word 47

48

49 50 51 52 53

Philotimia was commonly considered ambivalent: see e.g. Nikolaidis 2012 for Plutarch; R.M. van den Berg 2017 for Proclus and Damascius. Eustathios considers it a good quality in heroes, yet connects excessive philotimia with ostentation (ἀλαζονεία) in e.g. in Il. 961.60–61 = 3.559.6–8 (on Il. 13.825–828). We lack a comprehensive study of the concept in Byzantine times. See Van den Berg forthcoming a. On Homer as self-conscious author, see also Cullhed 2014: 31*–33*. For a similar tendency of ancient commentators to shape their source author in their own image, see Sluiter 1999. In Il. 5.3–5 = 1.7.10–12, with discussion in Van den Berg forthcoming a. See Nünlist 2017 for Eustathios’ concerns about limited subject matter. In Il. 1198.64–1199.2 = 4.378.1–5 (on Il. 20.99, with reference to Il. 19.386). In Il. 548.39–40 = 2.75.15–17 (on Il. 5.294–295); in Il. 1349.33–52 = 4.902.13–28 (on Il. 24.265– 278). In Il. 613.5–8 = 2.213.8–12. In Il. 591.30–31 = 2.166.13–15.

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(θάνῃς) and a more ambitious periphrasis (μοῖραν ἀναπλήσῃς βιότοιο, ‘fill up your measure of fate’),54 thereby formulating this passage ‘as no one else could do it’.55 The poet’s ‘lexical philotimia’ also shows itself in his verbal versatility.56 Eustathios repeatedly points out how Homer paraphrases his own words, varies his language when relating recurring events, or formulates the same thought in different ways.57 In his commentary on Iliad 20, for instance, Eustathios calls Homer ‘an ambitious undertaker’ when he narrates the different ways in which Achilles kills his opponents: just as Achilles is resourceful in killing, so is Homer in formulating his killings.58 Eustathios recognizes the same ambitious abundance and resourcefulness in other poets: Dionysius Periegetes, for instance, ambitiously adds an epithet to each of the islands he mentions in his Description of the Known World, while Pindar shows philotimia in the many new epithets he coins throughout his odes, of which Eustathios lists various examples in the preface to a lost or never-completed commentary on Pindar.59 Even if the Capture of Thessalonike might not be the place for Eustathios to display his learning and rhetorical virtuosity, the commentaries demonstrate that he does not reject philotimia altogether. Rather, he credits it with beneficial effects on literary composition: it motivates Homer—and other poets—to compose a work rich and versatile in content and style in a bid to always be better than others and challenge oneself to excel.60 Throughout the Homeric commentaries, Eustathios identifies various instances in which the poet deliberately puts his resourcefulness to the test by bringing himself into difficulty (e.g. by steering his narrative into an a-historical direction) and forcing himself to find a way to keep the narrative on a plausible track. By making Aeneas and Achilles meet in battle in Iliad 20, for example, the poet challenges himself to invent a plausible outcome in which neither of the heroes dies (for that is not what ‘historically’ happened) and Achilles does not lose too much face (for that 54 55 56

57 58 59 60

Modern editions (e.g. Monro and Allen) read πότμον where Eustathios has μοῖραν. In Il. 460.46–461.1 = 1.729.5–8. Zadorozhny 2018: 336–339 uses ‘lexical φιλοτιμία’ in his discussion of Pollux’ Onomasticon. Like Eustathios, Pollux considers words that showcase one’s philological virtuosity to be the more ambitious choice. See e.g. in Od. 1774.53–58 = 2.91.36–41 (on Od. 15.69), in Il. 377.10–24 = 1.595.30–596.9 (on Il. 3.32, 37), 393.27–30 = 1.619.25–620.4 (on Il. 3.136–138), 838.42–44 = 3.177.14–17 (on Il. 11.178). In Il. 1213.27–33 = 4.422.24–423.3 (on Il. 20.381–489). Commentary on Dionysius Periegetes ad 520 ed. Müller; Preface on Pindar 16.3 ed. Kambylis, with Negri 2000: 178–182 for Eustathios’ ideas on the novelty of Pindar’s style. In the funeral oration for Manuel, Eustathios admits to his own unwillingness ‘to lag behind others in the composition of speeches praising excellence’ (2, ed. and tr. Bourbouhakis 2017, with commentary on p. 97). For a similar idea of public performance as sharpening the rhetor’s skill in Michael Choniates, see Bourbouhakis 2014: 207–208, 223.

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would not please the Achilles-loving Homer).61 Eustathios similarly announces in a letter to his patron Nikephoros Komnenos that he will put his own rhetorical skill to the test with an artful description of the culinary delicacy he had been gifted by his addressee. This description is Eustathios’ countergift, which implies an expectation that the addressee will appreciate his demonstration of rhetorical virtuosity.62 Eustathios and Homer thus share a desire to bring out the best in themselves in order to win their audience’s admiration.63 It is therefore not surprising that throughout the Homeric commentaries, Eustathios is very attentive to the effects of the poet’s narrative on his audience. As Aglae Pizzone has demonstrated, Eustathios distinguishes between different audiences who each enjoy Homeric poetry on a different level: while amateur listeners are easily enthralled by linguistic embellishment and susceptible to the emotional or psychological effects produced by Homer’s narrative devices, sagacious or expert listeners admire the poet’s composition and verbal expression from a more technical perspective.64 It is such a sagacious listener whom Athena (= Homer’s rhetorical skilfulness) guides through the beautiful spectacle of war (see above), and whose aesthetic admiration is the ultimate acknowledgement of the poet’s philotimia. After all, ‘the competitiveness of philotimia … assumed and needed an audience of significant others who were potential competitors’.65 A comprehensive analysis of Eustathios’ discussion of the emotional reactions—aesthetic and otherwise—of Homer’s audience lies beyond the scope of this paper, yet a brief look at the instances where Eustathios finds Homer’s narrative particularly worthy of admiration (θαυμάσιος) points to many of the same features we have encountered above:66 the poet must be admired for including a wealth of learning that goes well beyond the subject matter of his narrative;67 his ways of presenting the material are 61 62

63

64 65 66 67

In Il. 1199.48–63 = 4.380.4–15 (on Il. 20.115–118), with discussion in Van den Berg forthcoming a. Letter 5.24–31 ed. Kolovou; the description follows from line 32. The idea that Eustathios offers his learning and rhetorical skills in return for more tangible gifts is recurrent throughout his correspondence. See e.g. Letter 7, a learned treatise on the Calends festival and its origins as a gift for the same Nikephoros. Gaul (2011: 23) designates ‘Wetteifer als Ansporn und Stachel literarischer Produktion’ in the Palaiologan era, and cites ‘for the readers’ admiration (θαῦμα)’ as synonymous with ‘for the sake of philotimia’ in the work of Nikephoros Choumnos. Pizzone 2016. Brown 1978: 31. On θαῦμα or ‘wonder’ in ancient aesthetics, see e.g. Hunzinger 2015; for philosophical wonder in Byzantium, see Manolova forthcoming. E.g. in Il. 628.39–44 = 2.256.12–257.4 (on Il. 6.119); 949.4–5 = 3.521.9–11 (on Il. 13.599–600); cf. in Od. 1914.55 = 2.266.15–16: polymathy is what feeds the art of writing.

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worth admiring, for instance when he mixes sweet and bitter elements;68 and his style is admirable in its beauty, vivid descriptions, and predilection for less common ways of expression.69 In the latter, Eustathios argues, ‘no one could imitate or criticize Homer’.70 Yet to imitate the poet’s admirable techniques as analysed by Eustathios is exactly what ambitious rhetors should do.

Conclusion When Eustathios claims to have avoided an excessively embellished style and to have refrained from displaying ambition in his Capture of Thessalonike, he provides us with the stylistic programme that governs his composition, as he does in the prefaces to other works.71 The aesthetic implications of this rejection of beauty and ambition are spelled out in the Homeric commentaries, where Eustathios portrays Homer as an author as eager for rhetorical display as the authors of his own time. His analysis of Homeric poetry thus opens a perspective onto the aspects of rhetorical virtuosity that were expected to win the admiration of contemporary audiences.72 Indeed, many of the ambitious qualities that Eustathios ascribes to Homer recall his own rhetorical compositions, which likewise exhibit great erudition and ‘lexical philotimia’ in resuscitating old words or making use of ingeniously coined new ones.73 Yet, as Eustathios suggests in his preface, these are not the aesthetics we should expect in the Capture of Thessalonike. His stylistic programme undoubtedly has a moral dimension: Byzantine authors continuously negotiated the tensions between what Floris Bernard has called the morally superior ‘discourse of modesty’ and the ethically ambiguous ‘discourse of display’ and ambition.74 A tale of one’s own disaster was not the place for a virtuoso attempt to gain the appreciation of the audience; telling and enjoying a tale of someone else’s disaster, however, seems to have been less fraught with moral qualms.

68 69

70 71 72 73 74

In Il. 480.23–25 = 1.759.9–12 (on Il. 4.356–363). Beauty: e.g. in Il. 809.7–8 = 3.81.1–4 (on Il. 10.324); 936.33–34 = 482.24–483.23 (quoted above); vivid descriptions: in Il. 889.24–29 = 3.342.26–343.4 (on Il. 12.34–35); word choice: see next note. In Il. 1213.60 = 4.425.6–7 (on Il. 20.472). See e.g. Agapitos 1998: 127–131 on the funeral oration for Nicholas Hagiotheodorites; Bourbouhakis 2017: 87*–103* on the funeral oration for Manuel Komnenos. See also Van den Berg 2018. Cf. Zadorozhny 2018: 337 for similar elements in Pollux’ lexical philotimia. Bernard 2014.

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Bibliography Agapitos, P.A., ‘Mischung der Gattungen und Überschreitung der Gesetze: Die Grabrede des Eusthatios von Thessalonike auf Nikolaos Hagiotheodorites’, JöByz 48 (1998) 119–146. Agapitos, P.A., ‘Literary Haute Cuisine and Its Dangers: Eustathios of Thessalonike and Everyday Language’, DOP 69 (2015) 225–241. Agapitos, P.A., ‘The Politics and Practices of Commentary in Komnenian Byzantium’, in B. van den Berg, D. Manolova, P. Marciniak (eds.), Byzantine Commentaries on Ancient Greek Texts, 12th–15th Centuries (Cambridge, forthcoming). Allan, R.J., Jong, I.J.F. de, Jonge, C.C. de, ‘From Enargeia to Immersion: The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept’, Style 51.1 (2017) 34–51. Berg, B. van den, ‘Homer and the Good Ruler in the “Age of Rhetoric”: Eustathios of Thessalonike on Excellent Oratory’, in J.J.H. Klooster, B. van den Berg (eds.), Homer and the Good Ruler in Antiquity and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2018) 219–238. Berg, B. van den, Homer the Rhetorician. Eustathios of Thessalonike on the Composition of the Iliad (Oxford, forthcoming a). Berg, B. van den, ‘Eustathios of Thessalonike on Comedy and Ridicule in Homeric Poetry’, in B. van den Berg, D. Manolova, P. Marciniak (eds.), Byzantine Commentaries on Ancient Greek Texts, 12th–15th Centuries (Cambridge, forthcoming b). Berg, R.M. van den, ‘Proclus and Damascius on φιλοτιμία: The Neoplatonic Psychology of a Political Emotion’, Philosophie Antique 17 (2017) 149–165. Bernard, F., ‘The Ethics of Authorship: Some Tensions in the 11th Century’, in A. Pizzone (ed.), The Author in Middle Byzantine Literature. Modes, Functions, and Identities (Berlin / Boston 2014) 41–60. Bourbouhakis, E.C., ‘The End of ἐπίδειξις. Authorial Identity and Authorial Intention in Michael Chōniatēs’ Πρὸς τοὺς αἰτιωμένους τὸ ἀφιλένδεικτον’, in A. Pizzone (ed.), The Author in Middle Byzantine Literature. Modes, Functions, and Identities (Berlin / Boston 2014) 201–224. Bourbouhakis, E.C., Not Composed in a Chance Manner. The Epitaphios for Manuel i Komnenos by Eustathios of Thessalonike (Uppsala 2017). Brown, P., The Making of Late Antiquity (Cambridge, MA 1978). Cairns, D., ‘Look Both Ways: Studying Emotion in Ancient Greek’, Critical Quarterly 50.4 (2008) 43–62. Cesaretti, P., Ronchey, S., Eustathii Thessaloncensis Exegesis in Canonem iambicum pentecostalem (Berlin 2014). Cullhed, E., Eustathios of Thessalonike, Parekbolai on Homer’s Odyssey 1–2: Proekdosis (Diss. Uppsala 2014). Cullhed, E., Eustathios of Thessalonike. Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey. Volume 1: On Rhapsodies A–B (Uppsala 2016).

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Garzya, A., ‘Literarische und rhetorische Polemiken der Komnenenzeit’, Byzantinoslavica 34.1 (1973) 1–14. Gaul, N., Thomas Magistros und die spätbyzantinische Sophistik. Studien zum Humanismus urbaner Eliten in der frühen Palaiologenzeit (Wiesbaden 2011). Goldwyn, A.J., Witness Literature in Byzantium. Narrating Slaves, Prisoners, and Refugees (Cham 2021). Hinterberger, M., ‘Emotions in Byzantium’, in L. James (ed.), A Companion to Byzantium (Chichester 2010) 123–134. Hörandner, W., Der Prosarhythmus in der rhetorischen Literatur der Byzantiner (Vienna 1981). Hunzinger, C., ‘Wonder’, in P. Destrée, P. Murray (eds.), A Companion to Ancient Aesthetics (Chichester 2015) 422–437. Jong, I.J.F. de, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001). Kambylis, A. (ed.), Eustathios von Thessalonike, Prooimion zum Pindarkommentar (Göttingen 1991). Kolovou, F., (ed.), Die Briefe des Eustathios von Thessalonike (Munich 2006). Konstan, D., ‘Emotions and Morality: The View from Classical Antiquity’, Topoi 34.2 (2015) 401–407. Kyriakidis, S. (ed.), Eustazio di Tessalonica. La espugnazione di Tessalonica (Palermo 1961). Magdalino, P., ‘Byzantine Snobbery’, in M. Angold (ed.), The Byzantine Aristocracy, ix to xiii Centuries (Oxford 1984) 58–78. Magdalino, P., The Empire of Manuel i Komnenos, 1143–1180 (Cambridge 1993). Manolova, D., ‘Wondrous Knowledge and the Emotional Responses of Late Byzantine Scholars to its Acquisition’, in D. Cairns (ed.), Emotions through Time. From Antiquity to Byzantium (forthcoming). Melville Jones, J., Eustathios of Thessaloniki. The Capture of Thessaloniki (Canberra 1988). Monro, D.B., Allen, T.W. (eds.), Homeri opera, 5 vols. (Oxford [1902–1912] 1920). Müller, K. (ed.), Geographi Graeci minores, vol. 2 (Paris 1861). Murray, A.T., Homer: The Odyssey, 2 vols., revised by G.E. Dimock (Cambridge, MA 1995). Murray, A.T., Homer: The Iliad, 2 vols., revised by W.F. Wyatt (Cambridge, MA 1999). Negri, M., Eustazio di Tessalonica. Introduzione al commentario a Pindaro (Brescia 2000). Nikolaidis, A.G., ‘Aspects of Plutarch’s Notion of Philotimia’, in G. Roskam, M. De Pourq, L. van der Stockt (eds.), The Lash of Ambition. Plutarch, Imperial Greek Literature and the Dynamics of Philotimia (Leuven 2012) 31–53. Nünlist, R., The Ancient Critic at Work. Terms and Concepts of Literary Criticsm in Greek Scholia (Cambridge 2009).

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Nünlist, R., ‘Was Eustathios Afraid of the Blank Page?’, in F. Pontani, V. Katsaros, V. Sarris (eds.), Reading Eustathios of Thessalonike (Berlin / Boston 2017) 149–165. Papaioannou, S., ‘The Aesthetics of History: From Theophanes to Eustathios’, in R. Macrides (ed.), History as Literature in Byzantium (Farnham 2010) 3–21. Patillon, M. (ed.), Corpus Rhetoricum, vol. 4. (Paris 2012). Pizzone, A., ‘Audiences and Emotions in Eustathios of Thessalonike’s Commentaries on Homer’, DOP 70 (2016) 225–244. Purves, A., ‘Rough Reading: Tangible Language in Dionysius’ Criticism of Homer’, in J. Grethlein, L. Huitink, A. Tagliabue (eds.), Experience, Narrative, and Criticism in Ancient Greece. Under the Spell of Stories (Oxford 2019) 172–187. Roskam, G., De Pourq, M., Stockt, L. van der (eds.), The Lash of Ambition. Plutarch, Imperial Greek Literature and the Dynamics of Philotimia (Leuven 2012). Sluiter, I., ‘Commentaries and the Didactic Tradition’, G.W. Most (ed.), Commentaries— Kommentare (Göttingen 1999) 173–205. Stallbaum, J.G. (ed.), Eustathii Archiepiscopi Thessalonicensis Commentarii ad Homeri Odysseam ad fidem exempli Romani editi, 2 vols. (Leipzig 1825–1826). Valiavitcharska, V., Rhetoric and Rhythm in Byzantium. The Sound of Persuasion (New York 2013). Valk, M. van der (ed.), Eustathii Archiepiscopi Thessalonicensis commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem pertinentes ad fidem codicis Laurentiani editi, 4 vols. (Leiden 1971–1987). Whitmarsh, T., The Second Sophistic (Cambridge 2005). Zadoroznhy, A.V., ‘Competition and Competitiveness in Pollux’s Onomasticon’, in C. Damon, C. Pieper (eds.), Eris vs. Aemulatio. Valuing Competition in Classical Antiquity (Leiden / Boston 2018) 325–343.

chapter 46

A Lawyer in Love: Hugo Grotius’ Erotopaegnia (1608) Edwin Rabbie

Although Hugo Grotius (1583–1645) stills enjoys international renown as a lawyer and, to a much lesser degree, as a theologian, historian, political theorist, and member of the Republic of Letters, his poetry is one of the best-kept secrets of (Neo-Latin) literature. In my view, Harm-Jan van Dam’s description of him as ‘a brilliant poet’ is completely accurate.1 This article is devoted to one of his memorable contributions to Neo-Latin poetry, a cycle of poems called Erotopaegnia. I first explore the origin of its title and the genesis of the cycle, both in manuscript and printed form, before discussing the genre of Petrarchist poetry, the poetic model that Grotius used as a basis for the cycle. Through interpreting the opening poem, I attempt to show how Grotius made rather stereotypical Petrarchist situations acceptable as a wedding gift for his spouse by choosing a particular narrative perspective. The depiction of the various emotions the narrator experienced during the premarital period, which is varied in each of the subsequent poems, differs from what is usually found in comparable poetry. Finally, by considering the title, I try to answer the question of how the depiction of those emotions is to be interpreted: playfully, seriously, or a combination of both?

Background to the Cycle and Its Genesis On 17 July 1608, Grotius—24 years old and recently appointed to the office of advocate-fiscal (head of the prosecutor’s office) of the Court of Holland and West-Friesland—was married in Veere to 18-year-old Maria van Reigersberch (1589–1659), daughter of a burgomaster of that city. As was usual in those days and circles, several relations of the newlyweds wrote an epithalamium on the occasion of the wedding. At least one of these was printed in 1608 by Daniel

1 Van Dam 2009: 95.

© Edwin Rabbie, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_048

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Heinsius (1580–1655), a poet, professor at Leiden University, and, at that point, one of the groom’s soulmates. (A number of incidents would later end their friendship.) Its title was Epithalamium in nuptias clarissimi et summi iuuenis Hugonis Grotii et castissimae ac lectissimae uirginum Mariae Reigersbergiae.2 As the title page states, the booklet also contains a cycle of poems by Grotius himself, entitled Erotopaegnia, consisting of 11 poems in elegiac distichs. The poems are between 6 and 18 lines, and each is provided with a separate title. Although this cycle is now almost forgotten, it once enjoyed international fame. Two of the most famous German baroque poets, Martin Opitz (1597–1639) and Paul Fleming (1609–1640), translated some of the poems into German. A remark in Grotius’ correspondence shows that he wrote the cycle in honour of his future wife, and that he also made a translation into Dutch (now lost) on her behalf. Because he had managed to have each line in the original correspond to one in the translation, he considered the translation as very successful.3 There are two (not mutually exclusive) ways in which Grotius may have decided on the Greek-Latin title of his cycle. The Latin poet Laevius, who lived in the first century bce, wrote a collection entitled Erotopaegnia, consisting of at least 6 books. Only a few—mostly very short—fragments have survived.4 Grotius’ Leiden professor Josephus Justus Scaliger (1540–1609) was of the opinion that this must have been ‘very licentious’ poetry, something he concluded from both the title and a statement by the late antique poet Ausonius, who, by referring to Laevius, defends his own poetry against the reproach of all too great impudence.5 There were other Neo-Latin poets who had also chosen this title—namely, the Italian Hieronymus Angerianus (Girolamo Angeriano, c. 1470/1480–1535), Ἐρωτοπαίγνιον (Florence 1512);6 the Frenchman Gervasius Sepinus (Gervais Sepin, c. 1525—c. 1560), Erotopaegniωn libri tres ad Apollinem (Paris 1553); and two Dutch poets, both from Grotius’ circle of friends: Janus Dousa filius (1571–1596)—who wrote a cycle of 21 Latin poems, including some

2 Ter Meulen and Diermanse 1950: no. 53; Bouman 1982: no. 17; facsimile of the copy of the Royal Library, The Hague: proquest:ned-kbn-all-00004194-001 (accessed 24 February 2021). The copies of the University Libraries of Amsterdam and Leiden can be consulted through Google Books. Critical edition with introduction and notes: Rabbie 1992: 428–450. 3 Molhuysen 1928: 126, no. 143 (a letter to his brother-in-law Nicolaas van Reigersberch on 18 August 1608): ‘Ego ea ipsa in gratiam eius cuius honori dicta sunt in linguam Batauicam transtuli satis feliciter, ita ut ferme uersus uersui respondeat.’ 4 Blänsdorf 2011: 136–141. 5 Scaliger 1574: 162–163: ‘lasciuissima poematia fuisse indicat tum titulus tum etiam Ausonius ipse.’ Cf. Auson. Cent. nupt. concl. 12 (Green 1999: 153, 12). 6 Critical edition with translation and commentary: Wilson 1995.

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translations from the Greek (Meleager) and English (Henry Constable), as well as 5 Dutch sonnets7—and Daniel Heinsius, a series of three poems.8 The earliest version of Grotius’ cycle, which came into existence during a period of a little over one and a half years between November/December 1606 and June 1608, bears a different title in the manuscript, viz. Catullianum. This manuscript, held presently at the Leiden University Library, provides an almost complete overview of Grotius’ poetical production between 1601 and 1610.9 In all cases, the manuscript contains the earliest (rough) versions of the poems, often with immediate and/or later changes and corrections. The order of the poems in the manuscript is the relative order of creation; since some poems are precisely dateable, the absolute chronology is also largely certain.10 In the manuscript, the title Catullianum is found above the 7 earliest pieces, which, according to the accompanying poems, Grotius wrote around November/early December 1606.11 But around this time, when Grotius asked Daniel Heinsius about his judgement of these same poems in a letter dated 19 December 1606, he already called them his Erotopaegnia,12 thus using the same title as the 1608 edition. In Grotius’ collected poems, published 10 years later, both titles—from manuscript and printed edition—were combined into Erotopaegnia Catulliana.13 Thus, what we have here is a love play in the style of Catullus. I pay no further attention here to the imitation of Catullus. For further details, I refer to what I stated in my edition of Grotius’ poetry: it is mostly to be found in metrical and lexical peculiarities.14

Petrarchist Poetry Even a superficial reading of the cycle shows that we are dealing here with Petrarchist poetry. Some of the titles of the poems already point in this direction—for instance, headings such as Acus (about his beloved’s gilded hair-

7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Dousa filius 1607: 157–177. Complete only in Heinsius 1603: 178–182. No. 2 also in Guépin 1991: 118 (with Dutch translation). A Greek poem entitled Ἐρωτοπαίγνιον τῆς Δημοφίλης πέρι in Heinsius 1613: 28–29. University Library Leiden, MS Papenbroeck 10, fo. 33v. Eyffinger 1981: 117–122. Subsequently on fo. 33v Lacrimae, Oculi, Salue, Somnia, Papillae, Speculum and Desperatio (in the first printed version poems 5–9, 4 and 3). Molhuysen 1928: 76 no. 90: ‘… in paucis Erotopaegniis meis, quae puto iratus otio meo effudi.’ Grotius 1617: 407. Rabbie 1992.

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pin), Desperatio, Speculum (about her hand-mirror), Lacrimae, Oculi, Somnia, and Papillae. To be sure, Petrarchist is not the same thing as directly influenced by Petrarch. To give an example, Grotius’ younger contemporary Paul Fleming, one of the German Petrarchists par excellence, probably never read Petrarch’s Canzoniere.15 The same holds true for Grotius, who, if I am not mistaken, only mentions him once in passing in a poem for the German Petrarchist Martin Opitz in 1629.16 Nor is there any evidence he knew the influential prose works or the renowned Latin epic Africa. In the catalogue of his confiscated library (1618), no book by Petrarch is mentioned.17 However, in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries the—frequently indirect—imitation of Petrarch was general practice in lyrical poetry, both in Western European vernacular and in Neo-Latin. Anyone who wrote love poems in those days almost automatically ended up with themes and images by Petrarch, as these had been developed by his imitators. There were even entire anthologies arranged on these themes, of which the best known is Veneres Blyenburgicae sive amorum hortus, compiled from the works of almost 150 poets by the Dordt scholar Damas van Blijenburgh (1558–after 1616).18 It is, therefore, worthwhile to explore the imagery and themes that constitute the essence of Petrarchism before going further.19 By definition, poetical love in Petrarch’s style is unhappy. The beloved is unattainable, and, to be sure, that is a consequence of her perfection. If she were to yield to the poet’s desire, she would immediately lose her perfection. This kind of love is, therefore, always one-sided: the poet is fulfilled by love for the woman, who categorically rejects him. Consequently, Petrarchist love is extramarital or, at least, non-marital. The poet’s feelings are dominated by opposites: he continuously vacillates between hope and fear, happiness and despair, life and death, the wish to get away from his feelings and the necessity to return to them.20 Those variable feelings are also expressed by the Petrarchist poet’s language, which is characterized by the frequent use of figures of speech, such as antitheses and oxymorons. It is evident, then, that Petrarchist poetry largely consists of standardized ingredients, in terms of both its themes and its use of language and imagery. In the hands of lesser talents, Petrarchism became a style that

15 16 17 18 19 20

Pyritz 1963: 159–162. Van Oosterhout 2009: 108. Molhuysen 1943. Dordrecht 1600. See Forster 1973: 235–244. See for the following Regn 2003: 912–913; Forster 1969: 1–60. Compare in this volume De Jonge and Lardinois on the intensity of emotions as described in Sappho’s love poems.

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resulted in unoriginal, even unappealing, products, with the course and purport sometimes evident from the first line. On the other hand, the very pattern of Petrarchism offered an opportunity to talented poets to prove themselves. They did so, for instance, by varying traditional elements, playing with them and combining them with elements derived from other genres. By following the Petrarchist model, Grotius did not make things easy for himself. As a whole, the poems are dedicated to his spouse, but they pretend to describe various aspects of their romantic relationship in the period that preceded their marriage. The conventions of the imitated genre entail that this relationship is by definition unhappy, or is at least characterized by the fact that the poet’s feelings for his beloved remain unanswered. Thus, Desperatio describes the impossible choice between two women. The woman he loves turns down his love. The beloved’s eyes in Oculi are called crudeles (‘cruel’), whereas the poet describes his as miseri (‘unhappy’). It does not require further explanation that the dedication as a wedding gift to his wife of a cycle of poems that only testify to such unhappy feelings and her negative characteristics would be a classic example of what ancient rhetoricians call ἀπρεπές. Another problem Grotius was confronted with by the Petrarchist model is the stereotypical way the beloved and the lover are depicted in such poetry. Both are types, rather than living persons. We only learn a few, very general features of her, which are portrayed in black-and-white: she is beautiful, the pinnacle of perfection even, but haughty, cruel, jealous, hard as stone and colder than ice. The same holds for the person of the poet/narrator, but in the opposite sense: he is deathly pale, deeply unhappy, badly wounded, and suffers continuously; his soul is doomed; he is struck with blindness. Both series of characteristics are an unsound basis for a good marriage, certainly in combination with one another.

The Opening Poem Grotius solved these problems in an elegant way by having the cycle preceded by an opening poem that puts the feelings of sadness, despair, deprivation, misery, and his own imperfection in such a perspective that the remaining poems become acceptable as a wedding gift. I will further elucidate this by means of an interpretation of that opening poem, which is entitled Dedicatio (a separate title is lacking in the manuscript). This poem did not belong to the 7 poems of the future cycle that were written first; its place in the manuscript points to a genesis between June and early September 1607. But Dedicatio was also not the poem that was written last; these date to the period after January

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1608.21 The (internal) narrator, who uses the first-person singular, addresses a (likewise internal) narratee, for whom the second person singular is used. Initially, he does so by means of a number of personifications that are familiar from classical Latin poetry (cura, uoluptas),22 which still leave the reader in uncertainty whether this is an address or a description. However, the first pentameter already makes clear that the person he mentions is a woman (quam), viz., she whom the narrator may call ‘his’: Nuper cura grauis, sed nunc mihi summa uoluptas quam uera possum dicere uoce meam Recently my serious concern (cura), but now my highest delight (uoluptas), whom I may in truth call mine. 1–2

Initially, it remains unclear who the poet is addressing: the reader or someone else (external or internal), but in the next line, this becomes clear by the use of the word tuae. When read in combination with the title Dedicatio, this leaves little doubt about the situation we should visualize: Grotius makes it appear as if the first-person narrator addresses his bride on their wedding day (nunc). The next lines prefigure the contents of the entire cycle: the narrator asks his beloved to view which emotions (motus animi23) his wounded soul, allured by her beauty, has endured: aspice quos pellecta tua dulcedine forma pertulerit motus saucia mens animi, carmina nequicquam spero dum posse mederi pectoris aegroti sollicitudinibus, quas tu, pulchra, tuo sedasti lumine, sola detergens omnem cordis amaritiem

21

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Dedicatio is found (together with no. 2, Acus) between an epicedium on admiral Jacob van Heemskerck (interred on 8 June 1607) and a poem on the death of the French ambassador in The Hague, Paul Choart de Buzanval (deceased on 9 September 1607). Absentia (10) and Silentium (11) are found after a poem on the arrival in Rotterdam on 31 January 1608 of the truce negotiator Ambrogio Spinola. See Hor. Carm. 1.14.18 (cura); Verg. Aen. 8.581 (uoluptas), in both cases likewise a vocative. Cf. Hor. Ars 111.

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behold which emotions my wounded soul has endured, allured by the sweetness of your beauty, while I hoped in vain that poems would be able to heal the anxieties of my pining soul, which only you, fair one, have soothed with your eyes, cleaning away all the bitterness of my heart. 3–8

Thus, the narrator states in the very first poem what awaits the reader in the remainder of the cycle. Even though his suffering is now over and he has found peace in the fulfilment of his love, the emotions that accompanied this— initially unrequited—love form the subject of the subsequent poems. Those poems constitute a reflection of the emotions the poet experienced during the period that his beloved was not yet his, singling out a different aspect of those emotions in each case. The underlying intention becomes evidently clear from lines 5–6: he had hoped (spero dum, praesens historicum24) to use the poems to heal the ‘anxieties of his pining soul,’ i.e., his pangs of love. However, that hope had been in vain. Grotius, therefore, directly opposes the opinion, present since antiquity, that poetry is the only remedy against lovesickness.25 Instead, the situation represented here is as if the beloved woman has healed the poet’s sickness just by the look of her eyes, something which is entirely in line with the Petrarchist model.26 That is to say, only the person who inflicted the wound can heal it, an idea that—either through Petrarch or not—can be traced back to Ovid.27 Here, almost halfway through the poem, Grotius introduces a clear caesura. For the time being, it is no longer the beloved who is addressed. It is left uncertain whom the poet is addressing, but a broad comparison—inspired by both Virgil and Horace,28 as the choice of words and content illustrate—shows what the narrator has been through in the past period. Just as a sailor who is safe after a distant journey dedicates a votive tablet with a picture of the sea to Neptune, Ino’s son Melicertes and ‘the other masters of the wild billows,’ Grotius presents

24 25 26 27

28

Kühner and Stegmann 1914: ii, 374–375. Theoc. 11.1–3. See Klooster in this volume. E.g., Petrarch, Canzoniere lxxv, 1–2: ‘I begli occhi ond’i’ fui percosso in guisa / ch’e’ medesmi porian saldar la piaga …’ Ov. Rem. 44: ‘una manus uobis uulnus opemque feret’ and Petrarch, Canzoniere clxiv, 11: ‘una man sola mi risana et punge’; also Publilius Syrus, Sententiae, A 31: ‘amoris uulnus idem sanat, qui facit.’ Verg. G. 1.436–437. On Horace see below, note 30.

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his beloved with these poems, called here ‘an image of the past.’ Almost all the various parts of the simile are applicable to the comparandum: the distant voyage over the rough sea is the turbulent love affair in the past; the image of the sea corresponds to the image of the amorous vicissitudes in these poems; the sea gods are on a par with the beloved, who has taken pity on the lover and created peace: Ergo nauta uelut longinquis sospes ab oris aequora deuotas intulit in tabulas, Neptuno quas soluit et Inoo Melicertae quique alii saeuis fluctibus imperitant, sic ego, te postquam nostri, formosa, misertum est, hanc tibi do exacti temporis effigiem … Therefore, like a seaman, who has safely returned from distant shores, enters the sea into a votive tablet, which he offers to Neptune, to Ino’s son Melicertes and to all other masters of the wild billows, thus I, now that you, beautiful one, have taken pity on me give you this image of times past … 9–14

The final verses are about the future readers, who are introduced as speakers in the last 2 lines. Once posterity—itself prey to similar feelings of (unhappy) love—will pronounce these words with a sigh while reading these verses: ‘fortunate is he who has laid down his many thousands of hardships into his beloved’s sweet lap.’ This seems to be a conscious allusion to Augustine in tears reading the story of Dido’s unhappy love in Book 4 of Virgil’s Aeneid.29 Here, the narrator makes explicit which effect he thinks the depiction of his own emotions will have: he who reads this will realize that this narrator has once, too, been unhappy but has finally found bliss in love: dicat ut in nostris suspirans uersibus olim eodem tacta animum uulnere posteritas: felix ille tamen qui millia multa laborum in dominae dulci deposuit gremio

29

August. Conf. 1.13.20.

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that once posterity, reading my verses with a sigh, being struck in its soul with a similar wound, may say: still he is fortunate who has laid down his many thousands of hardships into his beloved’s sweet lap. 15–18

Thus, the opening poem renders 3, if not 4, times an image of the poet’s amorous adventures, each time considered from a different perspective: once in his own eyes, then in those of his beloved, who can become acquainted with those adventures in the subsequent poems; then in the vision of posterity, which can draw wise lessons from them; and finally, implicitly through a comparison with a sailor after his prosperous voyage (since Petrarch, a rough sea voyage has been a frequent metaphor for unhappy love).30 The poem’s meaning and content cannot be considered separate from the question of its tone (and the same holds for the remainder of the cycle). The cycle’s title points to a ‘playful’ character, whatever is to be understood by that, but the contents might be taken entirely seriously. It is difficult to be certain here. Whether Grotius wished something to be taken seriously or playfully (ironically?) is likewise determined by his view of his ancient models, which is difficult to find out. That is to say, the way in which the imitation of, for instance, Catullus—whose name is mentioned here in the definitive title—should be understood depends on how Grotius read him. Furthermore, a stylistic device may be intended to arouse pathos in the original context, but the intended effect might well be parody in a later imitator. Although it is, therefore, evident that the cycle describes what is called the poet’s motus animi, emotions, this observation does not bring us much further: it may also be possible that Grotius intended to render those emotions—whether real or fictitious—in an ironical manner. In order to answer this question with more certainty, a look at the remaining poems is needed.

The Remaining Poems As we have seen, the subsequent poems render aspects of what allegedly had happened earlier in the—non-reciprocal—love affair between the narrator and narratee of the opening poem. To those subsequent poems, 10 in total,

30

E.g., Petrarch, Canzoniere cxxxii, 10–11: ‘Fra sí contrari vènti in frale barca / mi trovo in alto mar senza governo …’; ccxxxv, 5–14 and already Hor. Carm. 1.5.13–16.

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an eleventh piece (Invidia, 7A) was added in the Ausgabe letzter Hand, the Poemata of 1617. I do not discuss this poem further, which is, in my opinion, by far the weakest piece of the series. Its narrative structure is incongruous: unlike the other poems, it lacks an internal narratee. Every single one of the remaining poems relate to situations that are familiar from other Petrarchist poets. However, Grotius seriously tried to bring some variation in the setting of the poems, as well as in the motifs and themes that he found in his Petrarchist predecessors. As a consequence of the choice of situation he made, something he did not change is the identity of the narrator. In all subsequent poems, the internal narrator remains the person who identifies himself as ‘I’, the—mostly unhappy—lover. Nor is the use of tenses subject to variation: whereas the first poem made use of the perfect tense to indicate that the days of unhappy love had passed, the remaining poems are, without exception, written in the present tense. Thus, the various aspects of the relationship that are singled out in the poems are presented to the readers as if they were themselves present. Firstly, Grotius varied the setting by changing the narratee of the poems. Apart from Dedicatio (1), the 5 poems Speculum (4), Oculi (6), Salue (7), Absentia (10) and Silentium (11) are addressed to the beloved as an internal narratee. The remaining poems, too, have an internal narratee, which is different each time. Acus (2) deals with the well-known, productive motif of the utensil which, once purloined from the beloved, becomes the surrogate object of the poet’s affections.31 Here, it is a gilded hairpin, which is addressed in the first 8 lines of the poem and, therefore, functions as the internal narratee; thereafter, the narrator addresses the reader for a final conclusion, implying that Cupid must have laughed when he beheld the scene, his arrows now being superfluous: a single glance at the pin sufficed to inflict a wound. The other poem that describes one of the beloved’s utensils, Speculum (4), is, as has been said, not addressed to the mirror, but to the beloved, except for the last two lines, where the poet addresses himself. In Desperatio (3), after an introduction of one distich, the narrator calls on the goddess Venus. The ‘desperation’ that is mentioned in the title has to do with the—at least initially—impossible choice between a woman the poet is able to win but whom he does not love and the true mistress, who does not reciprocate his love. Finally, he—of course—decides to choose the latter one. In terms of content, the poem is almost identical to an elegy by Johannes Pos-

31

Pyritz 1963: 173–177; he calls it ‘Pretiosen-Motivik.’ The primary source is perhaps Catullus’ poem on Lesbia’s passer (2).

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thius (1537–1597) entitled De amore suo, which Grotius would have known from the Veneres Blyenburgicae.32 Lacrimae (5) addresses the poet’s own tears, which, in a well-known paradox, are called ‘the only remaining joy of his sadness.’ Similarly, the poem is full of oxymorons and antitheses. It leads to a description—doubtlessly based on the well-known topos of the soul leaving the body in a kiss33—of how the poet’s soul leaves the body in a flood of tears at the sight of the beloved,34 a description that is so over the top it can only be taken as a parody. On the other hand, the way Grotius uses spondees and sound to imitate the suffocation in tears of the narrator’s voice (uos tamen o ne me miserum, lacrimae, linquatis) can only be interpreted as serious. Papillae (9) is addressed to a part of the beloved’s body, namely her breasts, which are spoken to as if they were an independent entity. As befits an honourable magistrate like Grotius, they remain invisible, although he can feel them in his fantasy. Here, too, antitheses abound, especially the well-known one between fire and ice. Somnia (8) shows a combined form: the poem starts as an allocution to the poet’s dreams, but the narrator’s temper rises so much that suddenly, in a fit of pathos, he changes the addressee and hurls these angry words at the beloved: inuida, quid nostrae possunt tibi demere noctes cum liceat saeuae non minus esse tibi? envious one, what can my nights take away from you, when you can still be cruel to me? 9–10

He does this so he can end on a quieter tone in the last two lines, using one of the better known Petrarchist antitheses, the one between dream and reality: at foret in terris nil me felicius uno si quod dormire est hoc uigilare foret but nothing on Earth would be happier than I alone if dreaming and being awake were the same. 11–12

32 33 34

Van Blijenburgh 1600: 372. Ps.-Plato, AP 5.78; Guépin 1991: 110–119; 416–434; Rabbie 1992: 282–283. Cf. Prop. 1; 12; 15.

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In Absentia (10), the Petrarchist situation partly disappears: although the mistress, who is addressed here too, is still unattainable, it seems that is a consequence of her physical distance, rather than of rejection. Partly for this reason, this second last poem makes the impression that the end of the agony is near. I want to discuss the next (and final) poem in some more detail. The title is Silentium, which is, in my view, a highlight of Grotius’ poetical oeuvre. In this short elegy, the poet manages to combine his usual technical mastery with a personal tone in which the emotion about the fulfilment of his love can be heard. That tone is completely different to the preceding poems: no more expatiating upon emotions is found here; they are only referred to indirectly. The (partly Petrarchist) antitheses and ideas are still there: silence and speaking,35 highest perfection (and deepest misery) that cannot be expressed in language.36 Although done tacitly, it is evident that the moment is near when his love will no longer be unrequited. The circle is, therefore, round. Whereas the preceding poems did not contain any Christian religious thought and were confined to a number of pagan mythological names, this poem opens with an image taken from the Psalms.37 The parallelism of the sentences that has been maintained through almost the entire poem seems to be inspired by biblical poetry: Si nihil hoc coelum nisi sola silentia laudant, atque ipsum taciti cernimus ire diem … If only silent beings praise this heaven and if we silently watch the day disappear … 1–2

The 8-line poem consists of one single period, of which the first 3 distichs and the subsequent hexameter contain the long protasis and the last pentameter the apodosis. The fourfold anaphora with si … si … siue … seu, resumed in the last hexameter by cum, is likewise religiously coloured, since it is reminiscent of the ancient language of prayer.38 This is combined with an allusion

35 36 37 38

Already Catull. 51.1–17 and his model Sappho, fr. 31. Petrarch, Canzoniere ccxlvii, 12–13: ‘lingua mortale al suo stato divino / giunger non pote.’ Psalm 19:1–3. On caelum ‘pro eis, qui in caelo sunt, i.e. dis’ see TLL iii, 94, 27–79. Norden 1913: 144–147.

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to Seneca39 and a (perhaps biblical40) proverb (‘to wear one’s heart on one’s tongue’). Finally, one asyndetically formulated thought follows, in which the antitheses that were expressed earlier as alternatives eventually merge in a unity of beloved and lover. Her praise and his misery exceed every language utterance: si nondum summus dolor est solatia uocis qui capit et partem cordis in ore gerit; siue ego te aspicio qua nil perfectius exstat, seu me quo miserum nil magis esse potest, cum tua laus, mea sors superent genus omne loquendi— if grief that allows solace in words and wears part of the heart in the mouth is not yet the height of sorrow; whether I look at you, the most perfect of beings, or at myself, the most miserable person to exist, when your praise and my fate exceed all kinds of speech— 3–7

Whereupon Grotius shows his talent for catching final lines with a sentence that literally fades away: the poet’s silence is at the same time the end of both the poem and the cycle: da ueniam quaeso, lux mea, quod taceo. please forgive me, my light, that I am silent. 8

Conclusion How are we to take Grotius’ love play? Seriously, as a parody, or a combination of both? I think that, as we have seen, an unequivocal answer is impossible. A number of the poems contain elements that can only be interpreted as a parody. Earlier, I mentioned the dramatic depiction of the soul, which leaves

39 40

Sen. Phaedr. 607: ‘curae leues loquuntur, ingentes stupent.’ Cf. Vulg. Sirach 21:29 ‘in ore fatuorum cor illorum.’

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the poet’s body in an unstanchable flow of tears. The poem about the hairpin, too, should in all probability be taken as a parody. Eduard Norden has pointed out that the allocution of such a ‘corpus vile’ is to be considered a reduction of pathos, and designates this phenomenon as one of the most favoured forms of parody.41 On the other hand, when the poet addresses himself, as in Speculum, something which has possibly to be understood as imitating Catullus,42 the pathetic tone is evident. The same holds for the apostrophe of the beloved at the end of Salve and again in Somnia.43 And if my interpretation of the last poem, Silentium, is correct, a religious tone is prevalent there, meaning that this poem should be interpreted seriously. All this, however, should not make us forget that we are ultimately dealing with a ‘play’, according to the title. This means that the serious and pathetic elements mentioned earlier have to be considered in that respect. The element of play, then, is that all the emotions described in the poems of the cycle—apart from the opening poem—have to be considered from the perspective of love’s final fulfilment as it follows from that opening poem.

Bibliography Blänsdorf, J. (ed.), Fragmenta poetarum Latinorum epicorum et lyricorum praeter Enni Annales et Ciceronis Germanicique Aratea (Berlin 2011). Blijenburgh, D. van (ed.), Veneres Blyenburgicae sive amorum hortus (Dordrecht 1600). Bouman, J., Nederlandse gelegenheidsgedichten voor 1700 in de Koninklijke Bibliotheek te ’s-Gravenhage. Catalogus van gedrukte gedichten op gedenkwaardige gebeurtenissen in het leven van particuliere personen (Nieuwkoop 1982). Dam, H.-J. van, ‘Taking Occasion by the Forelock: Dutch Poets and Appropriation of Occasional Poems’, in Y. Maes, J. Papy, W. Verbaal (eds.), Latinitas Perennis volume ii, Appropriation and Latin Literature (Leiden 2009) 95–127. Dousa filius, J., Poemata (Leiden 1607). Eyffinger, A.C.G.M., Grotius poeta. Aspecten van Hugo Grotius’ dichterschap (PhD Amsterdam 1981). Fordyce, C.J., Catullus. A Commentary (Oxford 1961). Forster, L., The Icy Fire. Five Studies in European Petrarchism (Cambridge 1969). Forster, L., ‘On Petrarchism in Latin and the Role of Anthologies’, in J. IJzewijn, E. Kessler (eds.), Acta Conventus Neo-Latini Lovaniensis (Leuven 1973) 235–244. 41 42 43

Norden 1913: 146 (on Hor. Carm. 3.21). Fordyce ad Catull. 68.135. Maurach 1983: §§ 54–57; De Jong 1987: index s.v. apostrophes.

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Green, R.P.H. (ed.), Ausonii Opera (Oxford 1999). Grotius, H., Poemata collecta et magnam partem nunc primum edita (Leiden 1617). Guépin, J.P., De kunst van Janus Secundus. De ‘Kussen’ en andere gedichten (Amsterdam 1991). Heinsius, D., Elegiarum lib. iii, Monobiblos, Sylvae, in quibus variae (Leiden 1603). Heinsius, D., Peplus Graecorum epigrammatum (Leiden 1613). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (Amsterdam 1987). Kühner, R., Stegmann, C., Ausführliche Grammatik der lateinischen Sprache, zweiter Teil: Satzlehre (Darmstadt [1914] 5th edn. 1976). Maurach, G., Enchiridion poeticum. Hilfsbuch zur lateinischen Dichtersprache (Darmstadt 1983). Meulen, J. ter, Diermanse, P.J.J., Bibliographie des écrits imprimés de Hugo Grotius (The Hague 1950). Molhuysen, P.C. (ed.), Briefwisseling van Hugo Grotius i (The Hague 1928). Molhuysen, P.C., De bibliotheek van Hugo de Groot in 1618 (Amsterdam 1943). Norden, E., Agnostos theos. Untersuchungen zur Formengeschichte religiöser Rede (Leipzig 1913). Oosterhout, M.J.M. van, Hugo Grotius’ Occasional Poetry (1609–1645) (PhD Nijmegen 2009). Pyritz, H., Paul Fleming’s Liebeslyrik. Zur Geschichte des Petrarkismus (Göttingen 1963). Rabbie, E. (ed.), The Poetry of Hugo Grotius. Original Poetry 1604–1608 (Assen / Maastricht 1992). Regn, G., ‘Petrarkismus’, in G. Ueding (ed.), Historisches Wörterbuch der Rhetorik vi (Tübingen 2003) 911–921. Scaliger, J., Ausonianarum lectionum libri duo (Lyon 1574). Wilson, A.M., The Erotopaegnion. A Trifling Book of Love of Girolamo Angeriano (Nieuwkoop 1995). Petrarch’s Canzoniere is quoted according to the edition by G. Contini and D. Ponchiroli (Torino [1964] 1992).

Epilogue Mieke Bal

A short story. In 1996, I was in Bergen, Norway. I had recently become acquainted with the colleagues there. Out of the blue, one of those asked me: “Have you been a student of Irene de Jong?” When I looked surprised, he added: “Your work has such an affinity with hers!” Instead of feeling slightly offended by the question and the reversal it implied, I felt not only amused but proud, honoured, and inspired. For, it meant that Irene’s work had a great impact internationally, and that in the short gap of 9 years between the publication of her PhD, which I had the pleasure of co-supervising along with Jan-Maarten Bremer, and that moment in Bergen, she had acquired a reputation as a “master” in classical studies. That is what the question really told me. And it is the motivation for my passion for PhD supervision: that those who join my intellectual convictions and continue after me, get the most adequate education, so that, as many teachers fear, the (former) student can surpass the (no longer) master. I never feared that; on the contrary. The point of teaching is that this can and must happen. The question in Bergen confirmed that, in the case of Irene, this attempt had succeeded. And now … much more than another nine years have gone past, and here is an unbelievably impressive volume, by so many reputed classicists, ending with a mile-long catalogue listing all her publications. Her deployment of contemporary narratology, of a structuralist background, for the integration of detailed, “close” reading within the interpretation of the text as a whole, is what that colleague in Bergen in 1996 had found so innovative for the field of classics. And when I browse through the enormous volume published in her honour, I am astounded by the great number of colleagues from all over the world who have clearly felt inspired by Irene’s work.1 Irene’s scholarship, as the contributions to this rich volume attest, has many tentacles, reaching out in many different directions. The culminating point is this: she never fell for the rigid conceptions of erudition as scientific, nor for the sentimental, soft critical attitude that merges antiquity too superficially

1 Due to an unfortunate miscommunication, I was not aware of the call for contributions to this volume until it was too late. I deeply regret the absence of an article of mine (which I would have devoted to the story of Lucretia), and appreciate very much the editors’ proposal to write a short epilogue instead.

© Mieke Bal, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004506053_049

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with modern soppy writings. Instead, the integration of formal analysis and the in-depth study of emotions in ancient literature that she initiated, holding hands with Homer and his characters, completely undermines the cliché objection to the deployment of (post-)modern theories to ancient art and literature. For an overly-known example, Sigmund Freud’s use of ancient tragedy to theorize modern psychic issues such as, to mention his most famous case, the Oedipus complex, has been considered antiquated. Freud aspired to illuminate the modern psyche through a thorough reading of Sophocles’ drama, but his view on ancient literature is, in fact, reversible, as I have argued in my theory of “pre-posterous history”. The prepositions pre- and post- can change places; not only does the past have an impact on the present and future, but we also look at the past from the present, and this reversed gaze changes past works definitively. This view yields a labyrinthine view of temporality, which would fit nicely with Françoise Létoublon’s conception of the text as labyrinth, inspired by Borges’ “Garden of Forking Paths” (chapter x). And as is clear from some of the chapters, that labyrinth contains visuality as well, thus retrospectively (preposterously) undermining the binary opposition between words and images. The topic of “emotions”, moreover, is terrifically important for the assessment of the cultural relevance of art. Through the insights Irene has developed and her colleagues in this volume so brilliantly put to work, we can claim that Homer can be seen as a prophetic literary artist, who paved the way for the modern novel, even if that genre did not exist in antique literature. If narratology took off from writers such as Proust, Flaubert, and James, to name just those whose literary art has inspired my own theoretical work as much as that of others, this was possible because, we can now see, Homer had already shown how to involve emotions in narrative, even in stories of the adventurous, action-packed epic kind. No wonder; in the societies that inspired those narratives, strong emotions were the order of the day, as was the violence that caused many of these. But the question remains how story-tellers can present such heavy-duty, even violent, emotions in characters, embedded speakers, and narrators. To grasp the way in which literary art, where words reach the emotions of others, in the sense of making their readers experience them, and can inspire such readerly empathy, the analytical tools Irene deployed so creatively are indispensable. The success of her work lies precisely in the integration of a formal tool and an emotional realm. The true binding—both between Irene and me, between literature and visuality, and between narration and empathy, in other words, to reach the emotional level in narrative—is the concept of focalization. As Irene has demonstrated time and again, character-bound focalization can encourage empathy.

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And empathy can help not only to better understand literature, but also to make society more sensitive to the damage done by violence. For focalization makes the nuances of emotions visible. The American literary scholar Charles Altieri once offered a survey of the nuances of the emotive content, from affect to feelings, moods, emotions, and passions: Feelings are elemental affective states characterized by an imaginative engagement in the immediate processes of sensation. Moods are modes of feeling where the sense of subjectivity becomes diffuse and sensation merges into something close to atmosphere, something that seems to pervade an entire scene or situation. Emotions are affects that involve the construction of attitudes that typically establish a particular cause and so situate the agent within a narrative. …. Finally, passions are emotions within which we project significant stakes for the identity that they make possible.2 Here, we can see that “emotionality” is an entire field, not a single momentary event. The shades of that field shine through many of the analyses in this volume, each of which honours Irene as their companion, predecessor, or inspirator. In chapter iii, for example, Evert van Emde Boas analyses passages where the fear Achilles inspires appears in different touches. True, I personally object to the idea of “classical” (inevitably surpassed by “post-classical”) narratology that he cites. For, “post-” implies progress; one look at today’s world undermines that illusion. Nevertheless, his analysis of the fear and its various appearances, including its visual aspects, demonstrates, in line with Irene’s subtle takes on Homer and other classical texts, how focalization can assist the scholar in picking apart the differences among these various appearances. This becomes even more apparent in chapter ii, where Angus Bowie shows how the embedded focalization of Andromache’s account of Achilles’ misdeeds deploys the differentiation necessary for an empathetic listener-narratee. In my short film It’s About Time! Reflections on Urgency (2020) the main character, Cassandra, strolls through the forking paths of time, between antiquity, Christa Wolf’s novel from the 1980s, and today’s young protesters against the violence of climatic indifference, among whom Greta Thunberg stands out. The (Polish) Cassandra is as furious as Greta is, so that she barely wants to mention the name of her arch-enemy: Achilles. No wonder that Bowie

2 Altieri, Charles 2003 The Particulars of Rapture: An Aesthetics of the Affects, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press (48).

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shows that Andromache is as upset by Achilles as Cassandra is in the film. Fear inspires fury, as both characters demonstrate.3 Much as I would like to do this, I cannot begin to enumerate all the ideas offered in the contributions. They are so many, so stimulating, that I must renounce the effort and instead, close this epilogue by returning to its beginning: Irene de Jong has definitively transformed classical studies by productively merging historical, formal, and emotional considerations. It is that integration that makes the social relevance of art appear and do its work. Thanks to her work, we can continue to take the study of classical literature seriously enough to notice and accept how, when “pre-posterously” seen from the present, it has made contemporary art and literature thinkable. Was Helen responsible for the Trojan war? Or, as theorist of the integration of psychoanalysis and aesthetics Hubert Damisch has argued, what is the basis of the judgement of beauty as enacted by Paris? With the help of Irene’s narratology of the classics, such questions receive non-binary answers. That, in the end, is what the concepts Irene deploys in her fabulous analyses, help us understand, feel, and, with luck, live by. So, the question that colleague in Bergen asked was not so preposterous, after all. We are all, in certain ways, students of Irene de Jong. 3 This film (30”), Polish spoken, English subtitled, can be watched at miekebal.org/artworks/​ films/its‑about‑time/. A semi-abstract painting titled Achilles ii by the young American artist Ezra Enzo, fragments of which are used to separate sections as stanzas, conveys both the fear he inspires and the rage he feels.

Publications of Irene de Jong (until 2021) Monographs, Commentaries, Edited Volumes Alphen, E. van, Jong, I.J.F. de (eds.), Door het oog van de tekst. Essays voor Mieke Bal over visie (Muiderberg 1988). Bakker, E.J., Jong, I.J.F. de, Wees, H. van (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Herodotus (Leiden 2002). Bakker, E.J., Jong, I.J.F. de, Wees, H. van (eds.), Εγχειρίδιο ηροδότειων σπουδών (Athens 2005). Bakker, M.P. de, Jong, I.J.F. de (eds.), Speeches in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2021). Bremer, J.M., Jong, I.J.F. de, Kalff, J. (eds.), Homer: Beyond Oral Poetry. Recent Trends in Homeric Interpretation (Amsterdam 1987). Gils, L. van, Jong, I.J.F. de, Kroon, C. (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative. Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2019). Heerikhuizen, A. van, Jong, I.J.F. de, Montfrans, M. van (eds.), Tweede levens. Over personen en personages in de geschiedschrijving en de literatuur (Amsterdam 2010). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (London [1987] 2nd edn. 2004). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narrative in Drama. The Art of the Euripidean Messenger-Speech. (Leiden / New York / Cologne 1991). Jong, I.J.F. de, In betovering gevangen. Aspecten van Homerus’ vertelkunst (Amsterdam 1992). Jong, I.J.F. de (ed.), Homer. Critical Assessments, 4 volumes (London / New York 1999). Jong, I.J.F. de, Vertellers met een lijf. Een sondering van de geschiedenis van het Klassiek Griekse verhaal (Amsterdam 1999). Jong, I.J.F. de, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge 2001). Jong, I.J.F. de, Οδύσσεια. Ένα αφηγηματολογικό υπόμνημα (Thessaloniki 2011). Jong, I.J.F. de, Homer. Iliad: Book xxii (Cambridge 2012). Jong, I.J.F. de (ed.), Space in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2012). Jong, I.J.F. de, Narratology and Classics. A Practical Guide (Oxford 2014). Jong, I.J.F. de, I classici e la narratologia: Guida alla lettura degli autori greci e latini. Studi superiori 1082 (Rome 2017). Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R. (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2007). Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R., Bowie, A. (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2004).

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Jong, I.J.F. de, Rijksbaron, A. (eds.), Sophocles and the Greek Language. Aspects of Diction, Syntax, and Pragmatics (Leiden 2006). Jong, I.J.F. de, Sullivan, J.P. (eds.), Modern Critical Theory and Classical Literature (Leiden 1994).

Articles, Book Chapters, Encyclopedia Entries Allan, R.J., Jong, I.J.F. de, Jonge, C.C. de, ‘Homerus’ narratieve stijl: enargeia en immersion’, Lampas 47.3 (2014) 202–223. Allan, R.J., Jong, I.J.F. de, Jonge, C.C. de, ‘From Enargeia to Immersion. The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept’, Style 51.1 (2017) 34–51. Bakker, M.P. de, Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Introduction. Narratological Theory on Speech’, ‘Epilogue’, in M.P. de Bakker, I.J.F. de Jong (eds.), Speech in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2021) 1–30, 743–745. Ben, N. van der, Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Daimon in Ilias en Odyssee’, Lampas 17 (1984) 301–316. Gils, L. van, Jong, I.J.F. de, Kroon, C., ‘Introduction’, in L. van Gils, I.J.F. de Jong, C. Kroon (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative. Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2019) 1–16. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘ψ 430: ὡς οὐκ ἀΐοντι ἐοικώς. Surprising Contamination or Effective Combination?’, Glotta 63 (1985) 161–162. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Iliad 1.366–392: A Mirror Story’, Arethusa 18.1 (1985) 1–22. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Fokalisation und die homerischen Gleichnisse’, Mnemosyne 38.3/4 (1985) 257–270. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Eurykleia and Odysseus’ Scar: Odyssey 19.393–466’, CQ 35.2 (1985) 517–518. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homeric κέρδος and ὄφελος’, MH 44 (1987) 79–81. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Paris/Alexandros in the Iliad’, Mnemosyne 40 (1987) 124–128. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Silent Characters in the Iliad’, in J.M. Bremer, I.J.F. de Jong, J. Kalff (eds.), Homer: Beyond Oral Poetry. Recent Trends in Homeric Interpretation (Amsterdam 1987) 105–121. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Voice of Anonymity: tis-Speeches in the Iliad’, Eranos 85 (1987) 69– 84. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Gynaikeion ethos: misogynie als verblindende factor bij antieke Homerusinterpretatoren’, in E. van Alphen, I.J.F. de Jong (eds.), Door het oog van de tekst. Essays voor Mieke Bal over visie (Muiderberg 1988) 106–120. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homeric Words and Speakers: An Addendum’, JHS 108 (1988) 188–189. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Agamemnon’s Belt in Iliad ii.479’, MH 46 (1989) 240–241. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Homeric Epithets of ἄποινα’, MH 46 (1989) 242–243. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Biter Bit: A Narratological Analysis of H.Aphr 45–291’, WS 23 (1989) 13–26.

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Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘De Ilias: een objektief verhaal?’, Forum der Letteren 30 (1989) 206–216. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Zwijgende personages in de Ilias’, Lampas 22 (1989) 4–21. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Three Off-stage Characters in Euripides’, Mnemosyne 43.1/2 (1990) 1– 21. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homerische verteltechniek: de ontmoeting tussen Hermes en Priamus in Ilias 24’, Lampas 23 (1990) 370–383. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Gynaikeion ethos: Misogyny in the Homeric Scholia’, Eranos 89 (1991) 13– 24. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Narratology and Oral Poetry: The Case of Homer’, Poetics Today 12.3 (1991) 405–423. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Tijdsaspecten in Pindarus’ Pythische vier’, Lampas 24 (1991) 199–210. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Verhaal en drama: het bodeverhaal in de Griekse tragedie’, Forum der Letteren 42 (1991) 207–219. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Récit et drame: le deuxième récit de messager dans Les Bacchantes’, REG 105 (1992) 572–583. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Subjective Style in Odysseus’ Wanderings’, CQ 42.1 (1992) 1–11. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Studies in Homeric Denomination’, Mnemosyne 46 (1993) 289–306. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Verhaal en drama: het bodeverhaal in de Griekse tragedie’, Forum der Letteren 32 (1992) 207–219. Jong, I.J.F. de, Rijksbaron, A., ‘“Zo lag de held Odysseus ….”: enige opmerkingen bij de Odyssee-vertaling van I. Dros’, Lampas 25 (1992) 198–213. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Between Word and Deed: Hidden Thoughts in the Odyssey’, in I.J.F. de Jong, J.P. Sullivan (eds.), Modern Critical Theory and Classical Literature (Leiden 1994) 27–50. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Πιστὰ τεκμήρια in Soph. El. 774’, Mnemosyne 47.5 (1994) 679–681. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘De literaire interpretatie van de Odyssee: enkele recente publikaties’, Lampas 27 (1994) 378–391. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer as Literature: Some Current Areas of Research’, in J.P. Crielaard (ed.), Homeric Questions (Amsterdam 1995) 127–147. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Sunset and Sunrises in Homer and Apollonius of Rhodes: Book-Divisions and Beyond’, Dialogos 3 (1996) 20–35. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Auerbach en Homerus’, Tijdschrift voor Literatuurwetenschap 1.3 (1996) 168–177. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Gar Introducing Embedded Narratives’, in A. Rijksbaron (ed.), New Approaches to Greek Particles (Amsterdam 1997) 175–185. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer and Narratology’, in B. Powell, I. Morris (eds.), A New Companion to Homer (Leiden 1997) 305–325. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Narrator Language versus Character Language: Some Further Explorations’, in F. Létoublon (ed.), Hommage à Milman Parry. Le style formulaire de l’épopée homérique et la théorie de l’oralité poétique (Amsterdam 1997) 293–302.

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Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homeric Epithet and Narrative Situation’, in M. Paisi-Apostolopolou (ed.), Homerica. Proceedings of the 8th International Symposium on the Odyssey (1– 5 September 1996) (Ithaca 1998) 121–135. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘De literaire interpretatie van de Homerische epitheta’, Lampas 31.1 (1998) 3–20. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer and Literary Criticism’, in I.J.F. de Jong (ed.), Homer. Critical Assessments, volume 3 (London / New York 1999) 1–24. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Explicit and Implicit Embedded Focalization’, in I.J.F. de Jong (ed.), Homer. Critical Assessments, volume 4 (London / New York 1999) 370–395. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Aspects narratologiques des Histoires d’Hérodote’, Lalies 19 (1999) 219– 277. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Auerbach and Homer’, in J.N. Kazazis, A. Rengakos (eds.), Euphrosyne. Studies in Ancient Epic and Its legacy in Honor of Dimitris N. Maronitis (Stuttgart 1999) 154–164. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘SO Debate: Dividing Homer’, Symbolae Osloenses 74 (1999) 58–63. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Narratieve teksten en narratieve situaties’, Lampas 32 (2000) 189–210. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Anachronical Structure of Herodotus’Histories’, in S.J. Harrison (ed.), Texts, Ideas and the Classics (Oxford 2001) 93–116. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Origins of Figural Narration in Antiquity’, in W. van Peer, S. Chatman (eds.), New Perspectives on Narrative Perspective (New York 2001) 67–81. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey. Principles and Problems’, in R.K. Gibson, C.S. Kraus (eds.), The Classical Commentary. Histories, Practices, Theory (Leiden 2002) 49–66. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Developments in Narrative Technique in the Odyssey’, in M. Reichel, A. Rengakos (eds.), Epea pteroenta. Festschrift für Wolfgang Kullmann zum 75. Geburtstag (Stuttgart 2002) 77–91. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Iliad 1.366–392: A Mirror Story’ (reprint with revisions), in D. Cairns (ed.), Oxford Readings in Homer’s Iliad (Oxford 2002) 478–495. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Narrative Unity and Units’, in E.J. Bakker, I.J.F. de Jong, H. van Wees (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Herodotus (Leiden 2002) 245–266. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Prologue as a Pseudo Dialogue and the Identity of Its (Main) Speaker’, in A. Kahane, A. Laird (eds.), A Companion to the Prologue to Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (Oxford 2002) 201–212. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Van poeta tot persona in de vroegste Griekse literatuur (Homerus, Hesiodus, Herodotus)’, Lampas 35 (2002) 387–398. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Practical Use of Historiography: From Haffner to Herodotus’, Arcadia 38 (2003) 325–328. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Three Off-Stage Characters in Euripides’ (reprint with revisions), in J. Mossman (ed.), Oxford Readings in Euripides (Oxford 2003) 369–389. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Introduction: Narratological Theory on Narrators, Narratees and Nar-

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rative’, ‘Homer’, ‘Herodotus’, ‘Sophocles’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives (Leiden / Boston 2004) 1–10, 13–24, 101–114, 255– 268. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Paratexts “avant la lettre” in Ancient Greek Literature (Homer and Herodotus)’, in D. den Hengst, J. Koopmans, L. Kuitert (eds.), Paratext. The Fuzzy Edges of Literature (Amsterdam 2004) 47–59. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘De paratekst “avant la lettre” van Homerus en Herodotus’, Lampas 37 (2004) 297–308. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Geen held zonder dichter’, Lampas 37 (2004) 179–185. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer and His Own Reception’, Pharos 12 (2004) 189–201. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Epic’, ‘in medias res’, ‘Ancient Theories of Narrative (Western)’, in D. Herman, A. Jahn, M.-L. Ryan (eds.), The Routledge Encyclopedia of Narrative Theory (London 2005). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Narratologia e storiografia: il racconto di Atys e Adrasto in Erodoto 1.34– 45’, QUCC 109 (2005) 87–96. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Aristotle on the Homeric Narrator’, CQ 55 (2005) 616–621. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Convention versus Realism in the Homeric Epics’, Mnemosyne 58 (2005) 1–22. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Herodotus on the Dream of Cambyses (Histories 3.30, 61–5)’, in A. Lardinois, M.G.M. van der Poel, V.J.C. Hunink (eds.), Land of Dreams. Greek and Latin Studies in Honour of A.H.M. Kessels (Leiden 2006) 3–17. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Homeric Narrator and His Own kleos’, Mnemosyne 59 (2006) 188– 207. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Where Narratology Meets Stylistics: The Seven Versions of Ajax’ Madness’, in I.J.F. de Jong, A. Rijksbaron (eds.), Sophocles and the Greek Language. Aspects of Diction, Syntax, and Pragmatics (Leiden 2006) 73–93. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Introduction: Narratological Theory on Time’, ‘Homer’, ‘Sophocles’, in I.J.F. Jong, R. Nünlist (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2007) 1–14, 17–37, 275–292. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Sophocles Trachiniae 1–48, Euripidean Prologues, and Their Audiences’, in R. Allan, M. Buijs (eds.), The Language of Literature. Linguistic Approaches to Classical Texts (Leiden 2007) 7–28. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homers Erzählkunst’, in J. Latacz, T. Greub, P. Blome, A. Wieczorek (eds.), Homer. Der Mythos von Troia in Dichtung und Kunst (Munich 2008) 157–163. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Metalepsis in Ancient Greek Literature’, in J. Grethlein, A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation. The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature. Trends in Classics Supplementary Volumes 4 (Berlin 2009) 87–115. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Between Word and Deed: Hidden Thoughts in the Odyssey’, in L.E. Doherty (ed.), Homer’s Odyssey. Oxford Readings in Classical Studies (Oxford 2009) 62–90.

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Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Un commentario narratológico sobre la Odisea: principios y problemas’, Estudios Clásicos 135 (2009) 7–28. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homerus en het Gilgameš-epos: een poëticale vergelijking’, Lampas 42.2 (2009) 93–110. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘“Many Tales Go of That City’s Fall”: Het Thema van de Val van Troje in de Ilias’, Lampas 42.4 (2009) 279–298. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘“How Many Children had (Lady) Andromache?” Over traditionele personages in de Oudgriekse literatuur’, in A. van Heerikhuizen, I.J.F. de Jong, M. van Montfrans (eds.), Tweede levens. Over personen en personages in de geschiedschrijving en de literatuur (Amsterdam 2010) 14–33. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Euripides and His Prologues: A Reappraisal’, Pharos 17.1 (2010) 21–34. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Narratology and the Classics: The Proof of the Pudding’, in H. Liss, M. Oeming (eds.), Literary Construction of Identity in the Ancient World. Proceedings of the Conference ‘Literary Fiction and the Construction of Identity in Ancient Literatures: Options and Limits of Modern Literary Approaches in the Exegesis of Ancient Texts’, Heidelberg, July 10–13, 2006 (Winona Lake, IN 2010) 81–100. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Eos en Tithonus in de nieuwe Sappho (en bij andere dichters)’, Lampas 43.2 (2010) 150–167. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Narrative’, in M. Finkelberg (ed.), The Homer Encyclopedia, volume 2 (Chichester 2011) 554–556. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Shield of Achilles: From Metalepsis to Mise en abyme’, Ramus 40.1 (2011) 1–14. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Inleiding’, in A.S. Hartkamp (ed.), Homerische hymnen: vertaling. Groningen (2011) vii–xv Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Introduction: Narratological Theory on Space’, ‘Homer’, ‘The Homeric Hymns’, in I.J.F. de Jong (ed.), Space in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2012) 1–18, 21–53. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Helen logos and Herodotus’ Fingerprint’, in E. Baragwanath, M. de Bakker (eds.), Myth, Truth, and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford 2012) 127–142. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Double deixis in Homeric Speech: On the Interpretation of ὅδε and οὗτος’, in M. Meier-Brügger (ed.), Homer, gedeutet durch ein großes Lexikon. Akten des Hamburger Kolloquiums vom 6.–8. Oktober 2010 zum Abschluss des Lexikons des frühgriechischen Epos (Berlin 2012) 63–83. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Metalepsis and Embedded Speech in Pindaric and Bacchylidean Myth’, in U.E. Eisen, P. von Möllendorff (eds.), Über die Grenze. Metalepse in Text und Bildmedien des Altertums (Berlin / New York 2013) 97–118. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘De eenzaamheid van een held: Hector voor de poort van Troje’, Lampas 46.2 (2013) 123–137. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Diachronic Narratology (the Example of Ancient Greek Narrative)’, in P. Hühn, J.C. Meister, J. Pier, W. Schmid (eds.), The Living Handbook of Narratology (Hamburg 2014).

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Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Diachronic Narratology (the Example of Ancient Greek Narrative)’, in P. Hühn, J.C. Meister, J. Pier, W. Schmid (eds.), Handbook of Narratology (Berlin / Boston 2014) 115–122. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘After Auerbach: Ancient Greek Literature as a Test Case of European Literary Historiography’, European Review 22.1 (2014) 116–128. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Bacchylides 5 and the Theme of Non-Recognition on the Battlefield’, in E.K. Emilsson, A. Maravela, M. Skoie (eds.), Paradeigmata. Studies in Honour of Øivind Andersen. Papers from the Norwegian Institute at Athens 4.2 (Athens 2014) 29– 38. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Anonymous Traveller in European Literature: A Greek Meme?’, in D. Cairns, R. Scodel (eds.), Defining Greek Narrative (Edinburgh 2014) 314–333. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer: The First Tragedian’, G & R 63.2 (2016) 149–162. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Herodotus’ Histories as Monument’, Pharos 23.1 (2017) 1–17. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Narratologie en de klassieken: gebruik, groei, grenzen’, Lampas 50.3 (2017) 256–270. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Birth of the Princes’ Mirror in the Homeric Epics’, in J. Klooster, B. van den Berg (eds.), Homer and the Good Ruler in Antiquity and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2018) 20–37. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Der Traum des Kambyses (Herodot, Historien 3,30 und 3,61–65). Ein narratologisches Close-reading’, in I. Müllner, B. Schmitz (eds.), Perspektiven. Biblische Texte und Narratologie (Stuttgart 2018) 41–65. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The View from the Mountain (oroskopia) in Greek and Latin Literature’, Cambridge Classical Journal 64 (2018) 23–48. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer’, ‘The Homeric Hymns’, in K. De Temmerman, E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2018) 27–45, 64– 79. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘From oroskopia to ouranoskopia in Greek and Latin Epic’, Symbolae Osloenses 93 (2019) 1–25. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Klassische Philologie/Classics’, in E. von Contzen, S. Tilg (eds.), Handbuch historische Narratologie (Stuttgart 2019) 275–284. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Herodotus’ Handling of (Narratological) Time in the Thermopylae Passage’, in L. van Gils, I.J.F. de Jong, C. Kroon (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative. Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond (Leiden / Boston 2019) 113–130. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘De ring van Polycrates (Herodotus, Historiën 3.39–43): een narratologische close reading’, Lampas 52.1 (2019) 3–15. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘The Devil is in the Detail: over Herodotus 3.31–32’, Lampas 52.1 (2019) 43–53. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Facing Dionysus: The Metamorphosis of a Story from “Homer” to Ovid’, Scienze dell’antichità 26 (2020) 33–44. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Metalepsis and the Apostrophe of Heroes in Pindar’, in S. Matzner,

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G. Trimble (eds.), Metalepsis. Ancient Texts, New Perspectives (Oxford / New York 2020) 79–97. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Herakles als “stichter” van de Olympische Spelen bij Pindarus’, Lampas 54.2 (2021) 194–212. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer’, ‘The Homeric Hymns’, in M.P. de Bakker, I.J.F. de Jong (eds.), Speech in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden / Boston 2021) 33–55, 77–99. Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R., ‘Homerische Poetik in Stichwörtern’, in J. Latacz (ed.), Homers Ilias. Gesamtkommentar. Prolegomena (Leipzig 2000) 159–171. Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R., ‘From Bird’s Eye View to Close Up: The Standpoint of the Narrator in the Homeric Epics’, in A. Bierl, A. Schmidt, A. Willi (eds.), Antike Literatur in neuer Deutung (Leipzig 2004) 63–83. Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R., ‘Epilogue: Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist, A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives (Leiden 2004) 545–553. Jong, I.J.F. de, Nünlist, R., ‘Epilogue: Time in Ancient Greek Literature’, in I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden 2007) 505–522. Jong, I.J.F. de, Rabbie, E., ‘Jungermanns indeling in capita van Herodotus’ Historiën’, Lampas 53 (2020) 437–449. Nünlist, R., Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homeric Poetics in Keywords’, in A. Bierl, J. Latacz (eds.), Homer’s Iliad: The Basel Commentary. Prolegomena (Berlin / Boston 2015) 164–176.

Book Reviews Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: G.B. Walsh. The Varieties of Enchantment: Early Greek Views of the Nature and Function of Poetry’, Mnemosyne 39 (1986) 419–422. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: W.G. Thalmann, Conventions of Form and Function in Early Greek Epic Poetry’, Mnemosyne 41 (1988) 127–131. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: A. Bonnafié, Poésie, nature et sacré, vol. 1: Homère, Hesiode et le sentiment grec de la nature’, Mnemosyne 41 (1988) 393–395. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: C. Calame, Le récit en Grèce ancienne’, Mnemosyne 43 (1990) 166–168. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: L. Collins, Studies in Characterization in the Iliad’, Mnemosyne 43 (1990) 462–464. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: R.P. Martin, The Language of Heroes’, Mnemosyne 45 (1990) 392–397. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: E. Havelock, De Muze leert schrijven’, Forum der Letteren 32 (1991) 292–295. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: S.H. Lonsdale, Creatures of Speech. Lion, Herding, and Hunting Similes in the Iliad’, Mnemosyne 46 (1993) 396–397.

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Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: O. Taplin, Homeric Soundings. The Shaping of the Iliad’, Mnemosyne 47.1 (1994) 96–100. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: K. Stanley, The Shield of Homer. Narrative Structure in the Iliad’, Mnemosyne 47.4 (1994) 532–534. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: J.V. Morrison, Homeric Misdirection. False Predictions in the Iliad’, Mnemosyne 47.5 (1994) 689–694. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: G.S. Kirk, B. Hainsworth, The Iliad: A Commentary’, Mnemosyne 49 (1996) 86–95. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: N. Felson-Rubin, Regarding Penelope: From Character to Poetics’, Mnemosyne 49 (1996) 344–346. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: M. Reichel, Fernbeziehungen in der Ilias’, Mnemosyne 50 (1997) 94–96. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: J. Griffin, Homer. Iliad ix’, Mnemosyne 50 (1997) 348–351. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: P. Kyriakou, Homeric hapax legomena in the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius’, JHS 117 (1997) 217–218. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: L. Doherty, Siren Songs. Gender, Audiences, and Narrators in the Odyssey’, Mnemosyne 51 (1998) 463–467. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: D. Lateiner, Sardonic Smile. Nonverbal Behaviour in Homeric Epic’, Mnemosyne 51 (1998) 605–607. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: A. Sprague Becker, The Shield of Achilles and the Poetics of Ekphrasis’, Mnemosyne 52 (1999) 336–337. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: J.A. Arieti, Discourses on the First Book of Herodotus’, Mnemosyne 53 (2000) 245–247. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: R.J. Rabel, Plot and Point of View in the Iliad’, Mnemosyne 54 (2001) 221–223. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: G.W. Most (ed.), Commentaries-Kommentare. Kritische Studien zur Philologiegeschichte’, Mnemosyne 54 (2001) 752–753. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: T. Harrison, Divinity and History. The Religion of Herodotus’, Mnemosyne 55 (2002) 105–108. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: M. Alden, Homer beside Himself: Para-narratives in the Iliad’, Mnemosyne 56 (2003) 81–84. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: S. Pulleyn, Homer, Iliad, Book One’, Mnemosyne 57 (2003) 97– 99. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: P.A. Rosenmeyer, Ancient Epistolary Fictions. The Letter in Greek Literature’, Mnemosyne 56 (2003) 361–363. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: M.A. Flower, J. Marincola, Herodotus, Histories Book ix’, Mnemosyne 58 (2005) 594–596. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: R. Scodel, Listening to Homer: Tradition, Narrative, and Audience’, Gnomon 78 (2006) 200–203. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: B. Effe, Epische Objektivität und subjektives Erzählen’, Gnomon 78 (2006) 643–644.

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Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: T.A. Schmitz, Moderne Literaturtheorie und antike Texte. Eine Einführung’, Mnemosyne 59 (2006) 304–306. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: M. Stoevesandt, Feinde-Gegner-Opfer. Zur Darstellung der Trojaner in den Kampfszenen der Ilias’, Mnemosyne 60 (2007) 669–670. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: D. Beck, Homeric Conversation’, Mnemosyne 61.3 (2008) 482– 484. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: J. Grethlein, Das Geschichtsbild der Ilias: eine Untersuchung aus phänomenologischer und narratologischer Perspektive’, Mnemosyne 61.4 (2008) 659–661. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: A. Kelly, A Referential Commentary and Lexicon to Iliad viii’, Mnemosyne 62.3 (2009) 478–480. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: A.D. Morrison, The Narrator in Archaic Greek and Hellenistic Poetry’, Mnemosyne 63.4 (2010) 651–654. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: J.L. Ready, Character, Narrator, and Simile in the Iliad’, Mnemosyne 65.4/5 (2012) 787–789. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: N. Richardson, Three Homeric Hymns: to Apollo, Hermes, and Aphrodite: Hymns 3, 4, and 5’, Mnemosyne 65.3 (2012) 495–499. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: A. Faulkner (ed.), The Homeric Hymns: Interpretative Essays’, Mnemosyne 66.1 (2013) 133–135. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: R.B. Rutherford, Greek Tragic Style: Form, Language and Interpretation’, Mnemosyne 67.1 (2014) 135–137. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: H. Lovatt, The Epic Gaze: Vision, Gender and Narrative in Ancient Epic’, Mnemosyne 67.6 (2014) 1023–1027. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Review of: A.C. Purves, Homer and the Poetics of Gesture’, Gnomon 92 (2020) 649–650.

Textbooks Albertz, H., Artz, R., Bergh, A. van den, Jong, I.J.F. de, Roelofs, M., Lief en leed bij mensen en goden. Passages uit de Ilias van Homerus, 2 volumes (Lunteren 2008). Artz, R., Goossens, T., Jeurissen-Boomgaard, S., Jong, I.J.F. de, Homeros. Ontmoetingen met Odysseus, 2 volumes (Leeuwarden 1995). Artz, R., Goossens, T., Jong, D. de, Jong, I.J.F. de, Homeros. De eer van Achilles, 2 volumes (Leeuwarden 1998). Artz, R., Goossens, T., Jeurissen-Boomgaard, S., Jong, D. de, Jong, I.J.F. de, Het verhaal van Odysseus. De sprookjeswereld van Homerus’ Odyssee, 2 volumes (Leeuwarden 2002). Artz, R., Bergh, A. van den, Dolen, H. van, Jong, I.J.F. de, Heimwee van een held. De thuisreis van Odysseus (Houten 2011).

publications of irene de jong (until 2021)

757

Artz, R., Bergh, A. van den, Jong, I.J.F. de, Electra: een tragedie van Euripides (Houten 2016). Artz, R., Bergh, A. van den, Jong, I.J.F. de, Verhalen uit de Odyssee. Docentenhandleiding (Houten 2019). Artz, R., Bergh, A. van den, Jeurissen, S., Jong, I.J.F. de, Bacchae. Een tragedie van Euripides. Docentenhandleiding (Houten 2020). Artz, R., Bergh, A. van den, Jeurissen, S., Jong, I.J.F. de, Bacchae: een tragedie van Euripides (Houten 2020).

For a Broader Audience Erp Taalman Kip, A.M. van, Jong, I.J.F. de (eds.), Schurken en schelmen. Cultuurhistorische verkenningen rond de Middellandse Zee (Amsterdam 1995). Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Het litteken van Odysseus: Homerus onder het mes van de literatuurkritiek’, Hermeneus 60 (1988) 9–14. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homerus’ muze’, De Gids 155 (1992) 61–64. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Van schurk tot schatje: de literaire loopbaan van de Cycloop’, in A.M. van Erp Taalman Kip, I.J.F. de Jong (eds.), Schurken en schelmen. Cultuurhistorische verkenningen rond de Middellandse Zee (Amsterdam 1995) 59–72. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homer: Poet, Poetry, and the Promise of Eternal Renown’, in J. Kelder, G. Uslu, Ö.F. Şerifoğlu (eds.), Troy. City, Homer, Turkey (Zwolle 2012) 13–15. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Homerus: dichter, dichtkunst, en de belofte van eeuwige roem’, in J. Kelder, G. Uslu, Ö.F. Şerifoğlu (eds.), Troje. Stad, Homerus, Turkije (Zwolle 2012) 13–15. Jong, I.J.F. de, ‘Achilles na Vietnam’, Hermeneus 92 (2019) 214–218.

Glossary Analepsis (flashback) the narration of an event which took place earlier than the point in the story where we are. Distinction is made between internal analepses (narrating events which fall within the time limits of the main story), and external analepses (narrating events which fall outside those time limits). Attributive discourse the marking of the boundaries between narrative and speech, usually by way of speechintroductions and (often, but not always) speech-cappings. Characterization the ways in which traits and dispositions of any kind are ascribed by a narrator to a character, and the processes by which those traits and dispositions are interpreted by narratees as pertaining to that character. Characterization may be direct (by the narrator or another character) or indirect (when personality traits have to be inferred by the narratees). Within the latter category, distinction is made between metaphorical characterization (by comparison with someone/something else, e.g. via similes) and metonymical characterization (relying on the inference of traits or dispositions from aspects that are causally related to those traits or dispositions, such as someone’s actions or words). Character-text (speech) those parts of the text that are presented by or ascribed to a character.

Cognitive narratology (also ‘Affective narratology’) trend in narratological studies that focuses upon the relation between narrative and mind, analysing topics like sense-making strategies and processes by which the reader is affected by the narrative. Direct discourse (DD) when a narrator presents words spoken by a character directly, thereby conveying the impression as if we listen to the words of the characters themselves. DD always entails stylization by the narrator, who may avoid typical fillers like ‘eh’ and makes characters speak the language the narratees can understand. Fabula all events which are recounted in the story, abstracted from their disposition in the text and reconstructed in their chronological order. Focalizer the person (the narrator or a character) through whose ‘eyes’ the events and persons of a narrative are ‘seen’. Free indirect discourse (FID) speech that is not introduced by a verb of speaking and where person and usually tense follow the perspective of the narrator, but spatio-deictic centre and occasionally tense that of the character. Immersion the sensation of entering a narrative world. Indirect discourse when the narrator presents words spoken by a character indirectly (and often in—more

glossary or less—summarized form). The temporal perspective is that of the narrator, but the deictic centre may be that of the speaking character. Metalepsis narrative strategy of blurring the boundaries between different narrative levels (e.g. when a primary narrator who is outside the text directly addresses a character within the text, by way of ‘metaleptic’ apostrophe). Narratee(s) the addressees of the narrator. We may distinguish between external and internal narratees. The former are not characters in the story told to them, whereas the latter are. Furthermore, we may distinguish between primary and secondary (tertiary, etc.) narratees. The former are the addressees of the main story, whereas the latter are the addressees of secondary (or tertiary, etc.) narratives that are embedded in the main story. Narrator the person who recounts the events of the story and turns them into a narrative. Distinction is made between external narrators, who are not characters in the story they tell, and internal narrators, who are, and between primary narrators, who tell the main story, and secondary

759 (tertiary, etc.) narrators, who tell secondary (or tertiary, etc.) narratives that are embedded in the main story. Narrator-text those parts of the text which are presented by the primary narrator (and not ascribed to a character). Distinction is made between simple narrator-text (narrator = focalizer) and complex narrator-text, or embedded focalization (the narrator presents the focalization of a character). Order the chronological order in which the events of the fabula are presented in the narrative (including analepses and prolepses). Prolepsis (foreshadowing) the narration of an event which will take place later than the point in the story where we are. Distinction is made between internal prolepses (which refer to events which fall within the time limits of the main story), and external prolepses (which refer to events which fall outside those time limits). Record of speech act (RSA) a mode of speech representation where we only find an indication that words are spoken. A brief suggestion of their content can (but need not) be added.

General Index Achilles 2, 5, 7, 9, 14, 31–32, 35–41, 48, 49– 51, 56, 65, 66–67, 68–70, 70, 71, 73–74, 80n14, 94–99, 99–104, 108, 110, 136, 139, 140, 145, 169, 172, 181–183, 187, 190–191, 214–217, 225, 233, 234, 235, 237, 238, 245, 247, 249, 259, 311, 316, 480, 483, 487, 489, 547, 637, 650–662, 717, 718, 720, 721, 722, 723, 745–746 Mênis of 2, 5, 9, 14, 31–32, 35–41, 71n32, 107, 108–109, 136, 181–183, 487, 637, 656, 670n12 Shield of 169–170, 173, 246, 697 Achilles Tatius 175, 637, 645, 646, 684, 686, 687, 688 Aeneas 3, 99, 107, 182, 188, 233, 249, 540– 552, 554, 555–567, 573, 576, 577, 580, 583, 588, 589, 596, 597, 708, 722 Shield of 576, 697 Aeschylus 189, 265, 289, 327, 543 Affective narratology see Narratology Agamemnon 2, 14, 31–32, 35, 36, 37, 41, 42, 48, 56, 96, 97, 107, 109, 135, 181–182, 183, 190, 203–204, 216–217, 225, 290, 474, 480, 481, 484, 487, 623, 656, 714, 717 Agenor 94, 99–104, 110 Aigle 475, 476 Ajax Greater 205, 217, 218, 237, 259, 312, 483, 603, 604, 614–615, 616–617, 652, 653, 655, 656, 718 Lesser 108, 117, 187 Alcaeus 283, 495 Alcman 283 Allusion see Intertextuality Ambiguity 33, 122, 171, 178, 183, 223, 282, 311, 460, 471, 585, 673, 675, 724 Of emotions 48–49, 54–59 Analepsis see Time Anchises 55, 546 Ancient critics 8 Andromache 14, 48–54, 56, 59, 233n7, 237, 248, 489, 745–746 Anger see Emotions Antigone 200, 205–211, 256, 259, 260, 264 Antiochus IV Epiphanes 509, 510, 512, 514– 515, 516, 517

Aoidos (ἀοιδός) 288, 293 Aphrodite 55, 57–59, 109, 281–282, 283, 334, 488, 489, 503, 639, 699, 701, 708, 718 see also Venus Apollo 36, 40, 41, 42, 80n14, 85, 87–89, 97, 99–101, 107, 110, 181, 182, 189, 233, 238, 242, 245, 246, 328, 358, 374, 481, 482, 490, 671, 675 Apollonius of Tyana 652n10, 656n20, 657, 661 Apollonius Rhodius 9, 471–477, 479–492, 494, 495, 594, 596 Apostrophe 39, 504, 569–580, 697–709 Metaleptic 78–90 Appraisal theory 14, 68–70, 163, 416–417 Aratus 501, 502, 505 Arginusae 218–224 Ariadne 173, 558, 563–564, 567, 698, 705– 706 Aristeas of Proconnesus 299–300 Aristotle 4, 16, 30, 69, 108, 188, 214–215, 217, 221, 226, 261, 264, 324–327, 328, 330, 333, 362, 392, 440, 493n1, 634, 643, 644, 652, 653, 655, 656, 658, 697n1 Pity and fear (in the Poetics) see Catharsis see also Index of Passages Arrian 619, 620, 626, 659 Arrogance 377, 512, 516, 655, 721 see also Hybris Artabanus 363–365, 370, 371 Astyanax 14, 50, 51–54, 187, 231, 232n5, 233, 237–241, 242, 245, 248 Athena 57, 71, 97–99, 107–108, 114, 117, 119, 120n3, 121–122, 124, 125–127, 129– 130, 131, 143, 154, 182, 186–187, 188, 190, 232, 234, 235, 237, 242, 245, 247, 249, 281, 329, 484, 543, 672, 716, 717, 723 Athens 3, 4, 174, 201–202, 218–219, 221, 222– 224, 225, 230, 234, 267, 283, 294, 310, 329–330, 355, 358, 360, 361, 372, 374, 376, 377, 378, 383, 397, 400, 401, 402, 403–404, 405, 409, 442, 443, 445, 543 Audience 4, 10, 11, 15, 17, 36, 40, 50–51, 54, 85–88, 90, 156, 161–162, 188, 206, 221,

general index 231, 263, 277, 283n27, 288, 292, 294, 317–319, 324–335, 355, 360, 377–378, 390, 409, 415–416, 419, 420, 421–422, 428–440, 443, 448–450, 454, 455, 456, 458, 459, 462, 466, 513, 523, 525, 525– 530, 532, 535–536, 541–542, 550, 551, 604, 605, 608, 610, 612, 613–614, 614– 615, 642, 644, 651, 654, 658, 690n32, 697, 708, 713n6, 714n9, 715, 719, 723, 724 Auerbach 2, 337–338, 347 Authorial comment 341, 346, 402, 406, 408, 643–644 Barbarians 265, 290, 330, 333, 377, 399, 512, 517, 638, 683–684, 686, 688, 689, 693 see also Persians Battle of Kerata 400–401 Beowulf 258–259 Bible 337–347 Narrative in 337–347 Old Testament 337–347, 684 Blend of cognition and emotion 162–163 Blush, blushing 428, 434, 446, 670, 672 Body 4, 38, 67, 81, 230, 231, 291, 295, 337– 347, 374, 391–392, 508–517, 557, 561– 562, 564, 674, 700–702, 738, 740–741 Body language see Non-verbal communication Calypso 124, 128–130, 131, 483 Cambyses 6, 356, 357, 360, 361–362, 363, 371, 372, 375, 376 Candaules 358, 360, 369, 376 Capture of Thessalonike (Eustathios) 712– 724 Catharsis 18, 39, 324–335, 439–440 Catullus 279, 282, 564, 706, 730, 736, 741 Causality 41–42 Ceres 375, 667–679 see also Demeter Characterization 2, 8–9, 16–17, 51, 54, 95, 97–98, 107–108, 120–121, 130, 138, 157– 159, 161, 319, 321, 345, 371–373, 378, 400, 403–404, 405, 412, 415, 419–420, 424, 433, 454, 461, 472, 476, 482, 487, 509– 510, 510–513, 515, 517, 531, 554–555, 561– 563, 588, 590, 597, 611, 616, 651–653, 654, 655, 662, 672, 686, 699, 724, 732 Self-characterization 442, 456

761 Circe 112, 483, 718 Civic engagement 291, 693 Claudian 667–679 Cleomenes of Sparta 358, 361, 372 Cleon 214, 215, 220, 223, 225 Clothing 138–140, 143, 147–148 Cognitive linguistics 523 Cognitive narratology see Narratology Cognitive space 525, 529, 536 Comatas 496, 504 Common ground 201, 319, 523–537 Complementation 314–317 Complexity (in science and language) 33– 34 Contempt see Emotions Courage 156, 256, 258, 455, 457, 462, 465, 466–467, 511, 547–548, 615, 684, 687 Creusa 548–549, 550 Croesus 2, 190, 356, 357, 358–360, 361–362, 363–364, 368–378 Cupid 548, 549, 737 See also Eros (god and personification) Cyaxares 412, 413–415, 415n13, 417, 418–419, 420n29, 423, 424 Cyropaedia 377n11, 400n9, 411–425 Cyrus 356–357, 361, 370–375, 411–425 Daedalus 173, 175, 577 Dance 173–175 Daphnis 494, 501–504, 505, 643 Darius 356, 359, 360, 361, 369, 372 David 341–342, 343, 343–346 Defamiliarization 260 Deixis 197–211 Deictic pronouns 197–211 Demaenetus 397, 402–406, 409 Demeter 362, 667, 668, 673, 676 see also Ceres Democracy 219, 221, 223, 224, 225, 293, 400, 401, 403, 404–405, 407 Demosthenes 201–202, 215, 605, 610–613, 615, 616–617 Desire see Emotions Dialogue 6, 15, 37, 82, 84, 115, 116, 121, 126, 130, 141, 142, 143, 197, 279, 282, 283, 293, 308–310, 318–319, 320, 321, 356, 364, 371, 414, 431, 433, 445, 448, 451, 452, 456, 607, 622, 650–652, 654, 656, 657, 658, 661, 683

762 In drama 206, 333, 543 Philosophical 283, 422–423, 428–430, 431, 433–435, 442–453, 454–467, 621 Dido 3, 540, 547–550, 551, 554–567, 573, 580, 614, 735 Diomedes 198, 281, 489, 547, 654, 708, 714 Dioscuri 202n8, 496 Dislocation 608n24, 616 Divine inspiration/enthusiasm 604, 608, 610 Divine intervention 55, 71, 94, 111–113, 121, 344, 543, 550, 639 Eagerness 57, 266, 386–387, 462, 463–464, 466 Ecstasy see Emotions Ekphrasis 15, 174–178, 246, 247, 575, 576, 577, 578, 580, 640, 654, 697–709 Electra 259, 264, 307, 315, 316 Nurse of Proserpine 678 Eleusis 667, 669n10, 673, 675 Emotion (concept) Passim Aesthetic emotion 171–172, 178 Collective emotion 386–392, 397– 409 Definition of 3, 14–15, 257–258, 745 Description of 59, 66, 137, 148–149, 307, 314, 342, 368, 370, 381–394, 453, 554– 567, 641, 645, 656, 687 Emotional (mimetic) contagion 16–18, 161, 342, 421, 423–424, 643 Emotional distance 197–211 Emotional involvement 2, 10–11, 86, 428–440, 443–444, 509, 530, 570, 654, 712 Emotional proximity 197–211 Emotional restraint 370, 372, 373–378, 419–420, 421, 424–425, 433, 436–437, 451, 473, 504, 511, 512–513, 604, 613–615, 616–617, 685–686 Expression of 42, 49, 54, 97, 102, 230, 342, 370–371, 423, 528, 532, 556, 656, 706 Verbal 6, 51, 307–321, 432 Misplaced emotion 612 Narratology of 5–11, 26–43, 287–306 Of characters 8–9, 353 Of focalizers 6–8

general index Of narratees 353 Of narrators 6–8, 353, 354–355 Of spectators 389–392 Poetics of 290–291 see also Love, poetics of Psychology and/of 8, 9, 69, 140, 217, 309, 384, 390, 401–402, 405, 493, 644, 668, 672, 674–675, 679, 688–689, 693, 720, 723 Self-expression of 307–321, 341 Somatic symptoms of 135–136, 145–146 Emotions Passim Admiration/awe 163, 171–172, 211, 433, 464, 516, 655, 661, 713 Agony 265, 296, 514, 739 Anger/rage 26–43, 48, 70–74, 107–118, 135, 136, 145–146, 153–164, 181–183, 190– 191, 214–226, 313, 340, 341, 353, 356–358, 365, 369–370, 371, 372–373, 374–375, 399–400, 400–401, 419, 428, 456–459, 465–466, 473–474, 479–492, 493, 498, 501, 512, 516, 582–598, 614–615, 619–631, 634, 637–640, 645, 650–662, 667–679, 689, 701 Anger management 214–226 Annoyance 399, 447, 448, 453, 465, 613– 614 Astonishment/surprise 208, 211, 317, 370, 386, 405, 456, 609, 635, 640–645 Contempt 82, 354, 457–458, 464–466, 474, 605 Desire 55, 135, 136, 145–146, 154n7, 156, 203, 359–360, 368–369, 370, 398, 419, 442–443, 446, 447, 452, 493, 495, 496, 499, 500–504, 635–637, 640, 646, 686, 689–690, 693 Despair 95–99, 232, 247, 278, 292, 339, 433, 615, 635, 640–645, 690–692, 731, 732, 737 Disappointment 163, 406, 498, 501, 596, 638 Disgust 14, 98, 289, 354, 513, 516, 701 Dismay 416, 432, 686 Displeasure 113, 136, 339, 356 Ecstasy 604–605, 608–609, 610, 612, 613–614, 616, 642, 669, 675, 676 Excitement 208, 446 Fear (fright) 39, 62–75, 94–104, 125– 126, 127, 130, 135, 136, 156, 206, 211, 232,

general index 257, 258, 261, 289, 313, 317–319, 320, 330–332, 339, 344, 354, 356–358, 365, 369–370, 373, 374, 389–392, 398, 404– 406, 414, 454–467, 493, 514, 523–537, 603, 604, 608–609, 634, 640–645, 658, 662, 716, 731 Of death 94–104 Frustration 136, 142, 258, 374–375, 414– 415, 497–499, 562–563, 565, 617, 628, 631, 636–637, 645, 674 Grief 16, 18, 49, 108, 128, 135, 136–137, 138–140, 140, 143–144, 145, 146, 156–157, 184, 188–189, 232, 257, 265, 313, 317, 319, 330–331, 341–342, 346, 354, 369–370, 371, 374–378, 416, 437, 493, 565, 604, 609, 619, 633, 656, 662, 667–679, 689, 709, 714–715, 732, 738, 739 Guilt 135, 140, 202, 205, 667–679 Hate/Hatred 156, 313, 354, 406–407, 408, 527, 583 Hope/Expectation 155, 353, 354, 640– 645, 731 Horror 289, 291, 523–537, 571 Indignation 154n7, 457, 459, 466n22, 512, 614, 634, 670, 702 Jealousy 154n7, 255, 313, 353, 413–414, 417, 634, 637–640, 645 Joy 125, 130, 135, 146–147, 156, 163, 294, 295, 313, 339, 359, 370, 371, 374, 400– 401, 418, 428–440, 493, 527, 608–609, 613, 633, 634, 640–645, 671, 716 Loathing 62–75, 590 Love/Passion 135, 140, 153–164, 255, 275– 284, 345–346, 398, 412, 424, 442–443, 548, 583, 585, 593, 608- 609, 633, 645, 646, 650–662, 669, 672, 676, 700, 702– 703, 705, 709, 731, 734–736, 739–740 Maternal 667–679 Paternal 205, 595 Poetics of 493–505 Pity 39, 135, 140, 181–193, 205, 261, 289, 291, 313, 315, 319, 328–330, 363, 371–372, 373, 374, 430–431, 436, 514, 516, 604, 623, 634, 640–645, 735 Pleasure 17–18, 430–431, 436–439, 442– 443, 448–450, 609, 634, 640–645 Relief 135, 344, 418 Remorse/Regret 313, 361–362, 371–372, 635

763 Shame 154n7, 155, 255, 258, 313, 314–315, 333–335, 358–359, 446–447, 449, 450, 614, 640–645, 646, 687 Sorrow 163, 211, 232, 249, 353, 428–440, 570–571, 634, 716 Wonder 172, 313, 316, 355, 635, 640–645 Empathy 12, 16–17, 18, 82, 90, 247, 250, 258, 261, 289, 293–294, 319, 320, 321, 324, 325, 329–330, 332, 333, 343, 404, 415– 416, 421n33, 423, 536, 560, 576, 577, 643, 744 Enactivity 48 Enargeia (ἐνάργεια) 11, 15–16, 79–80, 170, 390–391, 508–517, 523–524, 535, 654 Epic regression 88–89 Epictetus 619–631 Eremitic monasticism 684–685, 686, 688, 689, 690, 692, 693–694 Eros (god and personification) 154, 359, 493n1, 635–636, 637, 639, 702–703, 709 see also Cupid Ethos (ἦθος) 8, 420–423, 611 Euripides 8, 189, 197, 205, 217, 255, 287, 315, 324, 327, 332, 333, 542, 609, 612, 625, 641, 659, 699, 700, 707 Euryptolemus 219, 220, 221, 223, 224–225 Eustathios of Thessalonike 10, 41, 712–724 Excitement see Emotions Experientiality 29, 81–82, 382, 385–386, 391n24, 393, 417, 530 Fabula 41, 62–75, 287, 373, 378, 686 Family romance 684 Fate (moira) 37, 108, 258 Fear see Emotions Fictionality 83, 281 Focalization 6–8, 15, 16, 30–32, 36, 39, 48–49, 52, 54–59, 62–75, 86–87, 261– 263, 263–265, 327–328, 331–332, 334, 390–391, 398–399, 400, 401, 402, 403, 404–405, 428, 430, 431, 442, 444–445, 446, 449, 523–537, 575–577, 635, 641, 644, 687, 744–745 Embedded (or secondary) 7–8, 16, 30, 67–68, 82, 95, 98, 104, 128, 138–140, 141, 145, 149, 157n12, 224–225, 398, 480, 564, 566, 575, 661 Focalizer 6–8, 31, 32, 35, 82, 262, 264, 265, 310, 327–328, 535, 555–556, 558,

764 Focalizer (cont.) 561, 566, 577–578, 677, 705 see also Narrator-focalizer Foregrounding 260–261 Freud 493–494, 504, 672, 674, 744 Funeral 109, 715, 720 Funerary inscriptions 377–378 Funerary laws 376, 378 Prothesis scene 247–250 Gadatas 412, 417–418, 419, 420, 424 Gardening 138–140 Gilgamesh 257–259, 262–263, 342, 346n26 Gobryas 412, 417–418, 419, 420, 424 Gorgias 3–4, 11–12, 17, 333, 393, 449–451, 453, 460 Greed 360, 369, 370, 373, 407, 457 Greek colonization 266 Greek novel 9, 175–178 Greek religion 267–268 Greek romance 633–646 Grief see Emotions Guest-friendship 143–145 Gyges 358, 369 Hecate 154, 675 Hector 7, 14, 35, 49–51, 53, 54, 57, 58, 65, 67– 70, 94, 96, 97, 99, 100, 103, 104, 107, 109, 110, 181, 183, 217, 233, 237, 238, 474, 487, 488–489, 545–546, 611, 615–616, 616– 617, 656, 714, 715, 720 Hecuba 49, 218, 245, 330–332, 333 Helen 49, 54–59, 109–110, 116, 141, 202–205, 217, 237, 239, 248, 332, 333–334, 369, 460, 496–497, 656, 659, 660, 661, 699, 701, 706, 708, 746 Hellenica Oxyrhynchia 397–409 Digressions in 397–409 Hera 107, 182, 190, 296, 329, 421, 484 see also Juno Heracles/Hercules Greek Heracles 158, 239, 296, 301, 319, 471–477, 479, 483–485, 486, 488, 489, 586, 594 Latin Hercules 578n35, 582–598 Hermes 130, 172, 234, 245, 247, 249, 334, 503 see also Mercurius Hermogenes 715–716

general index Herodotus 7, 267, 353–365, 368–378, 381, 401n12, 424, 523, 543–544 Heroicus 650–662 Hesiod 153–164, 185, 290, 293, 296, 301, 503, 721 Hesperides 475–477 Hippolytus 542, 544, 697–699, 700, 701– 704, 705, 707, 709 Historic present 11, 80, 533 Historical causes Of the Corinthian War 397–409 Homer Passim Homeric commentaries 716, 719, 722, 723, 724 Homeric θάρσει-speeches 124–131 Honour 3, 103, 108, 115, 158–159, 256, 258, 650–662 Dishonouring 37, 41–42, 637 Kleos aphthiton (κλέος ἄφθιτον) 37, 94, 97–98, 660 Hope see Emotions Hugo Grotius 728–741 Humour 282, 456, 460, 464, 465, 646, 651 Hybris 158, 636, 638, 639 see also Arrogance Idas 474n12, 479, 480, 481–483, 485, 485n17, 486, 488–490 Iliupersis 233, 237 Illocutionary force 31 Imagery 11, 328, 332, 422, 501, 636, 670, 672, 731–732 Immersion 12, 15–16, 78–90, 278, 368n2, 393, 436–437, 530, 535, 537, 566–567, 605–606, 612, 640–641, 645, 700, 707 Indignation see Emotions Inner conflict 101–103 Intertextuality 37, 145, 224, 422, 474, 479– 492, 526, 555, 558, 561n16, 563, 564, 567, 596, 597, 633, 660, 673 Allusion 110, 173, 176, 177, 288, 300, 345, 463, 471, 474, 479–492, 576, 583, 584, 588, 589, 591, 592, 596, 610, 660, 691, 700, 700n15, 707–708, 716n22, 735, 739– 740 (Emotional) Involvement 428–440, 443 of the narratee/reader 10, 15, 39–40, 86, 255, 325, 403, 428, 491, 509–510, 513, 523–537, 611–612, 654, 744 of the narrator 1–2, 6, 570, 577, 712

765

general index Io 288, 295–301, 358, 369 Iris 54–55, 57, 115, 202 Irony Dramatic 11, 88, 114, 143, 359, 361, 364, 398, 405, 482, 491, 497, 499, 501, 516, 551, 574, 576 Socratic 2, 433, 442, 445, 454–455, 456– 459, 460, 461 Irrational 4–5, 436, 604 Isocrates 463, 715 Jason 138, 259, 265, 471–474, 477, 479, 480, 481, 484, 485–488, 490, 586, 592, 596, 597 Jealousy see Emotions Jörgensen’s law 112 Judas the Maccabee 508–511, 516, 517 Juno 182, 550, 556, 562, 564, 566–567, 583, 584–585, 586 Jupiter 558, 560, 562, 565, 571, 572, 580, 582, 583–586, 589, 590, 669, 669–670, 673, 678 see also Zeus Labyrinth 169–178, 744 Laertes 135–149 Laius see Oedipus Laocoon 230, 544, 594 Laughter 135, 354, 371–372, 428, 456–458, 464–466, 481, 490, 578 Learning by example 619–631 Literacy 267 Literary criticism 5, 391, 400, 431, 450, 459, 605, 651, 655, 689–690 Literary language 260–261 Livy 386n13, 523–537, 552 Lorenz (E.) 33–34 Love see Emotions Longinus 8, 275–276, 282, 284, 381, 603–617 Longus 643 Lycidas 503–504, 505 Lyric ‘I’ 275 Magic 500–501 Mantis (μάντις) 289 Martyr/martyrdom 508–517, 684–685 Masks in theatre 312–313 Meleager 49, 217, 482, 582–598, 730 Memory 17–18

Collective 401, 405–406 Menelaus 54, 56–57, 80, 94, 96, 100, 103, 109, 110, 137, 139, 141, 190, 202, 205, 237, 248, 297, 333, 496, 699, 706, 708, 715 Mercurius 554, 555, 556, 558, 562, 565, 566 see also Hermes Messenger-speech 287, 292, 301, 327–328, 540–552 Metalepsis 78–90, 169–171, 430n4, 552, 582– 598, 616, 655, 703, 707–708 Metaliterary aspects 643, 690–691 Metanarrative 288, 297, 491, 635, 639, 640– 646 Metadiegetic 471, 475, 585 Metaphor 11, 32, 71–73, 81n15, 136–137, 139, 140, 174, 198, 261, 299, 332, 344, 346–347, 364–365, 424, 460, 461–462, 466–467, 508, 556, 606, 635–636, 656, 672, 736 Metapoetics 471–472, 503–504, 582–598, 660 Metatheatre 288, 290, 301 Self-awareness in 290–291 Miletus 266 Fall of Miletus, by Phrynichus 543–544 Mimesis 17–18, 325, 420–422, 644 Mimetic art 421–422, 436–440 Mind reading 148–149 Mirror (miroir) 169–171, 172, 173, 178 Mise en abyme 170–171, 175, 295–301, 585, 593 Monarchy 357, 371–373 Monasticism (eremetic) 682–694 Monody (lyric) 331 Motherhood 667–679 Muse 17, 109, 186, 460–461 Music 295, 331–332, 651, 653, 655–656, 660, 662 Mytilene 3n8, 214–215, 218, 219, 220, 222, 223–224, 225, 401n16 Narratee 1–2, 8–9, 10–11, 12, 15, 36, 40, 48–51, 53–54, 56–57, 59, 62–63, 67, 74, 75, 79–80, 83, 86, 88n38, 101, 110–111, 111–114, 115–116, 130, 138, 140, 141, 143, 148–149, 160–161, 170, 203, 216, 222–223, 225, 288, 293, 300, 341, 343, 347, 371, 374, 399, 400, 403–409, 443–444, 445,

766 Narratee (cont.) 447, 448, 449, 450, 453, 454–455, 466, 471, 485, 491, 504, 508– 517, 525–537, 540, 544, 547–552, 557– 558, 561–562, 563–565, 567, 569–570, 575–580, 585, 605–606, 626, 651–652, 654–655, 662, 672, 679, 683, 693, 698, 701–702, 706, 707–709, 713, 714, 716– 717, 720, 733, 736–737 ‘Viewing’ narratee 230–253, 703–704 Narrative/Narration Passim Authority 407–408, 409 Biblical see Bible Christian 683 Embedded 10, 49, 109–110, 111–114, 443, 457, 569–571, 714 In forensic oratory 215 Micro-narrative in tragedy 324–335 Scenic narrative/narration 15, 66, 70, 74, 81, 84, 89, 90 Narratology Affective/Cognitive 11–18, 28, 62–75, 153, 288, 325–327, 382, 386, 411–425 Classical 30, 62 Model of Genette 169 Model of Genette-Bal 1, 62, 63, 743 Narratological time 62–75 Post-classical 28 Narrator Passim Narrator-focalizer 39, 262–263, 555–556, 558, 559, 560, 567 Omniscient 7, 15–16, 86, 262, 404, 407– 408, 431, 651, 669, 705 Unreliable 433 Nausicaa 119–122, 124, 126, 131, 142, 147 Neuroscience, neuroscientists, neuroscientific 3, 12–13, 14, 16 Newton (I.) 33, 34 Nicias Commander 382–385, 388, 389, 390 Philosopher 443 In Theocritus 496, 498 Non-verbal communication 122, 126, 128, 137, 140, 142, 220, 312–313, 341–342, 392, 431, 697, 700–702, 704 Nostalgia 54–59, 135 Odysseus 2, 11, 49, 56, 94, 100, 103, 104, 107– 118, 119–131, 135–149, 171, 182, 200, 205, 217, 233, 262, 297, 311, 318, 319, 481, 483–

general index 484, 487, 490, 494, 540, 542, 612, 614, 667, 706, 714, 715 Oedipus 13, 188–190, 259, 318, 320, 362, 416, 542, 667 Onias III 509, 510–511, 512, 514 Orestes 307–308, 316, 603, 604, 609, 617 Pain/Suffering 12, 16, 38–39, 55, 73, 114, 116, 117, 157, 160, 163–164, 182–183, 184–185, 187, 188–189, 191, 214, 218, 230, 232, 249, 258, 265, 277, 291, 293, 295–301, 311, 325–326, 326, 327, 328, 330–332, 333, 357, 364, 370, 376, 384, 421, 431, 436– 437, 439, 493, 500–501, 502, 505, 514, 516, 540–541, 542, 550–551, 557, 571, 574, 638, 643, 644, 658, 687, 688, 689, 691–692, 693, 732, 734 Painting 170, 175–177, 508–509, 513, 574–578, 697–709 see also Vase-painting Pandora 155, 160 Paris/Alexander of Troy 54, 57–59, 96, 107, 108, 109, 116, 202, 217, 330, 333–334, 460, 474, 488, 494, 699, 701, 708, 746 Parody 219, 361, 460, 736, 738, 740–741 Passion see Emotions Pathos (πάθος) 3, 8, 11, 78, 84, 86, 87–88, 89, 90, 222, 287–306, 382, 393–394, 398, 417–418, 420, 423, 542, 576, 603–617, 634, 704, 712, 715, 738 Peloponnesian War 384, 402, 405, 406, 407 Penelope 2, 11, 127, 131, 135, 136, 137, 141–142, 144, 146–147, 494, 495, 718 Perception theory 68, 416–417 Performance 263, 275–284, 288 Performer 275–284 Periander 361, 363, 372–373, 375–376 Persephone 667, 675–676 see also Proserpine Persians 265, 317, 356–358, 359–361, 363, 365, 369–370, 371, 372, 375–376, 412, 543–544, 638, 678 see also Barbarians Perspectivation 255–269 Petrarch 731, 734, 736 Petrarchism 728, 730, 731–732, 734, 737, 738, 739 Phaedo 429–430, 430–431, 433, 437

general index Phaedra 2, 255, 259, 697–699, 700–701, 702–704, 705–706, 707, 708, 709 Phaedrus 442 Phenomenology 30, 419 Of emotions 135–136, 145–146 Philosophical reasoning/argument 428– 440, 443 Philotimia (φιλοτιμία) 713, 719–724 Phrynichus 543 Pictorial language 230–253 Pity see Emotions Plato 4, 173, 173n17, 264, 268, 325, 420–423, 424, 425, 428–440, 442–453, 454–467, 510, 604, 611, 621 see also Index of Passages Pleasure see Emotions Politeness 119–131 Grice’s cooperative maxims 122–123, 125, 129 Leech’ politeness maxims 123 Polite retardation 119–131 Polyphemus Cyclops 107, 108, 112, 113, 115, 116, 117, 182, 495, 498, 499, 502, 718 Argonaut 475, 485, 486 Poseidon 71, 98–99, 104, 107–118, 130, 182, 328–330, 332, 544, 609, 653 Priam 35, 49, 56, 99, 107, 109, 136, 172, 181, 183, 187, 202–205, 231, 232, 233, 236–241, 242, 245, 246, 247, 249, 250, 546, 548, 552, 656, 661, 718, 721 Procopius of Gaza 697–709 Prolepsis see Time Prometheus 153, 155, 156, 157–160, 176, 287– 306 Prometheus Bound 287–306 Proserpine 667–679 see also Persephone Protreptic discourse 378, 435–436, 628, 651 Psalms 342–347, 739 Pseudo-Nilus 682–694 Psychagôgia (ψυχαγωγία) 437–438, 509 Punishment 115–118, 156, 158–159, 225, 290– 292, 357, 361, 362, 512, 513, 516, 517, 544, 567, 574, 576, 658 Razis 511, 515–516, 517 Realism 8, 59, 68, 148, 191, 241, 517, 677, 707

767 Recognition Scenes of 135–149 Regulus 569–580 Remorse 216–217, 219 Repetition see Time Resignation 497, 501 Revenge 3, 97, 107, 108, 111, 114n20, 156– 157, 214, 255, 356, 358, 359, 361, 365, 369, 370–371, 372n12, 376, 400n8, 417, 418, 424, 500, 549, 558, 559, 566– 567, 625, 638–639, 656, 658, 661, 704 Rhythm see Time Ridicule 291, 455, 457–459, 466, 474, 505, 531, 578, 626 Ring-composition 143, 300 Rite de passage 296, 299, 675–677 Sack of Troy (poem by Stesichorus) 185–190 Sappho 275–284, 298, 495, 603, 607, 609, 612, 613, 617 Scamander 71–74, 94, 95, 97, 99, 102, 662, 717 Schêmata (σχῆματα, rich frames) 81, 382, 554 Scorn 57–58, 214–215, 456–457, 459, 622 Script 417–418, 423–424 Second Maccabees 508–517 Self-abasement 49 Sêma (σῆμα, ‘proof’) 146–147 Shame see Emotions Shock 359, 429, 515, 542, 642, 677–678 Aesthetic shock 171 Silius Italicus 569–580 Simaetha 500–501 Simichidas 503, 504–505 Simile 11, 15, 66, 68, 74, 84, 89, 98, 99–104, 136–137, 139, 172, 174, 480, 551, 557, 561, 565, 566–567, 670–671, 677–678, 679, 715, 735 Simulation 17–18 Socrates 2, 17, 174, 219, 225, 283, 420–422, 428–434, 437, 438, 439, 442–453, 454– 467, 628, 630 Solon 357, 359, 360, 363–364, 373–377 Song 275–284, 493–505 Embedded 343, 345, 504 Sophocles 188–189, 218, 260, 542, 744 Sound effects 278

768 Space 9, 28, 30, 80, 81, 297, 299, 342, 402 As expression of emotion 121–122, 290, 294, 346–347, 557, 561–563, 567, 670– 671 Psychological space 332 (Spatial) standpoint 82, 89, 90, 197–211 Sparta 58–59, 109, 127, 205, 218, 356, 359, 360, 361, 370, 397, 400, 401, 402, 404, 405, 406–407, 408, 575, 576, 708 Speech 3, 6, 15, 27–28, 31, 49–54, 54–59, 84, 94–104, 119–122, 214–215, 337–347, 363– 365, 370, 382–385, 400, 404, 471–477, 479–492, 603–604, 615–616, 697, 700, 705–706 And narrative 214–226 Character speech 337–347 Embedded speech 97, 287–288, 301, 338 Homeric θάρσει-speeches see Homer Monologue 6, 16, 65, 68–70, 94, 101, 121, 318, 319, 320, 621 Soliloquy 99–104 see also Messenger-speech Spinoza 27, 30, 39 Spirit of resistance 100–101 Spiritual growth/development 439, 682– 694 Stage direction, lack of 313–314, 320–321 Stesichorus 185–188, 189–190 Stoicism 619–631 Strife (Eris, Ἔρις) 155 Structuralism 30 Stylistic registers in Plato 454–467 Sublimation 324, 493–494, 504 Sublime 173, 175, 603–617, 642–643 Suffering see Pain Suicide 49, 358, 515–516, 541–542, 615 Supplication 172, 188, 240, 242, 245, 247– 248, 362 Suspense 82, 84, 85, 87–90, 127, 130–131, 291, 344, 392 Syracuse 218, 224, 381–394 Teaching 619–631 Tears 55–56, 135–136, 143–144, 202, 264, 341–342, 363, 370, 371–372, 374, 411– 425, 429, 443, 512, 573, 686, 720, 735, 738 Teichoscopy 197–211

general index Telamon 479–480, 485–488, 490, 582, 586– 590, 591–594, 597 Telemachus 109, 126, 127, 130, 131, 141, 142, 143, 147, 639, 667 Temporality 26–43 Thambos (θάμβος) see Wonder Therapeutic effect of poetry, song 493, 496, 502, 504 of storytelling 691–692 Thersites 474, 481, 483, 483–484, 485, 488, 489, 490 Theseus 173, 174, 189, 319, 564, 698, 699, 701– 704, 705 Thessalonike 712 Fall of 712 Thucydides 7, 214, 218, 218–219, 220, 222, 223–224, 224, 375, 381–394, 398, 401, 406, 513 Timê (τιμή) see Honour Time 26–43, 62–75, 81–82 Analepsis 49–54, 59, 62, 108–111, 114–116, 222, 289, 297, 402–408, 686 Prolepsis 10–11, 35–36, 49–54, 59, 62, 86–87, 115, 137–138, 249, 289, 297, 482, 491–492, 654 Repetition (also doublet) 49, 62, 74, 85, 108–111, 115, 388 Rhythm 62–75 Trauerarbeit 674, 679 Trauma 541–544, 656 Troilus 231, 232, 233–235, 237–239, 240, 242–246, 247, 249 Trojan War 108, 184, 232, 311, 324–335, 369, 550, 650, 653, 656, 657, 662, 698, 699 Troy 49, 54, 56–57, 95, 97, 100, 101, 109, 110, 111, 115, 130, 185–190, 203, 205, 217, 233, 237–240, 242, 245–246, 249, 311, 324– 335, 479, 484, 540–552, 560, 650, 657, 658, 660, 661, 662, 709, 715 Fall of 185–188, 238, 245–246, 328–330, 540–552 Trojan women 205, 324–335 Turnus 597 Tyranny 371–373, 406 Valerius Flaccus 582–598 Vase-painting 230–253 Typical compositions 230–253 Typical elements 230–253

general index Venus 545, 546, 548, 549, 551, 556, 559, 560, 563, 564, 585, 669, 672, 737 see also Aphrodite Verbs Performative verbs 31, 314–317 Pragmatics of 307–321 Semantics of 307–321 Tenses of 37–38, 52–53 Verbs of emotion 307–321 Verisimilitude 530, 535 Vertigo 169, 174–175, 178 Virgil 182, 540–552, 554–567, 573, 576, 577, 580, 582–598, 668, 669, 734, 735 Visual and acoustic detail 11, 81, 84, 85 Wise-adviser scene 363–364 Women

769 Perspective of 144, 205, 255–268, 324– 335 Position of 255–268 Wonder see Emotions Xenophon 218, 219, 220, 223–224, 224–225, 411–425, 620–621, 634, 638 Xerxes 265, 317, 356–360, 361–362, 363–364, 369, 370, 371–372, 543 Zeus 36, 37, 39–40, 57, 95–96, 99, 103, 108, 110, 113–114, 114–116, 117, 125, 129, 130, 153, 156–160, 164, 182, 184–185, 188, 190, 233, 238, 289, 290, 292–295, 295–296, 298, 300, 329, 334, 359, 374, 377, 421, 465, 482, 603, 615, 667 see also Jupiter

Index of Passages Achilles Tatius 1.1.1–1.2.3 1.2.1 1.2.5 1.4.4 1.4.5 1.6.1 1.6.6 1.7.1 1.7.2–3 1.9.1 1.11.1 1.11.3 1.13.1 1.17.1 2.1.3 2.3.3 2.5.2 2.13.1 2.13.2 2.18.4 2.23.5 2.29.1–2 2.29.1–3 2.29.3 3.12.1 3.15.2 3.15.6 3.16.3 4.7.4 4.14.5 5.3 5.3.4 5.5.4–5 5.5.7 5.13.3 5.24.3 5.25.6 5.26.2 5.26.3 6.10.5 6.26 7.1.1 7.3.7 8.5.7

686 636 642 636 642 636 636 636 636 636 636 637 642 636 636 636 636, 637, 638 636 638 642 636 638 637 638 684 684 642 684 636 642 176n30 176 176 638 636 636, 638 636 636 636 638 637 638n34 638 636

Aeschylus Agamemnon 177 1399 Eumenides 172 275 1021 Libation Bearers 450 555 1007–1009 Persians 168 169 170–171 248–255 249–512 305–330 342–347 355–360 475–510 Prometheus Bound 28 88–92 89–90 93–100 100 101–105 105 115–118 118 120–121 127 151 172–173 173 180 181–182 183 184 184–185 186–192 193 197–241 232

295 318n24 293n23 299 316n21 299 316n21 317 317 317 317 543 543 543 543 543 543 58n22 291 292 291 291 292 292 292 292 292 292 298 293 293 293 293 291 293 293 293 293 293 298

771

index of passages 257 259–266 266 277–283 393–396 397 397–435 399–402 402–405 406 406–407 413 431 431–435 435 442–471 460–461 461 476–506 519 529–532 536–539 540–544 545–547 547–550 550–552 553–554 555–560 561–565 561–608 561–886 566–588 574–575 576 589–592 609–610 610 611–612 614 621 622 622–630 623 624 628–629 630 631–634 640–682 658–666

291 293 293 293 294 294 294 292 294 294 294 294 294 294 294 294 294 294 294 298 294 294 294 294 295 295 295 295 297 297 295–301 297 295 296 297 297 299 297 297 297 291, 297 297 297 298 298 298 298 297 300

667–668 683–685 687–695 695 696–697 700–704 706 707–735 707–751 717 723 735–740 740–741 749–750 752–756 755 757 757–775 763–774 774 775 776 776–787 789 790–818 793–800 802 803–805 812–814 823 823–828 826 828 829–835 829–843 832–835 840 841 841–843 842 845 846–847 846–874 849 849–851 851–873 852 853–869 871–873

298 298 298 298 298 298 291, 298 299 297 299 299 298 298 298 298 291 298 297 299 301 299 299 299 299 297, 299 299 299 299 300 291, 300 300 300 291, 300 300 297, 300 300 300 300 300 300 298, 300 300 297, 300 296 296, 300 296 300 300 301

772

index of passages

Prometheus Bound (cont.) 873–874 301 875–876 301 932–933 295 1026 291 Seven Against Thebes 203–210 320n28 561–652 296 1007 511n12 Suppliants 710 316n21 1070 318 Anacreon fr. 347 PMG fr. 357 PMG

282n23 281n17

Anthologia Palatina 5.78 (pseudo-Plato) 738n33 Apollodorus Bibliotheca 3.1.4 Epitome 1.7–11 3.32 5.23 Apollonius Rhodius 1.91–94 1.122–132 1.130 1.151 1.190–198 1.343–349 1.347 1.460–461 1.462 1.462–495 1.464–465 1.466–470 1.472–474 1.477–478 1.480 1.481–484 1.485–486 1.486 1.487–491 1.492

173 173 233 239n12

486n18 472 472 481 593–594 472 473 481 481, 483, 488, 490 480, 481–483 481, 488 481 481, 482 482 481 482 481 490 481 483, 489, 490

1.492–493 1.492–495 1.493 1.609–909 1.861–876 1.863 1.864 1.865–868 1.865–874 1.872–874 1.872–878 1.875 1.1051 1.1172–1206 1.1207–1253 1.1261–1264 1.1273–1309 1.1284 1.1284–1285 1.1284–1344 1.1289 1.1297 1.1310–1325 1.1329–1335 1.1334–1335 1.1339 1.1339–1343 1.1342–1343 1.1343 1.1441–1456 2.1–29 2.16 2.89 2.714–719 2.1077 3.270 3.367–385 3.369 3.382–385 3.475–483 3.515–516 3.545–554 3.556–566 3.557 3.558 3.558–563 3.562 3.566 3.576–608

482 481 490 473 480, 483–485 484 483 489 484 484 473–474 474, 483, 490 473n9 474 474 475 475 490 486 480, 486–488 486 486 475 486 486 486 487 488 490 476 480 490n29 490n29 491 473n9 473n9 480 488n25 488n23 488 488n23 488 480, 488–489 488 489 488 489 489 480

773

index of passages 3.1170 3.1252–1253 4.198 4.212–235 4.350–393 4.1393–1482 4.1432–1440 4.1436 4.1438 4.1719–1730 4.1725–1727 4.1727 4.1729 4.1765–1772 4.1767 4.1772 Appian Roman History 8.4 Aristophanes Acharnians 62–64 412 Birds 1547–1548 Clouds 1055 1329 Ecclesiazusae 338–340 585 586 1008–1010 1063 Frogs 508 696 1020–1064 Knights 329 Lysistrata 10–12 592–593 Peace 997 Wasps 510

489 489 473n9 480 480 475 475–476 476 476 490 490 490n26 490n27 490 490n28 490n28

575n24

320n28 700n15 319n27 316n21 316n23 319n27 320 320 320 318n24 316n21 316n21 327n12 318n24 319n27 311 430n5 311n12

Wealth 55 247 288–289 774–775 899–901 1014–1016 Aristotle Magna Moralia 1186a Metaphysics 1013b6–9 Nicomachean Ethics 1124a15 1143a23 On the Soul 403a3–b19 403a30–b3 Physics 195a6–8 220a24 Poetics 1449b 1449b6 1449b24–28 1449b38 1450b26–27 1451a23–30 1452a 1452a3 1452b28–1454a15 1453a 1453a–b 1453b 1453b5 1455b17–23 1458a20 1460a5–11 1460a11–19 Rhetoric 1370b10–15 1373b27–29 1378a 1378a20–23 1378a30–32 1378a30–1380a5 1378a31–33 1378b6–10

316n23 311n12 318n24 314 320n28 638

634n9 40n68 401n12 430n5 4 30n20 40n68 31n24 324, 643n60 261 4 35n44 231n1 108n6 643n60 261 4 326 643n60 644 362 109n8 261 16n65 654n13 214 221 637n33 4 653, 658n24 214 400n8 214

774

index of passages

Rhetoric (cont.) 1379b7 1380a2–5 1380a6 1380a6–1380b34 1380a9–12 1380b1 1380b31–34 1382a 1382a12–13 1382a21–25 1382b 1383b 1385a16–b10 1385b 1386b2 1389a9–12 1397b17–29 1398b21–1399a6 1414a38 1416a20–28 1416b16–1417b20 1417a8

217 215 655 215 221 214 214 330 214 69 325 333 221 326n11, 328n16 220 655n18 221 221 215 221 215 226

Arrian Periplus 21–23

659

Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 9.402e 9.403c–d

717n25 717n25

Augustine Confessions 1.13.20

735n29

Ausonius Cento nuptialis 12

729n5

Bacchylides 5.86–88

139n40

Bible* Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Genesis 1 615 4:5 341 6:9–9:17 185 22 337 23:2 341 27:38 341 29:11 341 37:34 514n28 37:35 341 43:30 338 45:14 341 Lev. 3:4 341 4:9 341 1 Sam. 1:8 339 2:1 339 2:10 343 18:1–3 346 18:20 346 19:1 346 2 Sam. 1:17–27 345 1:26 345, 346 11–12 345 11:3 339 12 345 13:1 346 18:33–19:8 341 22 343, 345 22:1 345 22:5–7 346 22:17 344, 346 22:20 346 23:1 344 23:1–7 343, 345 1 Kings 2:2–9 343 3:9 339 3:26 338 19:4 338 19:4–9 341

* We thank Jan Willem van Henten for his advice on the appropriate way of indexing Bible passages.

775

index of passages Est. 4:1 514n28 Job 32:2–3 340 Psalms 16:9 341 18 343 18:1 344–345 18:16 344 19:1–13 739n37 21:10 511n14 51:1–2 344–345 62:1 340 70:5 511n14 73:21 341 131:2 340 145:5 511n14 Prov. 30:31 511n13 Is. 15:3 514n28 65:17 339 Jer. 6:16 340 9:18 342 21:5 340 Ez. 32:18 342 Daniel 1:9 338 5:6 136n14 Jonah 2 343 3:6 514n28 4:1 338 4:5–11 341 Nahum 2:10 136n14 Deuterocanonical/Apocryphal Books 1 Macc. 9:14 511n13 2 Macc. 1:1 508 1:1–2:18 508 1:3–4 509n10 1:10 508 2:19–32 508n1 2:23 508 2:25 508, 509

2:27 2:28 2:29 3:1–15:37 3:14–21 3:19 3:21 3:21–22 3:24–29 4:16–17 4:25 4:36–38 4:37 5:5 5:9–10 5:11 5:17–20 5:21 5:22 6:12–17 6:18–7:42 6:23 6:28 6:30 6:31 7:1–5 7:2 7:3 7:5 7:5–6 7:7 7:14 7:20 7:21 7:24 7:27 7:36 7:37 7:39 7:40 8:16–20 8:21 9:1–18 9:4 9:5 9:7 10:1–8 10:10 10:25

508 508 509 508, 508n1 513, 514 514n28 514n27 514 513 509 512, 512n19 512 511 512 513 512 509 512, 516 512 509 510, 511, 513 510 509, 511 510 509 513, 514–515 511 512 515, 516 515 514 510 510, 511, 514 511 512 512 516 511 512 510 510 511 513, 516 512 515 512, 512n19 508 512 514n28

776

index of passages

2 Macc. (cont.) 10:35 512n19 13:4–8 513 13:10 510, 511 13:14 511 14:18 511n13 14:37–46 511, 513, 515–516 14:38 511 15:2 512n20 15:7–19 510 15:12 510 15:22 510 15:27 510 15:28–35 513 15:30 511 15:39 508 Sirach 21:29 740n40 Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament 3 Macc. 7:18 511n13 4 Macc. 6:11 511n13 9:23 511n13 12:13 512n19 14:11–17:1 687n28 17:4 511n14 17:7 509n5 New Testament Luc. 1:29 98n19 2:9–10 98n19 Callimachus Aetia fr. 21.11 fr. 178.11–12 fr. 178.11–20 Hymn to Delos 311 Catullus 2 51 51.1–17 64.52–57 64.132–201 64.249–250 64.253 68.135

490n26 482 482n9 173n18

737n31 278n12, 279, 282 739n35 564 706 564 577n30 741n42

Chariton 1.1.4 1.1.7 1.1.10 1.1.12 1.1.16 1.2.1 1.2.2 1.2.5 1.3.3–4 1.3.7 1.4.12 2.2.2 2.2.8 2.3.8 2.4.1 2.4.4 2.4.5 2.5.4 2.8.1 3.2.6 3.4.1 3.7.6 3.9.4 4.2.3 4.3.8 4.4.5 4.5.10

4.7.6 5.1.1 5.8.2

5.9.5 5.10.6 5.24.3 6.3.7–8 6.3.8 6.5.8 6.6.1 6.6.7 6.7.1 7.6.5 8.1.3 8.1.4 8.1.15

635n27 636 641 635n27 642 638 638, 639 639 639 636 639 642 642 636 646 646 635n27 642 636 646 634n10, 635n18, 635n23 639n38 635n27, 639n38 636 636 635n27 634n10, 634n11, 634n12, 635n19, 635n20, 641 635n27 639 634n10, 634n13, 634n16, 635n18, 635n23, 642 636 646 640 636 636n29 646 634n10, 634n11, 634n12, 634n14 639n38 636 646 639 640, 640n44, 645n67 639

777

index of passages 8.4.4 8.5.8

8.5.15 8.6.8 8.6.10 8.8.7

639 634n10, 634n11, 634n13, 634n17, 635n21 638 645n66 645n66 636

Cicero De Optimo Genere Oratorum 15 381 De Oratore 2.330 226 3.155 137n22 De Senectute 51–58 139n37 54 139n39 Claudian De Raptu Proserpinae Praef. 1.9 1.1–19 1.3 1.5–6 1.7–15 1.15–19 1.20–31 1.32 1.33–36 1.35 1.67–69 1.68 1.69–75 1.79–83 1.99–110 1.118–120 1.130–132 1.133–137 1.160–178 1.206–208 1.266–268 1.272–274 2.151–203 2.170 2.247–272 2.267–271 2.273 2.273–274

668n8 675 668n8 669n10 669n10 669n10 675 670, 671n19 670 671n19 670 671n19 670 670n17 670n17 669n9 671 671 672 676 671n21 672 670 670 670 676 671n19 670

2.274 2.275–306 2.367–372 3.70 3.82–90 3.97 3.102–106 3.105 3.130–131 3.141–145 3.149–153 3.155–158 3.159–165 3.179–180 3.263–268 3.386–391 3.394–397 3.407–410 3.407–437 3.421–424

671n19 671 677 677 677 677 677 678n47 676 677 677 677 677–678 678 678 678 672 676 678 676

Cratinus Dionysalexandros test. i PCG (P.Oxy. 663) 190n20 Ctesias F8d.12 Lenfant

419n28

Democritus DK 68 A 77

393

Demosthenes 18.208 19.229 23.111 23.121

610, 611 201n7 201n7 201–202

Dio Chrysostom Discourses 1.28 61.1

515n31 8

Diodorus Siculus 4.77.1–4 5.2–5 13.19.4–33.1 13.45.10 13.65.1–2

173n18 667n2 218 401n12 400n11

778

index of passages

Diodorus Siculus (cont.) 13.98–100 222 13.100–101 220n19 13.100.3 222n24 13.100.4 222 13.101.2 221n21 Diogenes Laertius 3.34

422

Dionysius of Halicarnassus Letter to Pompeius 3.18 381 On Composition 15–16 718n35 On Demosthenes 5–6 467 6–7 467 22.2–3 605 23 467 On Lysias 7 8, 513n24 Roman Antiquities 1.48.3 546 Epic Cycle Cypria fr. 1 GEF

184

Epictetus Discourses 1.1.22–25 1.1.25 1.2.26 1.2.30 1.6.29 1.6.30 1.7.31 1.9.10–17 1.9.18–19 1.11 1.11.1 1.13 1.14 1.15 1.18 1.18.3 1.18.4 1.18.5 1.18.6–7

623 630 621 621 622 622 628 629 629 620 621 621n10 621n10 621n10 623–624, 625, 629 623 629 624 624, 625

1.18.11 1.26 1.26.5–7 1.28 1.28.7–9 2.8.9 2.8.10 2.8.10–14 2.8.14 2.14 2.18.12–13 2.19 2.19.19–20 2.19.21–24 2.19.29 2.19.32 2.19.33 2.19.34 2.20 2.20.28 2.23.20–21 2.24 2.25 3.1 3.2.16 3.4 3.6 3.7 3.9 3.10.19 3.16.7 3.20.9 3.21.19 3.22 3.22.1 3.22.13 3.22.30–37 3.22.62 3.22.67 3.22.77 3.22.83 3.23.33 3.24.84–88 4.1.151 Euripides Alcestis 1093 1095 1130

629 621n10 624 625 625 627 623 623 627 621n9 624 628 628 628–629 630 630 631 631 626n26 626 626 621n10 621n10 621n9 623 621n9 621n10 620, 621n9 620, 621n9 629 627 630 628 621, 627 621, 622 623 623 621 621 621 627–628 628 631n33 630

316n21 316n21 316n23

779

index of passages Bacchae 944 1005 1027–1028 1193 Electra 1122–1123 Hecuba 968 Helen 23–48 23 27 28 34 36 44–45 469 Heraclidae 485 Hercules Furens 91–92 275 1235 1236–1237 Hippolytus 170–600 175–361 184–185 199 281 485 660 1153–1254 1161 1214–1218 Ion 618 1608 1614 Iphigenia at Aulis 16–20 477–478 496–497 506 823–824 824 1613

316n21 311n12 320n28 316n21 320n29 314 333 334 334 334 334 334 334 58n22 311n12 319n27 316n21 316n21 319 699 706 704 700 699 316n21 699 542 542 544 315 316n21 316n21 319n27 423n37 423n37 316n21 316 316n21 318

Iphigenia in Tauris 1486 Medea 106 131 230 346–347 419 491 801–802 824 884 908 1078–1079 Orestes 98–99 255–257 281 786 1583 Phoenician Women 94–98 95–98 118–130 119–130 120–122 123 125 127–130 131–138 135–137 145–150 156–162 161–162 171–174 179–189 181–182 185 614 1173 1683 Rhesus 191 Trojan Women 4 4–24 6–7 8 15–17

316n21 256 261 255 319 259 265 263 258 316n21 316n21 625n23 319n27 603 307–308 316n21 318n25 211n25 211n25 206–207 206 207 207 207 207 207–208 208 206, 208–209 206, 209–210 210 206, 209 206, 210 211n25 211 316n21 211n25 316n21 316n21 328 328 329 328 329

780 Trojan Women (cont.) 19 23–25 53 98–121 102–104 111 119 122 122–137 126 132 155 709–725 890 914–966 923–931 929 983–1001 1118–1135

index of passages

330 329 316n21 331 332 331 331 331 330–332 332 332 332 233n7 316n21 218 333 334 218 233n7

Eustathios Capture of Thessalonike (ed. Kyriakidis) 3.14–20 712n3 3.17 712n3 3.20–26 712n4 3.26–4.2 713 106.7–12 716n22 152.15–18 712n4 Comm. on the Iliad see under Homer scholia & commentaries Comm. on the Odyssey see under Homer scholia & commentaries Comm. on Dion. Periegetes (ed. Müller) ad 520 722n59 Funeral Orat. for Manuel (ed. Bourbouhakis) 2 722n60 Letters (ed. Kolovou) 5.24–31 723n62 7 723n62 Preface on Pindar (ed. Kambylis) Pref. 16.3 722n59 Florus Epitome of Roman History 1.11.11 534

Gorgias Encomium of Helen (DK 82 B11) 9 4, 11–12, 362n28, 643n60 10 293n23 14 4, 293n23 16 393 17 393, 605n10 20 460n9 Other fragments DK 82 B 27 390n19 Heliodorus 1.15.8 1.30.7 2.7.1 2.12.5 2.29.1 4.7.7 4.10.5 5.2.10 5.4.5 5.14.4 7.2.4 7.8 7.8.6 7.10.6 7.15.3 7.23.2 7.29.1 8.7.1 10.3.3 10.6 10.9.4 10.15.2 16.1 22.4 38.4 39.1

635 638 637 638 642n56 636 636 636 636n29 176n34 638 177 638 636 642 636 638 638 645n66 638 642 177 645n66 645n66 645n66 645n66

Hellenica Oxyrhynchia 2.1 4.2 8.3 9–11 14.5 15.1 16.1 17.2

398 400 398 397, 402–408 398 398 398n4 398n4

781

index of passages 18.1–2 19–21 21.3 21.4 21.5–6 22–23 24.4 25.2 fr. 21

409n27 406n23 405n22 398, 405n22 398 399–400 398n5 398n5 398n4

Hermogenes On Forms (ed. Patillon) 1.12.7–8 715n18 1.12.11–39 715n19 Herodotus 1.1.4 1.4 1.5.2 1.8.1 1.8.2 1.8.3 1.10 1.11 1.24.7 1.26–28 1.27.5 1.29 1.30 1.30.3 1.30.4 1.30.4–5 1.31 1.31.4 1.31.4–5 1.32.1 1.32.8 1.33 1.34.3 1.35 1.44.1 1.44.2 1.45.2 1.46.1 1.54.1 1.56.1 1.62.1 1.69 1.80.2

368–369 369 358, 369 369 358 370 358 372n12 372 374 371, 374 374 360 357 374 374 375 401n12 359 357, 374 374 357, 374 356, 374 190n21 374 374 362, 374 370, 375 374 374 361 357n13 356

1.82 1.85.3 1.86 1.86.3 1.86.6 1.87.2 1.87.4 1.88.1 1.90.3 1.90.4 1.93.1 1.107 1.112 1.112.1 1.119 1.123 1.123.1 1.130 1.135 1.143.2 1.155 1.156.2 1.165 1.185.3 1.193.4 1.196–197 1.199 1.213 2.3.2 2.22.2 2.35.1 2.64 2.65.2 2.131 2.135 2.148.6 2.149.1 2.155.3 2.181 3.11 3.14 3.14–15 3.25 3.29.1 3.30 3.30.2–3 3.31.2 3.31.6 3.33

358 374 357, 361, 362n26 375 356 370, 374 375 374 370n7 358 355 356 372 370 359, 368n2, 375 361 370, 419n28 361 360 358n17 372 370n7 362 355n9 354 354 354 375 355 368n2 355 354 355 360 282n25 355n9 355n9 355n9 360 375 375 363 356 371 356 6 360 360 371

782 Herodotus (cont.) 3.35.3 3.36.3 3.36.5 3.38.4 3.39.1 3.42 3.42.4 3.50.3 3.52 3.52.3 3.52.7 3.53.3 3.53.7 3.64.3 3.65 3.65.2–3 3.66.3 3.72 3.75 3.80.1 3.81.2 3.111.1 3.113.1 3.119 3.119.7 3.120 3.123 3.127 3.133 3.140.2 3.140.4 3.143.2 3.157.3 4.1 4.4 4.13.1 4.16.1 4.36.2 4.42 4.84 4.84.3 4.140 4.167.1 4.202 4.203 4.205 5.12 5.32

index of passages

359n18 362 361 370 371 357n13 359 372 363 373 373 359n18, 373, 375 361 371 356 6 372 358n17 358n17 354 378 355 355n9 356, 363 370n7 361 357n13 361 358 370n7 361 361 359 361 361 300 300 354, 368n2 354 357n14 359 356 363 363 361, 362n28 363 369 359, 361n25

5.32.1 5.42 5.51 5.64.2 5.74 5.92 5.92ζ-η 5.92ζ1 5.92η3 5.95 5.97.2 5.105 5.105.2 6.21.2 6.43 6.43.1–44.1 6.44.1 6.61–63 6.61.2 6.62 6.65 6.73 6.84.3 6.94 6.94.1 6.120 6.121.1 6.123.1 6.134.2 7.1.1 7.4.1 7.5 7.5.3 7.8 7.8α2 7.8β 7.8δ 7.9.2 7.11 7.11.2 7.12 7.12.1 7.13.1 7.13.3 7.15 7.16α2 7.29 7.29.3 7.37.3

401n12 358 357n13, 372n12 361 361 190n21, 363 373 373 373n13 282n25 378 372 397n2 544 354 370 397n2 360 360 360 361 358 372 397n2 370 360 355 355 362 397n2 397n2 370, 372 397n2 370 397n2 397n2 357 397n2 370–371 397n2 362 364n32 364n32 359 356, 362 364n32 357 361 359

783

index of passages 7.38 7.39 7.43 7.44–52 7.44 7.45 7.45–47.1 7.47.1 7.54.2 7.103 7.103.1 7.104 7.105 7.135.3 7.139 7.157–162 7.190 7.205.2 7.212 7.221 7.226 8.8.2 8.15 8.27 8.31 8.46.4 8.47.1 8.50.1–2 8.52.1 8.54 8.58–59 8.61 8.62 8.62.1 8.69 8.69.2 8.75 8.86 8.87 8.92 8.93.2 8.97 8.100 8.101.1 8.103 8.106.3 8.112 8.118 8.135.1

363n30 357 360 363 360 370n7 363 365 361 356 370n7 356 371 361 353n1 3n8 375 375 356 375 370 355 356 358 358 364 365 364 364 364 358 358 358 370 357 370n7 543n8 356 372n12 358 355 356 372 359 356 371 369 356 355

8.135.3 8.143 8.144 9.3 9.7.2 9.16.4 9.49.1 9.89.3 9.108 9.109 9.109.2 9.109.3 9.111–112 Hesiod Theogony 32 63 120–122 138 154–210 195 200 214 221–222 223 225 270–336 433 438 453–506 456 467 489 521–534 521–616 533 534 535–616 537 545 550 551 553–555 554 558 561 568 605

355 361 511n15 360 359 370n7 359 361 369 357 356 359 372n12

293 154n7 154n6 156, 157n12 153n2, 156 154n7 154n7 154n7 158n17 154n7 155 153n2 154 154 153n2 154 157 157 161n27 296 158, 158n16 158n19 158 158, 158n16 159n21 159n21 159n22 158n19 158, 158n16 157n14, 158, 158n16 158, 158n16, 159n21 158, 158n16 140

784 Theogony (cont.) 613 614–616 615 617–735 770 820–880 868 874 926 941 Works and Days 11–26 27–28 42–105 47 47–48 53 90–99 105 106 106–201 138–139 202–212 228 274 275 286–380 293–294 298 317–319 335 353 358 366–367 370–371 373–374 376–380 381–382 381–616 399 423–427 441–447 451 462 476 481 482 483–484

index of passages

160n25 160n26 158, 158n16 153n2 154 153n2 157 157 154 154 155, 162 162 153n2, 296 158, 158n16 158n19 158, 158n16 155 160n25 162 153n2, 185 159 153n2, 156n11 154 162n35 162, 162n35 163 161n27 162 155 162 163 163 163 163 163 160 162 163 163 721 163n37 163 163 163 163 163 160

498 500

163 155

Hesiod scholia ad 510b ad 565

160n24 160n24

Homer Iliad 1.1 1.2–4 1.5 1.6–7 1.8 1.8–9 1.9 1.9–10 1.9–13 1.9–305 1.10 1.11 1.12 1.17 1.44 1.54 1.56 1.57–58 1.68–69 1.70 1.74–75 1.140 1.149 1.188–222 1.218 1.243 1.244 1.352 1.352–356 1.366–367 1.528 1.539–543 1.555–558 2.76–77 2.142 2.155–278 2.156 2.180 2.198–199 2.221

35–38, 487 37 35, 39, 40 40, 109 35, 42 40, 42 35, 42 42 41 480 42 35 35 35 37 36 182 473n10 473n10 289n12, 293 36, 289n12 58n22 31 71n32 52n13 139n35 637n33 97 96 51n10 116 143n61 143n61 473n10 57 484 484 484 715 481

785

index of passages 2.222 2.224 2.225–242 2.235 2.235–242 2.236–238 2.243 2.275 2.277 2.299–329 2.698–709 3.39 3.42 3.125–128 3.128 3.139 3.139–140 3.139–142 3.150 3.158 3.158–160 3.161–246 3.162 3.163 3.164 3.164–165 3.166 3.166–170 3.166–180 3.167 3.169 3.170 3.173–174 3.177 3.178 3.178–180 3.180 3.191–224 3.192–198 3.196 3.200–202 3.203–224 3.204–224 3.229 3.230–231 3.232–233 3.241–242 3.259–447 3.364–356

481 481 484 489 474 485 481 490 481 49 650 474 55 55 202 55 55, 205 202 148n86 202 60 202n8 203 203 109, 205 56 203 203 205 203, 204 203 203 56 204 198n4, 205 204 56, 204 205 205 205 205 56 205 205 205 56 56 699 96

3.386–388 3.395 3.396–399 3.399–402 3.404 3.414–417 3.427 3.430–433a 3.430–436 3.433b–436 3.442–446 3.447 3.737–447 4.30–54 4.127 4.146 4.146–147 4.170 4.311–325 4.318–319 4.336–363 4.363 4.539–542 5.297–362 5.304 5.349 5.406–415 5.418–425 5.646 5.654 5.838 5.905 6.52–60 6.138 6.215–231 6.329–330 6.344 6.344–348 6.345–348 6.346–353 6.354–358 6.356 6.389 6.405 6.407–409 6.413–428 6.416–420 6.421–422 6.428

58 57, 146n75 57 58 56 58 57 57 58 57 58, 116 57 109 107n1 78n1, 89, 708 78n1, 89, 708 89 721 148n86 148n89 487 487 716 708 37 489 489 143n61 721 721 721 102n29 190n23 107n3 143n62 488 56 58 56 58 55n17 56 50 50 50 50 51 51 51

786 Iliad (cont.) 6.492–493 7.104 7.105 7.436–463 8.100 8.109 8.236–244 8.368 8.369 8.370 8.518 9.52 9.158–161 9.186–188 9.186–191 9.189 9.251–259 9.312 9.410–416 9.413 9.433 9.438–599 9.445–447 9.497 9.508–512 9.555 9.558–560 9.646 9.647–648 9.649–653 10.68 10.93–95 10.374–377 10.476–478 10.572–576 11.401–413 11.404–405a 11.404–410 11.407 11.408–410 11.414–420 11.604 11.632 11.656–658 11.670–671 11.670–672 11.804 11.814–815

index of passages

489 78n1, 87n34, 708 55 115 198 198 96 715 715 715 148n86 473n10 217 51n10 653–654 660 217 32 97 37 136n13 49 148n89 107n4 52n13 96n9 481–482 35n46 217 216n10 384n10 136 136 199 102n29 100 103 111 103 103 104 183 171 183 148n89 49 57 183

12.164–172 12.230–250 13.3–9 13.29 13.603 13.648 13.730–734 13.769 14.6–7 14.16 14.292–351 15.140–141 15.346–349 15.348 15.365 15.365–366 15.367 15.582 15.605–607 15.627 16.5 16.11 16.17 16.20 16.21–45 16.33 16.46 16.46–47 16.49–100 16.60–64 16.61–63 16.72–73 16.80–81 16.85–86 16.90 16.112–129 16.152–154 16.583 16.584 16.693 16.744 16.744–750 16.754 16.783–792 16.784–806 16.787 16.789–790 16.793–796 16.812

96 489 57 135n11, 609n26 78n1, 708 57 52 474 102n29 101 421 108 615–616 616 89 78n1 89 78n1, 80n14,89 611 609 183 56 183 78n1, 89 183 183 7 183 216–217 216 216 217n11 217 217n11 217 216n10 51n10 89 78n1 89 78n1, 89 143n61 78n1, 89 85 97 78, 78n1, 89 88n38 89 78n1

787

index of passages 16.813 16.842 16.843 17.53 17.53–60 17.59 17.89–107 17.94–95 17.97 17.98–101 17.99–100 17.602 17.645–647 17.679 17.702 17.744 18.22–24 18.22–35 18.31 18.51–64 18.56–57 18.79–93 18.98–101 18.108–110 18.109 18.109–110 18.203–229 18.309 18.312 18.322 18.478–607 18.514–515 18.590–604 18.600–601 19.54–55 19.74–14 19.125 19.284–285 19.325 19.362 19.362–363 19.408–417 19.420–422 19.421–422 20.2 20.152 20.158b–352 20.293–317 20.353

89 89 78n1, 89 139 139 139 100 103 103 103 52n13 78n1 603, 615n50 78n1, 89, 708 89, 708 89 145 49 136 49 139 49 97 190n22, 214 35n46, 107 136 654n14 52n13 7n25 136 246 148n86 173–174 137n26 473n10 225 136 139n34 56 10 10n43 80n14 80n14 97 78n1 78n1 99 107, 107n1 662n35

20.364–454 20.381–382 20.449–451 21.1–210 21.74 21.98 21.114 21.136 21.136–137 21.139–204 21.145–147 21.146 21.211–327 21.212 21.225–226 21.233 21.233–234 21.233–271 21.233–327 21.233–342 21.233–250 21.234 21.235 21.235–238 21.236 21.237 21.238 21.240 21.240–250 21.241 21.242–243 21.243 21.246–248 21.248 21.248–249 21.249–250 21.251 21.252–254 21.257–263 21.263 21.264 21.265–271 21.266–267 21.270 21.270–271 21.272 21.272b 21.272–283 21.273–283

99 662n35 97 95 96 658n23 136n15 71 95 99 95 71 95 71 97 662n35 73 74 95 94 73n40 71, 73 71 72n39 72n39 72n35 74 71, 73, 98 74 73 73 73 73 73, 74, 98, 104 71 73n42 74 74 74 74 99 74 96 74 95 95 95 94 95–99

788 Iliad (cont.) 21.273 21.273–274 21.274 21.275–276 21.276 21.276–277 21.277 21.278 21.279 21.281 21.282–283 21.284 21.286 21.288 21.288–292 21.289–290 21.290a 21.291–297 21.299 21.299–304 21.304 21.305–306 21.306–307 21.316–323 21.324–342 21.390 21.415 21.441–460 21.533–566 21.544–546 21.544–598 21.545–548 21.547–548 21.550 21.550–570 21.550–580 21.552 21.552–570 21.553–570 21.555 21.556–558 21.558–561 21.559 21.560–561 21.562 21.562–566 21.563–565 21.566

index of passages

96 96 96 96 96 97 97, 98 97 97 98 98 99n20 99 104 104 99 99 99 99 99 99, 104 71 71 97 99 135n11 57 107 102 100 94, 99 101 100 101 100 99–104 101 94, 100 101–102 102 102 102, 104 102 102 100, 103 102 104 103

21.567 21.567–570 21.568–570a 21.570b 21.571–572 21.573 21.573–580 21.574b–575 21.577–578 21.580 21.595–598 21.595–607 21.599–605 22.7–19 22.7–20 22.25–367 22.66–76 22.91–137 22.92–97 22.93–97 22.94 22.96 22.96–131 22.98 22.99–109 22.99–130 22.103 22.105 22.105–110 22.110–128 22.111–130 22.122 22.123–128 22.129–130 22.131 22.131–137 22.132–135 22.134 22.136 22.136–137 22.138–212 22.159–161 22.215–247 22.395 22.405–436 22.442–444 22.477–481 22.477–514 22.482–485

103 103 103 103, 104 104 103 100, 103 103 104 103n33, 104 100 110 100 100 110 100 148n88 100n25 68 104, 104n36 104, 104n36 104, 104n36 100 70 70 69 70 70 103 70 103n31 103 103 70 68, 70 65 67 98n18 69 67 100 487–488 97 7 49 102n29 51 51 51

789

index of passages 22.487–493 22.487–507 22.490 22.494–498 22.499 22.500–504 23.24 23.39–41 23.393–396 23.490–491 23.597–600 23.600 23.664–671 23.826–829 23.836–840 24.49 24.171 24.334–335 24.358–360 24.433 24.480–484 24.503–504 24.509–512 24.516 24.540–541 24.629–633 24.725–745 24.732 24.734–739 22.741–742 24.764 24.768–772 24.775 Odyssey 1.10 1.19–21 1.48 1.74–75 1.81 1.161–168 1.168–175 1.169–172 1.179 1.187 1.191–192 1.208–209 1.245–247 1.337–344 1.362–364

52 52 52 52 52 53 7 102n29 719 482–483 137 78n1, 89, 708 187n13 51n10 187n13 107 98n19 52n13 136 142n54 172, 655n17 183 423n37 183 140 374n20 53 53 233n7 53 56 56 56 109 113 139n35 108 135n9 145n73 113 143 143 143 144 141n47 144 149 135n1

2.99 2.146–207 2.323 2.337–381 2.361–362 2.371–372 2.377–380 3.147 3.180–182 3.352–355 4.102–103 4.107 4.112 4.117–119 4.118 4.119 4.138–146 4.141–144 4.149–150 4.271–289 4.499–510 4.502 4.703 4.703–721 4.716 4.722–741 4.805 4.840 5.38–40 5.116 5.122 5.149–158 5.149–227 5.151 5.159 5.159–170 5.160–170 5.162–164 5.171 5.171–179 5.180–181 5.180–191 5.215–224 5.233–262 5.269 5.278 5.279–493 5.284–285 5.299–312

148 489 142 127 127 127 127 107n4 489n25 143n62, 200 715 141 141 141 141 141, 142n52 141 141n47 141n47 110 108 117 136n15 135n1 135n6, 139n35 131 107n3 137n21 114 130 107n3 128 128 128 128 128–129 124 128 129 129–130 128n32 130 129 128, 130 130 130n37 130 130 100n25

790 Odyssey (cont.) 5.312 5.394–398 5.463 6.56 6.93–101 6.141–147 6.158–159 6.160–169 6.180–185 6.193 6.196–197 6.199–210 6.200–205 6.206 6.218 6.224–245 6.229–235 6.236–237 6.237–246 6.240–245 6.242 6.255–315 8.83–92 8.304 8.449–468 8.454 8.521–531 8.565–569 9.19 9.64–66 9.256 9.467 9.531 9.534 9.536 10.64 10.72–75 10.121–132 10.135–12.142 10.201 10.209 10.241 10.246–248 10.398–399 10.409 10.454 10.497–499 10.576–578

index of passages

98n15 135n4 135n4 128n32 121n7 121 120n3 139n40 120n3 121 121 120, 122 121 121 120 142, 147 119, 121 122 119 121, 121n10 121 120n3 149, 171n9 135n7 147 120n6 149, 686n23 117 297 135n3 139n35 135n3 111 117 113, 115 112 112 112 112 135n3 135n3 135n3 135n3 135n3 135n3 135n3 135n3 135n3

11.5 11.100–115 11.110–114 11.114 11.187–196 11.188–194 11.197–203 11.307–320 11.315–317 11.333–334 11.367–369 11.450–453 11.475–491 11.540 11.563–565 12.60 12.137–141 12.169 12.234 12.251–255 12.286–290 12.295 12.309–311 12.312–315 12.325–326 12.338 12.370–372 12.374 12.374–390 12.376–388 12.403–419 13.1–2 13.2 13.125–158 13.125–164 13.125–187 13.128–152 13.128–158 13.131–133 13.135–138 13.136–138 13.148 13.250–251 13.287–295 13.299–300 13.312–313 13.320 13.326 13.344–351

135n3 112 112 117 138 143 139 482 603 171n9 171 142n57 651 135n11 614n47 718 112 112 135n3 715 114n19 113 135n3 113 113 113 113 110 112n16 115 114n19 171 111 110 108 117 117 115 116 114 114 116 134n4 125 125 125 139n35 143n61 125

791

index of passages 13.347–350 13.353–354 13.359–360 13.361–365 13.362–365 13.366–371 13.372–439 14.55 14.121 14.165 14.175 14.199–206 14.360 14.401 14.442 14.468 14.507 15.196–197 15.325 15.353–354 15.353–357 15.356–360 16.60 16.87 16.135 16.140–145 16.142–145 16.178–180 16.308 16.332 16.464 17.150 17.272 17.311 17.380 17.512 17.579 18.35 18.84–87 18.100 18.155–156 18.212 18.341 18.342 18.349–355 18.350 19.33–34 19.136 19.172–184

126n22 125, 134n4 126 126 124 126 126 78n1 79 78n1 139n40 144 78n1 79 78n1 148n89 78n1 143n62 78n1 144n64 138, 148 138 78n1 142 78n1 138 143 147 142 55 78n1 146n76 78n1 78n1 78n1 78n1 78n1 135n2 144 135n2 113n17 135n10, 136 136 135n8, 136 143n61 135n2, 142 126n23 136 144

19.204 19.205–207 19.208 19.250 19.263–264 19.368 19.603–604 20.8 20.10 20.13 20.14–16 20.17–24 20.18–20 20.263 20.284–286 20.345–349 20.358 20.374 20.382–383 20.390 21.357–358 21.375 21.377 22.8–21 22.42 22.194 22.486–489 22.523 23.5–79 23.73–77 23.85 23.85–87 23.86 23.93–95 23.95 23.108–110 23.115 23.138–140 23.153–155 23.153–172 23.155 23.163 23.164–172 23.166–172 23.166–204 23.174–180 23.181 23.188–202 23.206

136 136 136 147 136 147 135n1 135n11 146n74 136 136 142 111 142 113n17 135n2 135n2 135n2 144 135n2 135n1 135n2 135n7 147 135n8 78n1 147 147 141 146 141 141 142n52 141 147 146n80 147 148 147 142, 147 147 147 141 144 146 144 141, 142n52 146 147

792 Odyssey (cont.) 23.209–214 23.220–221 23.225–227 23.226–234 23.233–240 23.235–238 24.197–201 24.206–207 24.211–212 24.213–219 24.213–360 24.214–218 24.215 24.216 24.216–218 24.217 24.220–234 24.226–227 24.226–231 24.227 24.227–228 24.228 24.228–229 24.229 24.230 24.230–231 24.231 24.232–233 24.233 24.234 24.235–240 24.236–237 24.236–238 24.238 24.239 24.240 24.242 24.242–279 24.243 24.244–279 24.245–247 24.249 24.249–250 24.249–255 24.250 24.251 24.252–253 24.253 24.254

index of passages

141 141 146n80 141 11, 135n4 141 644n61 139 144 137–138 137–147, 148 148 143 137n26 137, 140 142n57 138–140 139 138 147 138 138, 139 138 138, 139 139 138 142 138 142 138, 140, 143 140–142 140, 143, 146 140 140, 141, 142n52 140 142, 142n52 142 142–143 142 140, 147 139, 140n42 140n42 147 142 147 140n42 143 143 144

24.254–255 24.255 24.256–257 24.258–279 24.265–279 24.270 24.280–301 24.280 24.290–296 24.297–298 24.297–303 24.302–314 24.304–307 24.315–317 24.318–319 24.320 24.320–322 24.320–360 24.331–335 24.336–344 24.345 24.346 24.348–349 24.354–355 24.357 24.361–385 24.364 24.365–366 24.365–374 24.366–367 24.367 24.368 24.369 24.370–371 24.371 24.374 24.376–382 24.378 24.384–386 24.389–390 24.395–396 24.412 24.424 24.426–464 24.498

147 144 144 143 145 141 143–144 143 144 144 143 144–145 144 145, 146 145–146 140 146 146–147 146 146 136n15, 146 147 147 144 148 147–148 143 143 147 144 143, 147 143 143 147 143 143 148n89 143 143 144 143 143 147 3n8 148

Homer scholia & commentaries Scholia on the Iliad ad 1.2 38n59 ad 1.149 31n28

793

index of passages ad 4.450–451 390n19 ad 5.304 35n45 ad 8.274–276a1 714n9 ad 10.14 714n9 ad 15.346 615n52 ad 15.347a 615n52 ad 15.610–614b 11n46 ad 18.590 175n26 ad 21.282 96n8 Scholia on the Odyssey ad Od. 11.322 173n20 Eustathios, On the Iliad (ed. van der Valk) Pr. 2.27–30 = 1.3.12–15 719n38 Pr. 5.3–5 = 1.7.10–12 721n49 ad 1.530 718n35 ad 2.198–199 715n13 ad 2.485 717n25 ad 3.32, 37 722n57 ad 3.136–138 722n57 ad 3.396–397 718n32 ad 4.170 722n55 ad 4.356–363 724n68 ad 4.539–542 716–717 ad 5.294–295 721n51 ad 5.304 35n45, 717n24 ad 5.646, 654 721n53 ad 5.838 721n52 ad 6.119 723n67 ad 6.399 714n11 ad 8.368–370 715n15 ad 9.156–158 717n26 ad 10.324 724n69 ad 10.437 718n33 ad 11.178 722n57 ad 11.213–216 718n29 ad 11.566–568 718n32 ad 11.627 714n11 ad 12.34–35 724n69 ad 13.343–344 716, 724n69 ad 13.599–600 723n67 ad 13.825–828 721n47 ad 14.287 717n24 ad 14.382 718n33 ad 15.634–635 715n14 ad 15.635–636 714n10 ad 16.179–180 718n33 ad 18.474–482 714n8 ad 19.362 10n43

ad 19.386 721n50 ad 20.99 721n50 ad 20.115–118 723n61 ad 20.381–489 722n58 ad 20.472 724n70 ad 21.245–246 717n27 ad 21.280 96n8 ad 23.153–154 715n14 ad 23.393–396 719n37 ad 24 720n40 ad 24.125 718n31 ad 24.265–278 721n51 ad 24.796, 798 715n14 Eustathios, On the Odyssey (ed. Stallbaum, Cullhed) ad 2.104–105 718n32 ad 4.102–103 715n16 ad 5.66 717n25 ad 9.183–186 718n30 ad 9.507 718n30 ad 12.60 718n34 ad 12.251–255 715n17 ad 15.69 722n57 ad 18.37 714n8 Homeric Hymns Hymn to Aphrodite 143 Hymn to Mercury 451 Horace Ars Poetica 111 Epistles 1.2.6 Odes 1.5.13–16 1.14.18 1.36.4 3.21 Hugo Grotius Erotopaegnia 1 (Dedicatio) 2 (Acus) 3 (Desperatio) 4 (Speculum) 5 (Lacrimae)

55 298

733n23 494 736n30 733n22 550 741n41

732–736 737 737–738 737 738

794 Erotopaegnia (cont.) 6 (Oculi) 7 (Salue) 7A (Invidia) 8 (Somnia) 9 (Papillae) 10 (Absentia) 11 (Silentium) Iamblichus fr. 4 Babylonica fr. 21

index of passages

737 737 736–737 738 738 737, 739 737, 739–740

637

1.29.1 2.7.7 2.9.2 2.17.1 2.27.2 2.34.3 3.13.1–3 3.14.1 3.20.1 4.22.1 4.23.1 4.36.2

636 636 636 643 635n27 638n34 9n38 636 636 645n67 645n66 635n27

643

Inscriptions CID I 9.19 IG I3 850 IG I3 1162 IG I3 1208 IG I3 1211 IG I3 1240 IG I3 1258 IG I3 1349bis IG XII 5.593

376 375n23 375n23 377n31 368, 377n31 375n23 377n31 377n31 376

Lucian Demosthenes 41 De Domo 1 How to Write History 9–10 51 Verae Historiae 2.15

Isocrates 1.42 4.96 12.2

401n12 448n17 715

Lycophron Alexandra 930–950 1268

188n16 233n7

Livy 1.39.1–3 7.26.4–5 21.29.7 22.1–7 22.5.1–2 22.5.3–4 22.7.1–4 22.7.12 22.36.1 41.13.8 42.49.2–6

552 534n30 524 531 532 535 527 533 532 534 532n26

Lycurgus Against Leocrates 101

511n12

Marcus Aurelius Meditations 2.1

226

Maximus Tyrius 9.7

659

Menander Perinthia 262

316n21

Nonnus Dionysiaca 5.565–621 6.1–168

668n8 668n8

Longinus

Longus pr. 4.1 1.11.1

see (Pseudo-)Longinus

636 635n27

511n12 642n57 713n5 513n22 660n30

795

index of passages Orphic fragments F 47–53 F 474 Argonautica Orphica 17–31 1186–1196 Ovid Fasti 4.393–618 Heroides 3.105 Metamorphoses 5.341–661 8.112 Remedia Amoris 44

667n2 299 667n2 667n2

667n2 571n9

667n2 577n30 734n27

Parmenides DK 28 B 1.21–32 DK 28 B 6 DK 28 B 7 DK 28 B 8.1–2

297 299 299 299

Pausanias 1.27.10 10.25.9

173 233n7

Petrarch Canzoniere 75, 1–2 132, 10–11 164, 11 235, 5–14 247, 12–13

734n26 736n30 734n27 736n30 739n36

Pherecydes FGrH 3F148

173n20

Philo Legatio ad Gaium (Leg.) 319–320 511n16 Legum allegoriae 2.24–25 511n16 On the Cherubim 41 511n16 Quod omnis probus liber sit 117 511n16

Philostratus Imagines 1.9.4 1.28.2 2.2.2 2.4 On Heroes 10.5 12.2 14.2 16.5 18.4–5 19.1 21.9 22.1 22.2 23.4 25.9 25.16 25.17 26.11 27.12 33.21 33.34 33.36 33.38 35.5 35.10 36.4 42.4 43.2 43.8 44.5 44.5–45.1 45.3 45.6 45.7 45.8 46.2 48.6 48.8–9 48.11 48.15 48.18–19 48.21–22 51.3–4 51.8 53.10 53.15

706 707, 707n31 655 709 654 652 655n17 659 655 655 652 652, 654 653 659 655n17 653 653, 654 655, 655n17 655n17 653 653 653, 656 654 653 651n4 654 654 655n17 653 655, 655n17 654 655 655, 656 656 656 653, 656 656 656 662n35 655n17 656 656 656 655n17 657, 659 657

796 On Heroes (cont.) 53.17 53.19 53.23 54.1 54.4 54.5 54.8 54.12 54.13 55.2 55.3 55.4 56.1 56.2–4 56.6–10 56.7 56.8 56.10 56.11 57.1 57.15 57.17 58.2 Vita Apollonii 4.12 4.16 4.23 Phylarchus FGrH 81 T3 Pindar Nemean Odes 10.69–71 10.75–79 10.89–90 Pythian Odes 3.35–37 4.120 4.120–123 Plato Alcibiades I 132e–133a Apology 34d 36d–e

index of passages

657 658 658 658, 659 659 659n27 659 660 660 660 660 660 655n17, 661 661 661 661 661 661 662 661 662 662 650 661 652n10, 653, 656n20, 657 657

641n50

482 8–9 9 58n22 142n57 138

173n17 220 219n16

Charmides 153a 155d 156a4 158c 162b 162c 162c–d 169c–d 174b Cratylus 440e Critias 106a 107a Euthydemus 276b 276d 285a 288b 291b 295d 297a 303b Euthyphro 6c 15e Gorgias 447a–448c 447d–448a 447d–449a 448a–e 449b 449c 456a–457c 457c 457d 458a 458b–c 458d 461b–c 461b4–c3 481b 481c 481c–d 494c–e 499c Ion 535b–e 536a

442 455, 456 434n18 434n18 434n18 448n17, 451 428 428 446 452n23 432n8 430n5 428 428 447 447 174n25, 432n9 428 428 428 452n23 452 450 450 451 450 452n23 452n23 449 449 449 457n6 450 450 450 450n20 450, 451 443 443 447 446 605n10 17

797

index of passages Laches 188a 189a 196c Laws 213d1–5 658e8–9 667a9 779d Lysis 207c6 208d7 211d–e 213d 213d1–5 218c 218c2–8 Meno 79e7–80b2 95a 95a2 99e2 100b Parmenides 128b–c 128c1–2 130a3–7 Phaedo 59a1–7 59a8–9 59b3–4 60a1–b1 62a8 64a10–b1 77e3 84d8 86d6 88c 88c1–d3 88c2 88c3–4 88c8 101b3 102a2–9 102a8 107b4–9 115c5 116d2 117c5–d6

443 443 447 434 440n35 430n6 432n8 434n18 434n18 442 434n18 434 432n9 432 438 452 428, 428n2 428, 428n2 452 432n9 431 431 431 429 429n3 429 428 428 428 428 428 429 429 430n4 429n3 437n27 428 434–435 435n20 430n6 428 429 429

Phaedrus 66e 67b 227c 227c3–4 228a 228c 230d 236d 236e 237a 257 261a7–8 265d–266c 270d 276e5–7 Philebus 19d–e 23b 31b 32d 50c–d 51c1–3 61a 65a 67b Politicus 263a Protagoras 309a 309c 309d 310a–b 310b–d 310d3 312a 314d 315a 316a 316b–c 317c 317c–d 317d 317d–e 318a 331b–e 332a 333e 333b

442 442 445n9 443n2 447 442 442 448 442 467 443 437n29 438n30 432n8 435–436 434n19 434n19 432n8 432n8 434n19 440n36 432n8 432n9 434n19 432n9 444 445 445 446 446 446n12 446 447 446 445 447 447 447 448 448 447 446 448 428 448

798 Protagoras (cont.) 333d 333e 334c 335a–b 335c 335d 335d–338e 338e 339d–e 339e 347b 348c 352d 352d2 361e Republic 328d 331d 336b–d 336d–e 336d5–6 337a3 350d1–3 354a–b 357a 362d 388b–390c 392d 394d8–9 402c 412e 413b 420b 426a–b 426e 432b 432d 439e 440b3–4 440e 442b–c 450a–b 450d 450e–451a 452a 452b 452d–e 472a

index of passages

448 428, 448, 449 428 428 452 448 448 428 428 455, 456 449, 452n23 428, 449 447 447n14 451 443 451, 452 428, 451 456 433n15 428 428 457 451 433n16 421 433n16 430n6 432n8 460 460 432n8 459 459 432n9 432n9 466 4 466 458, 466 457 457 457 458 458 458 458

473c 476d 476e 487b2–7 495a–497a 496d 497b 497d 497e 498c 498d–499a 499b 500a 500e 501c 501e 502a 503b 506d 508–509 509c 532e 535c 536b 536c 545e 546a 571a–573c 604b–c 604e1–6 605a2–5 605c10–d5 605c10–606b8 605d3–4 605d4 606a3–b9 606b6–7 607a4 Sophist 226a–b 237b 242b 245e Symposium 173c 177d 194b7–8 194c1–5 201c

458 458 459 438 461 461 462 462 462 462 462 458 459 459 459n8 459 459 458 463 464 464 432n8 465 465 465 461 461 424n39 465 421–422 422 437 4 421, 437n26 437n26 436 436n24 424n38 432n9 432n8 432n8 432n8 443 443 439n33 439n34 447

799

index of passages 204b 208e1–209a8 210d2–8 215e 218a–b Theaetetus 146a 195c1–d3 198d 208b11–12 210d Timaeus 86b

443 495n8 439n32 443 443 442 432 432n9 432n10 452 401n12

Plutarch Lives Aratus 8.1–2 513n24 Coriolanus 35–36 218 Nicias 1.1 391n23 Solon 6–7 376n26 21.4–7 376 Themistocles 26.4–5 638n35 Theseus 15 173 21 173 Moralia De audiendis poetis 15C–D 17n71 De gloria Atheniensium 346F 176n32 347A 391, 513 Quaestiones Conviviales 692F–683A 393 Polybius 1.36.2–4 15.25.11 21.31.6–16

575n24 704 218

Proclus Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus ad 41a 461n12

Procopius of Gaza Ekphrasis Eikonos (ed. Amato) 1 701 5–7 698 6–7 705 8 703 8–35 698 9 703 11 702 12 703 14 704 15 703 16 703 16–17 707 17 700, 701 18–19 702 20 704, 706 23 698n7, 701 23–29 701 24 701 26 701, 702, 706 27 698, 702 28 699, 702 30 698 36 709 36–41 698 37 699 38 698n7 40 706, 708 41 701 Letters 140 700n15 Propertius 1 12 15 (Pseudo-)Longinus On the Sublime 1.4 1.25 2.1 3.5 7.2 8 8.1

738n34 738n34 738n34

605n12, 608–609, 642, 642n57 513n22 606n15 604n8, 605n12, 607n21, 612 609n25, 613 606 606n14, 608n23

800 On the Sublime (cont.) 8.2 8.3 8.4 9 9.2 9.4 9.8 9.9 9.10 9.11 9.11–15 9.13 9.15 10 10.1 10.1–3 10.3 10.5 12.4–5 12.5 13.2 15 15.1 15.1–3 15.2 15.3 16 16.2 17.1 17.2 20.2 25 27.1 32.7 38.3 39.2 44.12

index of passages

603n1, n3, 604n6, 610 604n5 604, 604n8, 615n49 614, 615n51 614, 614n47 607n19 609n26 615n51 603n2, 615, 615n50 611n37 611 611n38, n40 611n39 607 605n12 603n2, 612n42 275, 609n27 609n28 610 605n12, 610 604n7 604n6, 607 604n7, 612n42 8 603n2, 642 609n30, 612n42 607 604n8, 610, 612n43 613–614 613n45 609n31 11n48 615–616, 616n53 604n7 381 604n8 608

Pseudo-Nilus Narrations (ed. Link 2005) Summary 683 1.1 686 1.3 686, 689, 690, 691, 692 1.7 687n26 1.11 691 2.1 687n26

2.2 2.3 2.4 2.6 2.15 3.2–3 3.12–13 4.2 4.7 4.7–9 4.9 4.12 4.14 5.1 5.14 6.1–3 6.3–7 6.4 6.6 6.8 6.8–24 6.16 6.19 6.24 7.13 7.17–19 7.18 7.19

686, 689, 692 687n26 690 689 691 684 685 686 689 688 689 684n18 684, 685 686 685–686 686 687 684n18 684n18 687, 688 686 687n27, 693 687n26 690, 692 692 686 692 693

Pseudo-Plato Minos 321a4–5

437n28

Pseudo-Plutarch Life of Homer 57

615n52

Publilius Syrus Sententiae A 31

734n27

Rhetorica ad Alexandrum 1427a29 225 1427a30–37 221 1427a37–40 225 1427b6 225 1427b8 225 1433b21–24 221 1444a6–16 225

801

index of passages Quintilian 4.2.19 10.1.73

226 381

Sallust Catilina 51–52

218

Sappho fr. 1 fr. 5 fr. 16 fr. 17 fr. 31

fr. 58c Neri fr. 94 Sardianus Commentarium p. 217, lines 3–6

275, 279–283 278n12 278n12 278n12 275–279, 282-283, 603, 607, 609, 700n16, 739n35 278n12 298

513n23

Seneca Philosophical Works De Beneficiis 6.36 546–547 Origo gentis Romanae 9.2–3 547 Tragedies Agamemnon 655 572n10 Phaedra 607 740n39 Troades 523–536 239n12 634–635 239n12 1097–1103 239n12 Silius Italicus 2.435 2.435–436 6.62 6.62–68 6.65 6.81–84 6.82 6.87 6.105 6.113

576 576 578, 579n36 570 570 571 574 571 572 572, 574n21

6.113–116 6.118 6.123 6.123–124 6.296–298 6.327 6.344–345 6.416 6.416–417 6.416–424 6.419 6.424 6.425 6.435 6.437–438 6.453 6.501 6.507 6.517–518 6.519 6.541 6.579 6.584 6.588–589 6.654–656 6.655 6.658–697 6.670 6.672 6.672–679 6.674–679 6.680–683 6.681 6.682 6.698–699 6.716 Sophocles Ajax 500–505 510–513 583 983 Antigone 293–301 1113 Electra 45–46 254 562

571 572 574n21 579 572 575 576 572, 574 574n21 572 572, 573 572 572 578 573 578n35 573 573 573 573 577n30 573 574 574 575 578 575 575 575 577n31 575 575 576 579n36 578 578

218 218 318, 319 317 200, 201 319 319 314n18, 315 316

802 Electra (cont.) 1027–1028 1112 Laocoon fr. 370 Radt fr. 373 Radt Oedipus Rex 58 62–64 596 746–749 1177–1181 1223–1296 1234–1235 Philoctetes 410–411 493 686–690 782 889 912–914 1231 1314–1316 Women of Trachis 630 Statius Silvae 4.1.17 4.2.15 Thebais 6.541 8

index of passages

319n27 318n25 544 544n11 188 189 311, n12 317 189 541–542 542 312, 314n18 311n12 312 318n25 316n21 320n28 318, 319 311 319

572n11 572n11 577n30, 579n39 668n8

Stesichorus Sack of Troy fr. 99 F. fr. 100 F. fr. 105 F. fr. 106 F.

186 185–186 187n14 187n15

Tacitus Annals 4.1.2

182n4

Theocritus 1.19 1.92 2.1–3

502 503n23 500

2.4–7 2.8–16 2.17–63 2.64–144 2.65–166 2.145–148 2.159–162 2.163–166 3.1–2 3.6 3.6–9 3.8 3.10–11 3.12 3.12–14 3.15 3.18 3.19–20 3.22–23 3.24–33 3.34–36 3.39 3.40–51 3.52–54 6.1–5 6.6–19 6.20 6.21–41 6.42–46 7.52–62 7.63–72 7.73–89 7.96–97 7.96–127 10.22–23 11.1–3 11.1–18 11.18 11.19 11.19–21 11.19–69 11.22–24 11.29 11.30 11.30–49 11.42–44 11.50 11.54–62 11.63–66

500 500 500 500 500 500 500 500, 501 497 497 497 497 497 497 497 497 497 497 497 497 497 497 497, 498 497, 498 501 501 502 502 502 504 504 504 505 504 499 734n25 498 498n12 497 497 498 497 497 497 497 497 497 497 497

803

index of passages 11.67–71 11.70–71 11.72–79 11.72–81 22.137–138 22.145–166 22.210–211

497 498 497 498 496 496 482n11

Theocritus scholia SH 566

499n13

Thucydides 1.1 1.21–22 1.23.1–3 1.23.6 1.88 1.140.1 2.8.4 2.11.7 2.22.1 2.41.1 2.44 2.51.3 2.54.3 2.59.3 2.59–65 2.60.1 2.61.2 2.61.3 2.63.2 2.63.2–3 2.65.8 2.65.9 2.65.10–11 2.88.3 3.34–50 3.36.4–5 3.36.6 3.36–40 3.36–49 3.37.2 3.38.1 3.40.1 3.40.4 3.42.1 3.43.2 3.43.5 3.45

384 713n5 384 397n2 397n2 223 387 384 223, 385 374n19 375 374n19 385 223 401n13 223 223n32 392n27 223n32 223n32 223 407n25 407n24 385 218 219 220 215 3n8, 401n16 223n32 223n32 225 223n32 219 221 219 225

3.49.4 3.59.2 3.67.2 3.82.2 3.113.6 4.28.3 4.34.1 5.65.3 6.30–31 6.31.1 6.31.4 6.54–59 7.30.3 7.42.3 7.43.6 7.56.2 7.56.3 7.59.2 7.60.5 7.61.1 7.61.2 7.63.3 7.64.2 7.66.1 7.67.1 7.68.3 7.69.2 7.69.3 7.69–71 7.69–72 7.70 7.70.2 7.70.2–7 7.70.3–6 7.70.4 7.70.6 7.70.7 7.70.7–8 7.70.8 7.71 7.71.1 7.71.1–4 7.71.2 7.71.3–5 7.71.4 7.71.6–7 7.71.7 7.75.4 7.76

224 384n9 384n9 384 385 388n18 392n27 388n18 390, 394n34 385 387 360n21 368n2 386n14 386n14 386n14 386n14 386n14 386n14 386n14 383n7, 386n14 383n6, 386n14 386n14 386n14 386n14 386n14 382, 383, 386n14, 388 385 387n15 222 386n12 384n8 382 385–386 384n8 390 386n14 388 386n14, 388n17 394n34 386n14, 389 382 384n8, 389, 390 389 384n8 390 384n8, 386n14 384n9 386n14

804

index of passages

Thucydides (cont.) 7.79.3 7.84.5 7.87 8.1.1 8.27.2–3 8.34 8.92.8 8.96.1

386n14 381 224, 368n2 219 401n14 11n48 384n9 386n14

Tyrtaeus fr. 10.19–27 West

148n88

Valerius Flaccus 1.1–4 1.107–111 1.110–111 1.353–355 2.378–384 2.383–384 2.391–392 3.462–480 3.485–486 3.486 3.517–520 3.520 3.598–725 3.600 3.628–637 3.628–636 3.628 3.631–632 3.633–636 3.637–645 3.637 3.645–649 3.646–648 3.652–661 3.674–675 3.679–682 3.682 3.697–714 3.699–701 3.703–704 3.705–706 3.707–711 3.709 3.712–714 3.715–718

595 595 595 587n19 592 592 592 591 595 595 584n7 584, 584n6, 584n7 582 586 590 587 594n31 596n34 590 587–588 588 590–591 597 591–592 591 594–595 594n31 588 590 588n22 590 588n22 588n22 589 593

4.2 4.7–8 4.8 4.13–14 4.13 5.644 7.12 7.154 7.307 7.315

588n20 583 584n5, 589 584 584n6 572n10 585n9 585n9 585n9 585n9

Valerius Maximus 9.6 ext. 1

575n24

Virgil Aeneid 1.1 1.12–22 1.28 1.92–123 1.148–156 1.195–209 1.203–206 1.297–304 1.303 1.304 1.335–371 1.338–368 1.343–364 1.350 1.360 1.446–493 1.453–493 1.459–463 1.489–502 1.494–508 1.494–509 1.494–756 1.504 1.509–515 1.530–534 1.562–588 1.572 1.615–630 1.628–631 1.631 1.657–694 1.712 1.719

588n23 558 551 560 551 551 589 550, 555n4 558 558 555n4 550 549 559 560 561 247 550 561 561 561 555n4 561 551 549 561 550 561 560 560 548, 549 563 563

805

index of passages 1.721 1.748 1.748–756 1.749 1.753–756 2.1 2.1–12 2.1–167 2.2–7 2.3 2.4–5 2.5 2.6 2.15 2.31 2.55–558 2.57–198 2.195–227 2.201–202 2.204 2.226–227 2.268–566 2.270–295 2.298–317 2.314–317 2.318–335 2.336–338 2.353–354 2.424–430 2.431–434 2.469–558 2.507–525 2.559–563 2.594–620 2.615–616 2.631 2.682–686 2.682–704 2.693–700 2.725 2.736–757 2.780–782 2.780–784 3.163–171 4.1 4.1–89 4.1–750 4.2–3 4.2–5

559 557 556 563 547–548 550 541, 543 544 541 540 542 540, 542 542 543 543 552 543 544 544 529n17 543 545 545 546 545 545 545 545 543 545–546, 571n9 546 148n86 546 545 543 588n22 551 545 552 549n20 546 550 549 549, 551 556 557 555n4 556 548

4.5 4.9–29 4.10–19 4.22–23 4.30 4.31–53 4.36–44 4.47–49 4.55 4.69–73 4.74–85 4.86–89 4.86–90 4.90 4.90–93 4.90–128 4.91 4.101 4.129–173 4.130–134 4.134 4.169 4.194 4.198–218 4.211–214 4.219–258 4.259–264 4.259–278 4.260 4.265–295 4.279–286 4.279–295 4.296 4.296–301 4.296–304 4.296–392 4.305 4.320–326 4.350 4.360 4.362–364 4.366 4.388–392 4.393–394 4.395 4.408–412 4.413–553 4.421 4.439–450

556 557 548 559 557 557 560 562 557 557 557 557 562 564 562 564 562 564 564 564 565 565 565 565 560 565 550 565 562 562 565n25 565 562, 565 557 565 565 573 562 560 565 565 573 565 565n25 548 565 566 573 565n25

806 Aeneid (cont.) 4.460 4.468 4.477 4.499 4.502 4.506 4.532 4.534–536 4.544–546 4.552 4.570 4.571–583 4.584–588 4.591 4.595–597 4.621–629 4.625 4.632–633 4.655–658 4.656 4.665–671 4.688–692 6.30–31 6.77–80 6.441 6.450–474 6.473–476 6.791–807 7.71–80 7.312 7.474 8.581 8.643 8.668–669 9.446–449 9.495 10.315 10.581–582 11.282–287 11.336–446 12.52 12.64–69 12.206–211 12.957 Georgics 1.75 1.436–437 2.363–364

index of passages

559 563 566 566 559 548 588 563 560, 563 559 554 566 564 563, 564 566 558 558 560 567 559 563 566 577 669n10 556 555n4 559 547n17 551 584 588n22 733n22 577n30 576–577 84, 86n30 572n10 588n22 547 547 597 547 672n22 588n22 37 137n22 734n28 137n22

Virgil commentaries Servius ad 2.557

552n28

Xenophanes fr. 15 DK

268

Xenophon Ath. Anabasis 3.3.12–20 4.7.14 4.7.20 Cyropaedia 1.4.9 1.5.4 2.2.11–16 4.5.9 4.6.1–10 4.6.7 5.1.13–14 5.2.28 5.3.10 5.3.15–18 5.4.1–14 5.5.5–6 5.5.10 5.5.35–36 7.5.24–30 7.5.32 7.5.37 8.5.19 Hellenica 1.1.27–31 1.2.14 1.3.13 1.6.26 1.6.27 1.6.29–31 1.6.33 1.6.34 1.6.35 1.7 1.7.4–5 1.7.5 1.7.6 1.7.9 1.7.9–10 1.7.11 1.7.12

221n22 423n37 511n12 413 413 422n36 419 417 417 636n29 417 417 418 418 413–414 414 414 418 418 419 414 224 224 224 222 218 222 220, 222 222, 222n24 222, 223 218, 401n16 220n19 223 219, 223 220, 222 220 220 219, 220

807

index of passages 1.7.12–15 1.7.15 1.7.17 1.7.18 1.7.19 1.7.19–23 1.7.20 1.7.25 1.7.25–28 1.7.26 1.7.27 1.7.28 1.7.29 1.7.29–32 1.7.31 1.7.32 1.7.33 1.7.34 1.7.35 2.2.20 2.3.24–29

225 219 221 220n19 219, 221 219 221 221 225 219 219 221 220n19, 221 221 219 222, 223 219n16, 221 219 219 402 218

2.3.24–56 2.3.36 2.3.51 3.5.2 5.4.27 Xenophon Eph. 1.1.5–1.2.1 1.3.4 1.4.1 1.4.5 1.5.8 2.3.5 2.4.5 2.5.2 2.5.5 3.7.1 4.5.4 5.13.1 5.13.3

224 221 221 397n2 423n37

635n27 636 636 636 636 638 638 638 638 634n10, 634n12, 635n22, 635n23 636 634n14, 634n15 634n10, 634n12

Tabula Gratulatoria Johanna Akujärvi Øivind Andersen Lucia Athanassaki Egbert Bakker James Barrett Mark Beck Susanne Borowski Ewen Bowie Douglas Cairns Angelos Chaniotis Kathleen M. Coleman Martine Cuypers Michal Beth Dinkler Aniek van den Eersten Ute E. Eisen Andrew Faulkner Denis Feeney Marijke Gnade Vivienne Gray Jonas Grethlein Jo Heirman Emily Hemelrijk Daan den Hengst Martin Hose Richard Hunter Charles Hupperts Mieke Koenen Niels Koopman Christina Kraus Andrew Laird Joachim Latacz Sé Lenssen Anastasia Maravela Peter von Möllendorf

Manet van Montfrans John Morgan Damien Nelis Ingela Nilsson René Nünlist Emilie van Opstall Harm Pinkster † Luke Pitcher Barry Powell Michael Putnam Rush Rehm Tobias Reinhardt Nicholas Richardson Scott Richardson David Rijser Rodie Risselada Arbogast Schmitt Barbara Schmitz Verena Schulz Liesbeth Schuren Scott Scullion Ineke Sluiter Hans Smolenaars Vladimir Stissi Oliver Taplin Paul van Uum Frits Waanders Hans van Wees Gert Jan van Wijngaarden Andreas Willi Saskia Willigers Greg Woolf Irene Zwiep