Literary Currents and Romantic Forms: Essays in Memory of Bryan Reardon 9492444879, 9789492444875

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Literary Currents and Romantic Forms: Essays in Memory of Bryan Reardon

ANCIENT NARRATIVE Supplementum 26 Editorial Board Gareth Schmeling, University of Florida, Gainesville Stephen Harrison, Corpus Christi College, Oxford Heinz Hofmann, Universität Tübingen Massimo Fusillo, Università degli Studi dell’Aquila Ruurd Nauta, University of Groningen Stelios Panayotakis, University of Crete Costas Panayotakis (review editor), University of Glasgow Advisory Board Jean Alvares, Montclair State University Alain Billault, Université Paris Sorbonne – Paris IV Ewen Bowie, Corpus Christi College, Oxford Jan Bremmer, University of Groningen Koen De Temmerman, University of Ghent Stavros Frangoulidis, Aristotelian University of Thessaloniki Ronald Hock, University of Southern California, Los Angeles Irene de Jong, University of Amsterdam Silvia Montiglio, Johns Hopkins University John Morgan, University of Wales, Swansea Michael Paschalis, University of Crete Judith Perkins, Saint Joseph College, West Hartford Tim Whitmarsh, University of Cambridge Alfons Wouters, University of Leuven Maaike Zimmerman, University of Groningen

Website www.ancientnarrative.com Subscriptions and ordering Barkhuis Kooiweg 38 9761 GL Eelde the Netherlands [email protected] www.barkhuis.nl

Literary Currents and Romantic Forms Essays in Memory of Bryan Reardon edited by

Kathryn Chew J.R. Morgan Stephen M. Trzaskoma

BARKHUIS

&

GRONINGEN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GRONINGEN

2018

Ἐσχατίηι Μουσῶν κήπου ποτὲ χῶρος ἔκειτο δὴν ἄσπαρτος ἐών, κρυπτόμενος τριβόλοις. οὐδεὶς δ’ ἠμφιπόλευεν, ἔδει δ’ ἀφόβοιο φυτουργοῦ. εἷς δ’ ἄρ’ ἀνὴρ παριὼν πῖαρ ὑπ’ οὖδας ἴδεν, θαρσήσας δὲ βάτων ταχέως ἐκάθηρεν ἄρουραν, εὐώδη δ’ ἔσπειρ’ ἄνθεα γηθόσυνος. ἔτρεχε δ’ εὐρυχόρου παραδείσου τηλόσε φήμη, πολλούς θ’ ὁπλοτέρους ἐνθάδ’ ἐπῆγε πονεῖν. νῦν δ’ ὀγδωκοστὸν τελέσας ἔτος, ἀρχιφύτουργε, δέξο, φίλ’, ἐργασίης ἀντίδοσιν χρονίης. S.R.W.

Book and cover design: Barkhuis Image on cover: the Tetrapylon, or monumental gateway, in Aphrodisias that leads to the sanctuary of Aphrodite, dating to the mid-later second century CE; photograph by Kathryn Chew, 2007 ISBN: 9789492444875

Copyright © 2018 the authors All rights reserved. No part of this publication or the information contained herein may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronical, mechanical, by photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author. Although all care is taken to ensure the integrity and quality of this publication and the information herein, no responsibility is assumed by the publishers nor the author for any damage to property or persons as a result of operation or use of this publication and/or the information contained herein.

Contents S TEPHANIE W EST In Memoriam BPR

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Foreword

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D ANA F. S UTTON Bryan Peter Reardon: Vita et Scripta

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PART ONE ASPECTS OF THE (GREEK) NOVEL G ARETH L. S CHMELING Narrative and the Ancient Novel: the human imagination is always a form of lying

3

M ARÍLIA P. F UTRE P INHEIRO Thoughts on Diēgēma (Narratio) in ancient rhetoric and in modern critical theory

19

C ONSUELO R UIZ -M ONTERO Between rhetoric and orality: aspects of the spread of the earliest Greek novels

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PART TWO NOVELS AND NOVELTIES A LAIN B ILLAULT Histoire, mythologie, rhétorique et récit dans le roman de Chariton

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S TEPHEN M. T RZASKOMA Citations of Xenophon in Chariton

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C O NT E NT S

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J.R. M ORGAN ‘A Cast of Thousands’: the riddle of the Antheia Romance solved (?)

81

E WEN B OWIE Λέξεις Λόγγου

99

C HRISTOPHER G ILL Style and ethos in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

113

H UGH J. M ASON Hunters’ dedications: Longus and Lesbos

137

K EN D OWDEN The plot of Iamblichos’ Babyloniaka: sources and influence

149

G IUSEPPE Z ANETTO Love on the waves: the reversal of a topos in Achilles Tatius

173

P ATRIZIA L IVIABELLA F URIANI Furit Aestus: il meriggio in Filostrato e nei romanzi greci d’amore

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T OMAS H ÄGG † The sense of travelling: Philostratus and the novel

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PART THREE APOGRAPHS AND ATTICISTS: ADVENTURES OF A TEXT L OUIS C ALLEBAT La prose des Métamorphoses d’Apulée: éléments d’une poétique

239

M AAIKE Z IMMERMAN Lucianic (and ‘un-Lucianic’) moments in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses

251

G ERALD N. S ANDY Filippo Beroaldo’s use of Roman Law in his Commentary (1500) on Apuleius’ Golden Ass

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C O NT E NT S

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M ICHAEL D. R EEVE History of a genre: Huet’s Origines des Romans

299

K ATHRYN C HEW & M ARK B ENTON Heliodorus in France: Mosnier’s seventeenth-century representations of the Aethiopica

307

J AMES T ATUM Who’s Afraid of Andromeda?

325

Abstracts

335

Contributors

343

Indices Index locorum General index

349 349 351

Foreword The name of Bryan Reardon will be familiar to virtually every reader of this volume. In a distinguished career, whose lasting achievement was to rescue the Ancient Greek novels from the disregarded margins of classical literature, and to set in motion the tide of scholarly interest in them and their Latin relations which is embodied in the Ancient Narrative series, perhaps two landmarks stand out. The first was the organisation of the first International Conference on the Ancient Novel (ICAN), held in 1976 in Bangor in North Wales (where Bryan held the Chair of Classics at the time), which kicked the whole thing off. And the second was the editorship of the volume of translations, Collected Ancient Greek Novels, which brought the novels into the curricula of universities all over the Anglosphere and continues to serve as the central text for popular and successful courses at all levels. However, despite his extensive and influential bibliography (and Bryan certainly wrote beautifully, in both English and French), it is as a person that he is best remembered: as facilitator, energiser, teacher, mentor, father-figure and, above all, as generous and kind friend, and, along with his beloved wife, Janette, hospitable and merry host. The contributors to this memorial volume owe much to Bryan: Billault, Bowie, Dowden, Gill, Mason, Morgan, Ruiz-Montero, Sandy, Schmeling, Tatum, and West were all present at ICAN, while Dowden, Gill, Morgan, and Sandy all contributed to Collected Ancient Greek Novels. There is not one amongst us whose life was not touched and enriched by Bryan in one way or another. The original intention had been for this book to be a Festschrift for Bryan’s eightieth birthday in 2008, and we were in fact able to present him with copies of most of these essays on his birthday. Sadly, he died before the book was complete and ready for the publisher. For a combination of reasons, some professional and some personal, the editors lacked the energy and resolve to push forwards with the project at that time. We cannot excuse that, and only say in mitigation that the delay has never ceased to weigh heavily on our conscience. We are grateful beyond words to the contributors for their patience, and for their readiness to review their articles when we reignited the project in 2017; they are

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certainly of too high a quality to remain unpublished. We must also thank Roelf Barkhuis for his help in bringing these essays into the public domain after such a long gestation. The publication of this volume would not be possible without the generous subvention of a former student of Bryan’s, who wishes to remain anonymous. At an earlier stage Bryan’s erstwhile department at the University of California, Irvine, offered support, and, from further back in his career, the Classics Department at Trent University also asked to be associated in our expressions of affection and respect for him. We must also mention friends and colleagues who were not able to contribute but nonetheless join us in remembering Bryan: particularly Roger Beck, Glen Bowersock, Laurent Pernot, Simon Swain. KC, JRM, SMT

Bryan Peter Reardon: Vita et Scripta D ANA F. S UTTON The University of California, Irvine

Bryan was born in England at the very end of 1928, but towards the beginning of the Second World War his family moved to Glasgow, where Rolls-Royce, for whom his father worked as an engineer, built a plant to make aircraft engines beyond the range of the Luftwaffe. He attended school from 1941 until 1946, and entered the University of Glasgow, where he studied both English and Classics (there called Humanity). He received a Scottish M.A. in 1951, then he attended the University of Cambridge for two years, graduating from St. John’s College. During his early years in Glasgow, he acquired two passions, for theatrics and cricket. The former reached a kind of apogee at Cambridge, when in the Cambridge Greek Play of 1953 he played the title role in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon opposite Frances Lloyd-Jones’ Clytemnestra. He was also involved in Shakespearean productions, and even after he began his university teaching career in Newfoundland and Ontario he occasionally found time to direct productions, both university and civic. The BBC-produced mini-series The Glittering Prizes provides a fictionalized view of the ‘set’ to which Bryan and a number of young St. John’s undergraduates (including our Santa Barbara colleague the late J.P. Sullivan) belonged. His great love, however, was cricket, which he started in England before going to Glasgow in 1941. He played for school, local, college, and university teams, and continued to play while a schoolteacher in Glasgow. In later life, because of the pressures of academic research and the time and travel that entailed, he largely gave up playing, but remained an avid observer of the sport. After taking a B.A. from Cambridge in 1953, Bryan was required to perform two years’ military service. Although he had learned to fly in the University Air Squadron and Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve, he was assigned to duty as a junior officer in the R.A.F. Education Branch. Released from service in 1955, he spent the next three years teaching in secondary schools in Edinburgh and Glasgow, but quickly realized that school teaching was not his life’s ambition. His first Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, XIII–XXI

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academic appointment was at the Memorial University of Newfoundland, from 1958 until 1967, with a two-year interruption from 1964 to 1966 while he worked on his doctorate at the Université de Nantes, where he received the degree of Doctorat in 1968. While an Assistant Professor at Newfoundland, he met Janette Hamard, a Lecturer in French. They were married in France two years later. From 1967 to 1974, he taught at Trent University (Peterborough, Ontario), and then at the University College of North Wales (Bangor) from 1974 to 1978, as Professor and Head of Department. In 1978 Bryan was recruited as a Professor of Classics at the University of California, Irvine, with the understanding that he would serve as Chair of the Department. The moment when he came to Irvine was a difficult one for the Department. The Classics graduate program had recently received a devastating review from external visitors and it was deemed necessary to dismiss the non-tenured members of the faculty. Looming up behind these immediate problems was the simple reality that the Irvine campus of the University of California was a recent and relatively unknown foundation (U.C.I. opened its doors in 1965, the Department of Classics was founded in 1968, and its graduate program was started in the early 1970s), and it was critically necessary to establish some kind of standing in the academic world. Bryan was immediately confronted with the need to rebuild the Classics faculty, reorganize the graduate program, and acquire for the Department some degree of visibility and prestige. At first, even with the strong support of William J. Lillyman, Dean of the School of Humanities, the sledding was rather rough. Not all members of the Department were equally convinced of the need for reform and restructuring. The Department was largely staffed with faculty who had been recruited directly from graduate school, or nearly so, and therefore it lacked the institutional wisdom normally supplied by older and more experienced members, so that Bryan’s arrival injected a distinctly new element into the Department. For his part, as a newcomer to our American academic culture, Bryan needed to learn how to govern the Department in the context of a system in which a Chairman exerts his influence by persuasion and consensus-building rather than the kind of professorial fiat to which he had been accustomed in the British system. Happily, the initial turbulence that ensued was short-lived. He soon adapted to American ways and convinced his colleagues of the necessity of creating a more structured and professionalized graduate program, featuring a strong emphasis on the acquisition of language proficiency and with careful individual supervision of students at all stages of advancement. In due course, the program received more applicants and of a higher average quality; it began to produce Ph.D.’s; its graduates began to find jobs; and, in marked contrast to its predeces-

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sor, the following external review of the program produced a positive evaluation. This was a strong vindication of all of Bryan’s efforts. At the same time, he began a process of judicious recruitment, which over the years resulted in building a considerably stronger faculty. And there had been a time when some faculty members perhaps believed that the presence of the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae Project on the Irvine campus was sufficient to confer visibility and prestige on the Department, so that they themselves were under no great obligation to participate in the effort of enhancing its academic standing. If any such illusions existed, Bryan quickly put an end to them and, thanks in large measure to his presence and the example he set, the Department began to acquire a new degree of prominence in its own right. When he came to Irvine, Bryan quickly became convinced that the Classics graduate program faced a fundamental problem, which could not be solved by internal reform: the Irvine Classics faculty was simply too small to provide the wide spectrum of expertise requisite for an intellectually respectable operation, and could not reasonably be expected to achieve any such ‘critical mass’ in the foreseeable future. His solution to this problem was to work closely with his former St. John’s College contemporary John Sullivan, who by now was a member of the Classics faculty at the University of California at Santa Barbara, and with U.C. Classicists elsewhere, to establish a Resource Sharing Consortium whereby faculty were exchanged on a regular basis between the Irvine, Los Angeles, Riverside and Santa Barbara campuses. This had the effect of immeasurably enriching the Irvine graduate program by giving its students exposure to distinguished visiting faculty representing a wide range of specialties. These were heady days. It is probably impossible to convey to a reader associated with an established Classics department with a long history and tradition how stimulating and challenging it was to operate in a context in which, as we were fully conscious, many of the decisions we were called upon to make might involve establishing precedents for the future. And in the context of such a fledgling department it is probably true that the force of individual personalities goes farther towards determining the character of the institution than in a more established program. Bearing these considerations in mind, one can readily conclude that Bryan was absolutely the right man for the job. In due time even those colleagues who originally were not fully convinced about the need for change and reform were happy to accept his leadership and took great pride in his presence as a moving force within the Department. Bryan demitted the Chair in 1983, but the last year of his tenure in office was shadowed by his first coronary episode. Cardiac problems returned later, necessitating bypass surgery. Fortunately, the quality of medical care he received in the

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United States, and subsequently in France, was such that he continued to lead an active and productive life for many years. In 1983-1984 he was able to vary his Irvine routine with a year in France, serving as a Visiting Professor at the University of Caen. Not long after coming home he assumed the position of Graduate Advisor in the Department, a position he held from 1986 to 1990, interrupted by a year as Visiting Mellon Fellow at Princeton’s Institute for Advanced Study. And then from 1992 to 1994 he served as Director of the University’s Education Abroad Program Study Center at Lyon, France. This program allows U.C. undergraduates to study abroad according to a scheme whereby participants stay registered at U.C. while abroad, continue to earn credit and make normal progress towards their degrees, and pay the same fees they would pay if they remained on their home campuses. A feature of this program is that students work under the auspices of regional Study Centers overseen by Directors who establish and maintain relationships with host universities and their personnel, guide students through the intricacies of foreign academic communities, are responsible for interpreting the culture of the host country to the students and helping them adapt to their new environments, and look out for the welfare of individual students. Obviously, Bryan’s experience as an administrator, together with his familiarity with France’s culture and educational system, made him highly suited for this position. During his Irvine years, it should be added, Bryan vigorously pursued his line of research on the ancient Greek novel, which bore fruit in a number of publications, the two most important of which were Collected Ancient Greek Novels (University of California Press, 1989; second edition 2008) and The Form of Greek Romance (Princeton University Press, 1991). Readers of the Petronian Society Newsletter came to rely on his periodical critical bibliographical contributions on the Greek Novel. It should also be added that during Bryan’s years at U.C.I. Janette served as a Lecturer in the Department of French. Often called ‘Madame’ by her students, she was a mainstay of the department, having large responsibilities for supervising undergraduate language instruction. The two years of service at Lyon turned out to be the capstone of Bryan’s career in the University of California. In 1994, as an economy measure, the University offered its senior faculty the option of early retirement on very attractive terms, and Bryan was one of the three members of the Department who chose to take advantage of this opportunity (the loss of the combined experience and wisdom of three senior members, needless to say, had a markedly ill effect on the welfare of the Department, and the quality of its decision-making noticeably deteriorated).

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By the time of his retirement, Bryan could look back with satisfaction upon a stellar career. He had long ago made his mark on his Department and earned the deep respect and affection of his colleagues and students, and was also a familiar, respected and well-liked figure within the Classics profession. He had supervised four doctoral dissertations (by Brigitte Egger and J. Mark Sugars at Irvine, Kathryn Chew at U.C.L.A. and Bracht Branham at Berkeley). Besides the honors already mentioned, he had received the Medal of the Université de Paris - Sorbonne for services to the institution (in 1987) and the U.C.I. Humanities Associates’ Faculty Teaching Award (in 1988), and he was Honorary Chair of the second International Conference on the Ancient Novel, where he delivered the opening paper, at Dartmouth College in 1989. He had already, in 1976, himself mounted the first ICAN in the U.K., and by the fourth ICAN at Lisbon, after a third conference at Groningen in 2000, the 50 papers of the first conference had expanded to some hundreds. In addition, he served on the editorial board of Classical Antiquity, the Classics journal of the University of California, commencing in 1982. Soon after Bryan’s retirement, he and Janette sold up both their Irvine residence and the summer home in the Loire valley that they had owned for many years, and took up housekeeping at Lion-sur-Mer, a coastal village on the English Channel about eight miles north of Caen, where Janette continues to make her home. Lion-sur-Mer is strategically located, and it was easy for the Reardons to go to Paris for concerts and operas, or cross over on the Portsmouth ferry and drive up to Oxford, so that Bryan could do research and maintain contact with other members of the profession, usually as a guest of Corpus Christi College or All Souls. At the same time, it was easy for friends to visit Bryan and Janette, and he took delight in showing visitors around this history-rich part of the world. With him for a tour guide, one was likely to visit a German gun emplacement and Pegasus Bridge in the morning, see the Bayeux Tapestry in the afternoon, and have a first-rate dinner at some restaurant in the Norman countryside in the evening. While living at Lion-sur-Mer, he was able to complete the work that has occupied him for many years, a much-needed new critical edition of Chariton’s novel Chaereas and Callirhoe, which appeared in the Bibliotheca Teubneriana series in 2004. If I may conclude this biographical sketch on a personal note, from the time I joined the U.C. Irvine Department of Classics in 1979, Bryan was a kind mentor and a cherished colleague who instructed me on a wide variety of things ranging from navigating the rocks and shoals of local academic politics to the proper way to carve a joint of lamb. My wife Kathy and I regarded him and Janette as being among our closest friends, and the ways in which they have shown us warmth and kindness are innumerable. Out of all of these, the two I would single out for

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especial gratitude are Bryan’s instrumentality in originally bringing me to Irvine and the unstinting support I received from him during the years I was Chair of the Department and he served as Graduate Advisor. Knowing the Reardons, and being able to count Bryan as a friend and colleague for over a quarter century, has been one of the great privileges of my life. Bryan died peacefully in his sleep at home, of cardiac complications, on November 16, 2009.

B. P. Reardon, A Bibliography I. Books 1965. Lucian: Selected Works, Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill. (270 pp.) 1971. Courants littéraires grecs des IIe et IIIe siècles après J.-C., Paris: Les Belles Lettres. (460 pp.) 1976 (ed.). Erotica Antiqua: ICAN 1976 (Acta of the First International Conference on the Ancient Novel 1976), University of North Wales, Bangor. (180 pp.) 1989 (ed.). Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press. Second edition 2008. (820 pp.) 1991. The Form of Greek Romance, Princeton: Princeton University Press. (190 pp.) 2004 (ed.). Chariton Aphrodisiensis: De Callirhoe Narrationes Amatoriae, Bibliotheca Teubneriana, Munich & Leipzig: Saur. (150 pp.)

IIa. Articles 1969. ‘The Greek novel’, Phoenix 23, 291–309; reprinted in H. Gärtner (ed.), Beiträge zum grieschischen Roman, Hildesheim: Olms, 1984, 218-236. 1973. ‘The anxious pagan’, Classical News and Views 17, 81–93. 1974. ‘Le roman grec et sa survie: reflets d’histoire culturelle,” Cahiers d’Études Anciennes 3, 73–84. 1974. ‘The Second Sophistic and the novel’, in: G.W. Bowersock (ed.), Approaches to the Second Sophistic, University Park, PA: American Philological Association, 23–29. 1976. ‘Aspects of the Greek novel’, Greece and Rome 23, 118-131. 1976. ‘Novels and novelties, or Mysteriouser and mysteriouser’, in R.J. Williams et al. (eds.), The Mediterranean World: Papers presented in honour of Gilbert Bagnani, April 26, 1975, Peterborough: Trent University, 78–100. 1976. ‘The Greek novel: état de la question’ in: B.P. Reardon (ed.), Erotica Antiqua: ICAN 1976 (Acta of the First International Conference on the Ancient Novel 1976), University of North Wales, Bangor. 14-19. 1982. ‘Theme, structure and narrative in Chariton’ YCS 27, 1-27; reprinted in: S. Swain (ed.), Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel. Oxford: Oxford University Press 1999, 163-188. 1984. ‘The Second Sophistic’, in: W. Treadgold (ed.), Renaissances before the Renaissance, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 23-41.

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1988. ‘The form of Ancient Greek romance’, in: R. Beaton (ed.), The Greek Novel AD 1-1985, London: Croom Helm, 205-216. 1990. ‘Μῦθος οὐ λόγος. Longus’ Lesbian Pastorals’, in: J. Tatum & G. Vernazza (eds.), The Ancient Novel. Classical Paradigms and Modern Perspectives, ICAN II, Proceedings of the International Conference, Dartmouth College, Hanover NH, 21. 1993. ‘L’autobiographie à l’ époque de la Second Sophistique: quelques conclusions’ in: M.-F. Baslez, P. Hoffman & L. Pernot (eds.), L’invention de l’autobiographie: d’Hésiode à Augustin, Actes du deuxième colloque de l’Équipe de recherche sur l’hellénisme post-classique, Paris: Presses de l’École normale supérieure, 279-284. 1994. ‘Achilles Tatius and ego-narrative’ in J.R. Morgan & R. Stoneman (eds.), Greek Fiction: the Greek Novel in Context, London & New York: Routledge, 80-96; reprinted in: S. Swain (ed.), Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel. Oxford: Oxford University Press 1999, 243258. 1994. ‘Lucien et la fiction’, in: A. Billault (ed.), Lucien de Samosate, Actes du colloque international de Lyon organisé au Centre d’études romaines et gallo-romaines les 30 septembre1 octobre 1993, Lyon &: de Boccard, 9-12. 1994. ‘Μῦθος οὐ λόγος: Longus’s Lesbian Pastorals’, in: J. Tatum (ed), The Search for the Ancient Novel, Baltimore & London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 135-147. 1996. ‘Chariton’, in: G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, Leiden: Brill, 309335. 1998. ‘Apographs and Atticists: adventures of a text’, in: J. Bews, I.C. Storey & M.R. Boyne (eds.), Celebratio: Thirtieth Anniversary Essays at Trent University, Peterborough: Trent University, 67-75. 2000. ‘Les malheurs de Callirhoé’, in: A. Billault (ed.), ὈΠΩΡΑ, La belle saison de l’hellénisme. Études de littérature antiques offertes au Recteur Jacques Bompaire, Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne, 59-71. 2001. ‘Callirhoé et ses sœurs’, in B. Pouderon (ed.), Les personnages du roman grec, Actes du colloque de Tours, 18-20 novembre 1999, Lyon: Maison de l’Orient Méditerranéen, 2127. 2001. ‘Heliodorus’ Ethiopica: la grande illusion?’, in: M. Joyal (ed.), In Altum: Seventy-Five Years of Classical Studies in Newfoundland, St. John’s, Newfoundland: Memorial University of Newfoundland, 277-313. 2001. ‘Preface’ in: I. Ramelli, I romanzi antichi e il cristianesimo: contesto e contatti, Madrid: Signifer Libros, 11. 2003. ‘Mythology in Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus’, in: J. A. López Férez (ed.), Mitos en la literatura griega helenística e imperial, Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 377-389. 2004. ‘Variation on a theme: reflections on Xenophon Ephesius’, in: M. Janka (ed.), ΕΓΚΥΚΛΙΟΝ ΚΗΠΙΟΝ (Rundgärtchen): zu Poesie, Historie und Fachliteratur der Antike, Festschrift for Hans Gärtner’s 70th birthday, Munich & Leipzig: Saur, 183-193. 2006. ‘The ancient novel at the time of Perry’, in S.N. Byrne, E.P. Cueva & J. Alvares (eds.), Authors, Authority, and Interpreters in the Ancient Novels: Essays in Honor of Gareth L. Schmeling, Groningen: Barkhuis, 227-238. 2006. ‘From Perry to Groningen’, in: W. Keulen, R.R. Nauta & S. Panayotakis (eds.), ‘Lectiones Scrupulosae’: Essays on the Text and Interpretation of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses in Honour of Maaike Zimmerman, Groningen: Barkhuis, 1-3.

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IIb. Review Articles 1982. ‘Une nouvelle édition de Chariton’, REG 95, 152-173. 1983. ‘Travaux récents sur Dion de Pruse’, REG 96, 29-58.

III. Bibliographical Notices In Petronian Society Newsletter (devoted to ancient fiction; online from 2000). They concern Greek fiction exclusively, and contain a substantial critical element. 1982. PSN 12.2/13, 3-5 1984. PSN 15.2, 4-5 1986. PSN 16.1-2, 11-14 1989. PSN 19.1-2, 3-6 1991. PSN 21.1-2, 8-15 1994. PSN 24.1-2, 7-14 1996. PSN 26.1-2, 6-10 1998. PSN 28.1-2, 10-16 2000. PSN 30.1-2, 5-9.

IV. Reviews and notices 1966. J. Schwartz. Biographie de Lucien de Samosate (Brussels 1965), AC 35, 635-638. 1967. J. Schwartz, Biographie de Lucien de Samosate (Brussels 1965), CW 60, 257. 1968. B.E. Perry, The Ancient Romances (Berkeley, Los Angeles & London 1967), Mosaic 1, 114-118. 1968. B.E. Perry, The Ancient Romances (Berkeley, Los Angeles & London 1967), AJP 89, 476-480. 1968. R. Pfeiffer, History of Classical Scholarship from the Beginnings to the End of the Hellenistic Age (Oxford 1968), CW 62, 144. 1969. P. Grimal (ed.) Hellenism and the Rise of Rome (New York 1969), CW 63, 94. 1970. G.W. Bowersock, Greek Sophists in the Roman Empire (Oxford 1969), CW 63, 206-207. 1971. C. Miralles, La novela en la antigüedad clásica (Barcelona 1968), CR 21, 134. 1971. E. Steindl (ed.), Luciani Scytharum Colloquia (Leipzig 1979), American Classical Review 1, 174. 1972. H. Maas (ed.), The Letters of A. E. Housman (Cambridge, Mass. 1971), CW 65, 168-169. 1972. W.E. McCulloh, Longus (New York 1970), Modern Language Journal 56, 99-100. 1972. G. Husson, Lucien: Le Navire ou les Souhaits (Paris 1970), Phoenix 26, 201-202. 1972. T. Hägg, Narrative Technique in Ancient Greek Romances (Stockholm 1971), Phoenix 26, 207- 209. 1972. A. Scobie, Aspects of the Ancient Romance and its Heritage (Meisenheim am Glan 1969), Phoenix 26, 503-504. 1972. L. Merolla, Meilia: Antologia Greca per il Bienno Classico (Milan 1971), American Classical Review 2, 189. 1974. M.D. Macleod (ed.), Luciani Opera I (Oxford 1972), JHS 94, 200-201. 1974. L. Giangrande, The Use of Spoudaiogeloion in Greek and Roman Literature (The Hague & Paris 1972), Phoenix 28, 468.

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1976. A.D. Papanikolaou, Chariton-Studien (Göttingen 1973), CR 26, 21-23. 1978. École Normale Supérieure, Écriture et Théorie Poétiques (Paris 1976), REG 91, 219220. 1979. K. Plepelits, Chariton von Aphrodisias: Kallirhoe (Stuttgart 1976), CR 29, 145. 1980. C.P. Jones, The Roman World of Dio Chrysostom (Cambridge Mass. 1978), Phoenix 34, 173-175. 1982. D.A. Russell, Criticism in Antiquity (London 1981), REG 95, 508-512. 1986. L. Pernot, Les Discours Siciliens d’Aelius Aristide (New York 1981), AJP 107, 609-612. 1987. H.-G. Nesselrath, Lukians Parasitendialog (Berlin & New York 1985), CR 37, 159-161. 1988. J.R. Vieillefond (ed.), Longus: Pastorales (Daphnis et Chloé) (Paris 1987), CR 38, 237238. 1989. C.P. Jones, Culture and Society in Lucian (Cambridge, Mass. 1986), CP 84, 271-275. 1990. R. Merkelbach, Die Hirten des Dionysos (Stuttgart 1988), CR 40, 81-82. 1991. D.A. Russell (ed.), Antonine Literature (Oxford 1989), CR 41, 357-358. 1992. C.S. Jerram (ed.), Luciani: Vera Historia (Wauconda, Il. 1990), Classical Outlook 69, 140. 1992. M.D. Macleod (ed.), Lucian: A Selection (Warminister 1991), CR 42, 438. 1994. M.-F. Baslez, P. Hoffmann & M. Trédé (eds.), Le monde du roman grec (Paris 1992), EMC n.s. 13, 402-404. 1996. L. Pernot, La rhétorique de l’éloge dans le monde gréco-romain (Paris 1993), Rhetorica 14, 347-351.

Part One Aspects of the (Greek) Novel

Narrative and the Ancient Novel: The human imagination is always a form of lying1 G ARETH S CHMELING University of Florida

1. Narrative Whether the narrative is that of a novel or of a history, it is probably impossible to say that they are two generically different kinds of narratives. Critics note that the narrative or text of a history represents actual events, while the novel as it becomes a text creates its own events. Though the events of the novel have no anterior occurrence (except in tradition), they are set out to the reader as if they had one, and the text of the novel, like that of the history, is then a representation of events. Thus the reader is asked to believe that events actually happened as interpreted by the historian, and is asked to connive with the novelist in believing his narrative. If the historian, however, had not entitled his work a history, how could it be differentiated from a novel? If the novelist had not called his work a novel, how could it be distinguished from a history? Historians and novelists write narratives which they expect to be believed at some level: historians generally try to base the authority of the author on something like autopsy, research, personal conversations, or social memory, then make some claims to the truth, and finally call their work a history; Chariton says (1,1,1) that he will tell us something that happened (genomenon); Petronius and Apuleius offer eye-witness accounts; Xenophon of Ephesus and the anonymous author of the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri can claim to have found written reports of what they relate in the temple of Artemis in Ephesus; Longus and Achilles Tatius are inspired by erotic art; Lucian (VH ————— 1

N. Frye. Bryan Reardon was one of the scholars most responsible for laying a firm foundation for the study of the ancient novel. All of those who work with ancient novels and with Greek literature of the Roman Empire remain in his debt. For this and amicitiae causa I remember him. He was too modest to recognize that he was a great man. On the rise of interest in the ancient novel and the scholars who encouraged it, see Zeitlin 2016, 37-50. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 3–17

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1,4) admits that, though he is truthful in nothing else, he is truthful in stating that he is lying; and the author of the Apocolocyntosis claims (1,1-2) haec ita vera, si quis quaesiverit unde sciam, primum, si noluero, non respondebo. quis coacturus est? … tamen si necesse fuerit auctorem producere … Appiae viae curator est … This is the authentic truth. If anyone inquires about the source of my information, first – if I do not want to – I shall not reply. Who is going to compel me? … But if it is obligatory to produce the originator of the account … he is superintendant of the Appian Way. (trans. Eden) So say the writers; the readers believe writers who have established their authority according to the standards of the readers. We remember that Moses and Joseph Smith received their authority from tablets given them by God himself, both try to tell an interesting story and to hold the reader; through an array of rhetorical devices both try to convince the reader, both carefully select a relatively few events out of the total for retelling, connect these in a series (to show cause and effect or to show the seemingly natural workings of Tyche), and give the reader a narrative with a beginning, middle and end. A goal of ancient rhetorical education which suited both historian and novelist was to train students who could then compose narratives ‘for which it was of no significance whether the material used was true or merely plausible … provided that it was convincing’.2 Both the historian and the novelist see a multitude of events before themselves, which must be transferred from random disorder into some sort of scheme or arrangement so that the required story can emerge. The sequence of events chosen by the writer is given a narrative form, which by its nature is a form of explanation.3 The historian and the novelist wish to explain something: the historian wants to explain the war or the rise and fall of empire; the novelist presents the great love affair. The historian Thucydides looks back over fairly contemporary events and ————— 2

3

Wiseman 1981, 389; see also Wiseman 1979, 31-37, 47. For an excellent analysis of the relationship between history and fiction, see Morgan 1982; Bowersock 1994; all the collected essays in Gill & Wiseman (eds.) 1993, especially Wiseman 1993, Laird 1993, and Morgan 1993; Hunter 2009. To all these I am deeply indebted for their scope and depth in analyzing the idea and power of fiction in antiquity. White 1973 would read history as just another form of prose discourse, similar to literary genres and subject to literary/rhetorical devices and analysis (he entitles his Introduction, ‘The Poetics of History’). See also: White 1978a, a collection of essays, especially ‘Interpretation in History’ (1972-73), ‘Historicism, History, and the Figurative Imagination’ (1975), ‘The Fictions of Factual Representation’ (1976); Grossman 1978.

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concludes that the war between Athens and Sparta was a tragedy to both city-states. The data he chooses to put into a sequence of events might not appear to anyone else as a sequence until he has explained them; the cause and effect in events, their connections, are what give life to the writer’s narrative. Herodotus sees a sequence of events which in narrative form gives his history from time to time an epic flavor. Among the novelists we see that Petronius’ sequence of events in narrative form yields a confession with its jaundiced yet bemused observation of manners, while Apuleius’ is often like that of a fantasy encased in riot of color in language, and Chariton lays out a romance in historical character.4 For his part the reader is constantly challenged to make some sense of the narrative arrangement before himself:5 the challenge offered by Heliodorus is formidable, that by Xenophon rather minimal. If the reader has the proper background and is clever enough to recognize the literary conventions of the work and the genre which depends on the conventions, he can adjust his parameters already at the first page. As the writer had organized his narrative so the reader arranges his reactions. The nimble reader is awake to the shifting nuances and changes in viewpoint and is able to backtrack quickly, when he discovers that his original assumptions must be revised in the light of new revelations. The next sentence, scene, or chapter might disconfirm assumptions made earlier and force the reader to revise his first understanding: the need to revise assumptions is found most often in the ancient novel among the readers of Petronius,6 Apuleius,7 and Heliodorus.8 The dramatic time before the beginning of the novel’s action and the dramatic time after the end of the story seem to serve the function of fictional (i.e. nonpolitical) utopias. The heroes and heroines of the ancient novel (a special understanding must be granted to the highly artificial order in Heliodorus) are exceedingly and unrealistically happy creatures before the start of the dramatic time – even though they have not yet met their beloved counterparts of the opposite sex – and, following the conclusion of the plot, are so once again. The action of the plot (the time when the lovers are together/separated [again and again] and the story told by the novelist) contains the only sad yet realistic days to be endured by the protagonists: time before and after the story is utopia; the final reunion of ————— 4 5 6 7 8

White 1978b, 46-47; Lützeler 1992, 33. Eagleton 1983, 67-69. Schmeling 1991; Horsfall 1991-1992; Adameitz 1995. Winkler 1985. Sandy 1982, 33-74. Reardon 1974, 27 went behind my clever writer and nimble reader and explained how they might have come together in support of each other in the Second Sophistic and given accomplishments to the newish genre of the novel: ‘Its most important effect, I suspect, was as a refining influence: as a discipline – and as a discipline for audience as well as artist. The Second Sophistic did … stimulate mastery and appreciation of form’.

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the lovers signals a return to utopia. The novel thus inverts the normal sequence of events from the political utopia which had shown an arrangement of normal days → blessed days → normal days (Euhemerus in Diodorus 5,41-46; Iambulus in Diodorus 2,55-60);9 for our eight ancient novels the utopian days lack interest and are not near the center of attention. The utopia in novelistic form, however, shares the travel motif with the ancient novel as well as a love for the marvelous (natural wonders in Longus, Achilles Tatius, and Heliodorus; fantastic escapes in Chariton and Xenophon of Ephesus; religious secrets in Apuleius); the sensational in the utopia appears also in the Reisefabulistik of Antonius Diogenes and is parodied by Lucian in his The True Story. The structure of the novel, the order imposed on it by the author, separates it from the reader’s everyday world which does not have such a clean narrative line. The author sets his literary work apart from the real world by creating order and, early in that fictional order, marks his product as a novel. The utopia which obtains before and after the plot of the novel fashions a kind of frame which segregates the drama of the story from the blissful existence at the beginning and the ending, where everyone lives happily ever after. A curious result of this structure is that the story of the novel which should be the fiction becomes the element of realism, and the frame which should be the real world becomes an even greater fiction. The break-up of the utopia at the novel’s outset, as the young lovers meet and for the first time experience suffering, signals the beginning of the story proper, and the settlement of disputes and the recognition scenes signal a return to that earlier utopia and an end to the story (fiction, novel).

2. Irony There is a lack of adequate warning that irony is at work. Wayne Booth The literary conventions of the narrative structure (i.e. consequences of actions) of the ancient novel do not seem to permit a wide usage for the various forms of ————— 9

Kytzler 1973; Ferguson 1975, 102-110; Kytzler 1988; Ruiz-Montero 2003, 38-42; Holzberg 2003, 621-628. My use of the word ‘utopia’ has certain resonances in common with ‘identity’ in Frye 1976, 54. On the importance of beginnings and endings in the novel, see Morgan 1989; Schmeling 1991. What I here term an inversion of the normal sequence of a political utopia, Bakhtin 1981, 90 describes as ‘an extratemporal hiatus between two moments of biographical time’. For Bakhtin’s analysis of the use of time in the ancient novel, see Fusillo 1997, 214-216; Branham 2002, 161-186.

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irony.10 There exists in the ancient novel a general irony dependent on the helplessness of the characters to act as they might wish in the face of a hostile universe. The chief actors are often resigned, full of despair to the point of suicide, but never raging in the style of an Ajax. While the hero and heroine are often seen as simple characters controlled by the author, as a puppeteer controls his marionettes (often the actors seem to be the result of the authority of the author and not the source of that authority), they are nevertheless apprehensive of what the future holds: they expect that little good will befall them. As intelligent and autonomous as Oedipus is, he is almost serene in his ignorance about his future. Heroes and heroines in the ancient novel are even more ignorant than Oedipus about what is already predestined, but their reality is little different from what it seems to them. It is possible for the reader to derive pleasure from watching the struggles of the hero and heroine who are unaware that they are being watched, but the plight in which the characters find themselves is often properly diagnosed by them and is the same one which the reader sees for them. Chariton and Xenophon of Ephesus share their omniscience with the reader, but Achilles Tatius seems to open new approaches and tricks his reader a few times; the actors in Heliodorus trick each other and the reader; the narrator in Petronius is downright unreliable, and reality as set forth by the narrator is often not what he says – even the reader’s superior knowledge is often proved incorrect. Irony thus defined as a disparity of understanding among individuals (actors, narrators, readers, authors) has a clear influence on the progress of the narrative, which is motivated by the need to have some of the characters know as much as the reader. The progress to reduce this irony pushes the reader to the end of the text where reader and actor are on equal footing. Irony also serves as a motivation of the forward progress of the narrative as a love story: all the Greek novels and the Latin Historia Apollonii are love stories where the virginity (virginity → chastity in Chariton and Xenophon) of the heroine is her defining virtue; yet she cannot love until she loses her virtue/virginity. The same sort of thing might be said for Oedipus: he cannot see until he loses his sight. The reader knows that the progress of the narrative has come to an end when Chloe (Longus), Leucippe (Achilles Tatius), and Tarsia (Historia Apollonii) end the tension between virginity and love and the disparity of understanding among the actors and reader. This usage of irony is not as simple as these examples might at first indicate. Early in his novel Achilles Tatius has Leucippe in bed, prepared to surrender herself to Clitophon, when her mother flies into the bedroom (2,23), ————— 10

Brooks 1951; Schmeling 1994-1995; for the treatment of irony in Chariton, see Doulamis 2000-2001, particularly 58-59 on 4,1,1, 4,1,6, 4,2,1; 67-69 on humor in tragedy, ironic soliloquy at 3,10. For an in-depth analysis of Greek novelists crafting characters, see De Temmerman 2014.

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thus delaying the consummation of the marriage until its proper place on the last page of the novel (8,19). Achilles Tatius is parodying a device (at 2,23) used to bring the novel to its conclusion. While the literary conventions for the novel after Chariton and Xenophon of Ephesus seem to reserve respectable love (extra-marital for Daphnis at 3,18 and Clitophon at 5,27) for the denouement of the plot, individual novels or episodes in novels are found which defy the convention. The actors in a scene (Clitophon for example) see themselves deprived of love because of some silly literary convention: one reader understands the scene in Leucippe’s bedroom as foreplay in preparation for the real thing at 8,19; another reader sees in Clitophon’s struggle to regain his beloved the archetypal desire of all good men to rescue and guard their womenfolk; another reader of truly great sophistication sees in Leucippe’s defense of her virtue and the attacks on it that ‘deep within the stock convention of virgin-baiting is a vision of human integrity imprisoned in a world it is in but not of, often forced by weakness into all kinds of ruses and stratagems, yet always managing to avoid the one fate which really is worse than death, the annihilation of one’s identity’.11

3. Narrative and Fiction Fiction is a genre whereas lies are not. Riffaterre In the introductory paragraphs of his work an historian might claim to be an eyewitness (like Clitophon in Achilles Tatius or Lucius in Apuleius), or to have consulted written records (like Xenophon of Ephesus and the anonymous author of the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri who place such records of the stories in the temple of Artemis at Ephesus), and to have provided the characters with speeches similar to those they probably delivered (as did Chariton and Heliodorus). The novelist wants to offer something believable, and the historian wants to be believed: both record events, attribute motivation and from a small sampling portray a universalized suffering arising from the events. Not only in historiography but also in the novel we find evidence that the writer proposes to deal with reality and in fact aims at veracity. But truth is not necessarily a valid measure by which to judge the differences between history and the novel: assigning motivation to historical characters renders them similar to actors in novels and renders the historian (like some narrators of novels) omniscient. ————— 11

Frye 1976, 86.

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The narrative (i.e. the story) of the history or of the novel is first a selection of events and then an arrangement of events which might be straightforward (Chariton) or artificial (Heliodorus), bifurcated (Xenophon of Ephesus) or unitary (Longus). While the subordination of one event to another gives the appearance of cause and effect in the narrative, a paratactic arrangement of events or a rigid chronological sequence encourages the reader to see the strong hand of Tyche and her handmaiden Discontinuity in the narrative.12 In antiquity the author of a history or of a novel could not choose from among several vehicles of presentation, or to use Lützeler’s colorful term, from the ‘tools of knowledge’. Though this ancient author (unlike his modern counterpart) was limited to narrative, for history and the novel such apparent limitation was not a drawback but rather an advantage, for as Lützeler notes, ‘the logic of narration provides access to the logic of historiography and of fiction; it makes the structure of both historical consciousness and fantasy tangible’.13 The logic inherent in narrative might, however, be specious and in reality, according to Frye, nothing more than a smoke-screen for the persuasive power of rhetoric: ‘The literary critic deals only with rhetoric, and one of the functions of rhetoric is to present an illusion of logic and causality’.14 While the intent of the historian and of the novelist might not have always been the same (e.g. each sought to hold an audience from the first to the last page, but the historian could not alter widely known events), I argue that both forms of ————— 12

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Reardon 1991 pointed to the child-like arrangement of events in Xenophon of Ephesus where, once the lovers are separated, the reader is forced to flit back and forth between scenes of Anthia and Habrocomes; Xenophon moves his characters (p. 36) like ‘demented chessmen’ or (p. 118) like ‘ping-pong balls’; see also Schmeling 1980, 80-87. Reardon 2004 returned to Xenophon (in comparison and contrast to Chariton) but found more wheat among the chaff; he would have been amused to see Tagliabue’s (2017) treatment of it as a paraliterary love-story. Of all the fictional narratives in antiquity the novel of Xenophon of Ephesus displays its structure (skeleton) or narrative arrangement most openly: the narrative moves back and forth between Anthia and Habrocomes like the melody of some ancient chant in which first the young girls sing their part, then the boys, then the girls, etc. While conceding that Xenophon’s arrangement appears to be exceedingly clumsy, I would like to point out that the arrangement for the novel’s construction is almost made into a display: Xenophon demonstrates at every turn just how he builds the structure of the novel. Unlike Heliodorus he conceals and disguises nothing; like Longus (but less sophisticated) who couples the rhythm of his novel to the fertility cycle of the agricultural year, he exposes for the reader his technique of story-telling. It might not be a successful technique, but Xenophon openly calls attention to it; he marks his novel as something distinct from simple narrative. See Eagleton 1983, 4; O’Sullivan 1995. Lützeler 1992, 30. Frye 1976, 48; Eagleton 1983, 205-207, almost in despair seizes on rhetoric as the only valid object of criticism.

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narrative are in close proximity on the spectrum of ancient genres because of their dependence on narrative.15 Novelists offer narratives which are veri similia;16 for some part of his history the historian must do the same, but since the historian’s audience knows the broad outline of the events, he is constrained to follow the accepted outline. Thucydides cannot make his narrative more engaging by having the Athenians victorious at Syracuse in 413 BC. Chariton, however, can use the reader’s knowledge of that same event to write an alternative history and to strengthen his story when he employs the Syracusan commander’s daughter as his heroine; once an historical climate has been established Chaereas can become commander of a fictional army and win a fictional battle in a fictional war.17 Judgments about accuracy regarding factual information, not to say accuracy of interpretation, seem curiously to be uncommon among Classical historians and other writers. Did the ancients believe their histories, epics, tragedies, myths, novels? Or are these just different ways to write about moral principles, where the good wins out, the hero acts out his role, the protagonist almost gets it right, the immortals interact with mortals, love conquers all? If accuracy of fact and interpretation is not a burning issue among those who write about history or among ————— 15 16

17

Schmeling 1998, 29. Bowie 1977, 95: ‘Yet individual incidents are plausible, even if cumulation may stretch credibility … Capture by brigands may have been a rarity, and by pirates only a fear, for second-century Greeks, but the statistical rarity of hi-jacking today does not make its exploitation in a story unrealistic’. In the final scenes of the Historia Apollonii and of Achilles Tatius, Athenagoras marries Tarsia and Clitophon marries Leucippe, although the probability of them not marrying seemed to be the efficient force behind the plot. There is a logic to narrative which at times is in conflict with the reader’s general sense of how things work in the world. In Chariton 6,3-5 we see a wise servant who, recognizing that his master King Artaxerxes is besotted with Callirhoe, counsels the King to take (by force) Callirhoe for his mistress. Artaxerxes upbraids his servant for suggesting that the King stands above the law. While the historical Persian King would always act in his own best interest, Chariton’s portrayal of him makes him out to be almost a democratic ruler concerned with upholding laws natural and written. Many years ago in Schmeling 1974, 150-151, I saw this portrayal of Artaxerxes as a character in Chariton’s repertoire who is meant to reflect the middle-class values of a middle-class writer. A more perceptive interpretation of this episode is given by Williamson 1986, 29: ‘The king, in reply, refuses to disobey the laws over which he presides, but in so doing he is, of course, obeying the laws of the narrative scrupulously: not only is he not Callirhoe’s legitimate lover, but her possession by anyone at this point would put an end to the story as well as to the passion. It is desire, not its realization, which is the subject of the narrative’. See also the study of Alvares 2001. E.M. Forster 1974 [1927], 31 holds that the novelist can tell us more about an historical figure like Queen Victoria than can the historian: ‘And it is the function of the novelist to reveal the hidden life at its source: to tell us more about Queen Victoria than could be known, and thus to produce a character who is not the Queen Victoria of history’.

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historians,18 we might be able to regard history as a kind of novel or the novel as a kind of history. Cicero (Fam. 5,12), showing little regard for accuracy about factual events, encourages the historian (or novelist?) Lucceius to write what amounts to an historical novel about him. The Roman emperor Julian (361-363) advises prospective pagan priests to shun narratives which might arouse desires in them, and in his statement of advice includes a distinction between history and fiction: But for us it will be appropriate to read such narratives as have been composed about deeds that have actually been done; but we must avoid all fictions in the form of narrative such as were circulated among men in the past, for instance tales whose theme is love, and generally speaking everything of that sort (301b-c).19 If we approach this from another angle, that of the critic, most would probably agree that a critic criticizes a novel differently from a history. Should a critic observe that this or that novel is not factual or that this or that history is not entertaining, most would reply that the critic’s conclusions are invalid, for the writers had intended all along to do something entirely different from what the critic thought he saw. It seems, however, that in antiquity (as well as in other times) historians write literature first and history second. Even their language is not neutral but literary: from the opening lines to the end, their language calls attention to itself as something strange, something set apart from its need to be employed to relate the facts; words, phrases, sentences, arrangements, structures, rhythms, all draw the reader’s eyes and ears from the message to the medium: the rhetoric ————— 18

19

Wheeldon 1989, 60; Quintilian 10,1,32, 73-75, 101-102. Since my purpose is to comment on the narrative of the novel, I almost make of the novel narrative a touchstone by which to comment on history and historians. To redress my many shortcomings I encourage the reader to consult Marincola 1997. Though he understandably has little interest in novel narrative, his definition of the authority of the author is close to mine (p. 1): ‘The term “authority” … in this book … is used to refer to literary authority, the rhetorical means by which the ancient historian claims the competence to narrate and explain the past, and simultaneously constructs a persona that the audience will find persuasive and believable’. Beck 20002001, 283 redefines the nature of fiction and narrows the scope of narrative, when he addresses the issue within the confines of religion: ‘This … is about story-telling in the ancient world, and about the metamorphosis which stories undergo when they pass through the crucible of religious invention … (p. 293). The historicity of stories set in the actual world of specific time and place … concerns me as a student of history and of the history of religions in particular, but not as a student of narrative. In the present context, then, we do not need to ask “did these events happen”? but rather “were these stories told?” …’ The Works of the Emperor Julian, vol. 2, ed. and trans., W. Wright, London 1913, 327.

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of the historian turns out to be no less an artifice than that of the novelist. By dressing his history in all the trappings of literature, such an historian confuses the critic: the historian wishes to compete for the hearts and minds of his readers with the same devices employed by the novelist. The weight of evidence is seen as worth less than that of art, and the critic consequently experiences difficulties in discernment because the historian has disguised his work as something to be judged against other works of literature. If the historian appeals to the authority of literature, that is to the criteria by which literature is judged, the critic perhaps should not be faulted for not evaluating his work as an history. If the author bases his own authority on the evidence he has gathered, the critic should respond accordingly; if, however, the author’s authority rests on the arrangement and style of the presentation of the evidence, on the quality of the interpretation rather than on evidence or reliability of the evidence, the critic’s judgment should not be deprecated for failing to recognize the author’s intent to write a history. In our postmodern age manufacturers avoid selling their products by basing advertising on statistics – which have some remote connection to scrutiny – about quality, but rather by advertising their products as historians tout textbooks which they have written, basing their evaluations on graphic art, music, humor – in a word, rhetoric – rather than on the chances that a student using that textbook might learn something about history. Judgments in the ancient world make history seem not so much to be concerned with factual accuracy as with isolating moral guidelines for ethical conduct or as examples of events which will repeat themselves in the future. Just before Thucydides calls his history a ktēma … es aei (‘a possession for all time’, 1,22) he observes that to mē muthōdes (‘the non-myth-like quality’) of his history will detract somewhat from its interest but that a knowledge of the past aids in the interpretation of the future. He then goes on to offer us not a description of the past but rather a narrative of it, and in telling his story he explains it (nothing is left to the facts) on moral grounds as the deeds of men: ‘… the act of interpreting historical content was … an act of moral judgment’.20 Lützeler lumps ancient history into a group of histories referred to as a ‘chaotic conglomerate of countless individual stories of a more or less exemplary nature … the narrative recording of events in historicism was based on the belief that history was made by individuals’.21 While for the historians individuals, for better or worse, fashion the future, for the novelists individuals could only from time to time play some important role; for the most part they are playthings of stronger forces. Neither historians nor novelists intend by their writings to change their society; but while the ————— 20 21

Wheeldon 1989, 59; see also Lützeler 1992, 31. Lützeler 1992, 30.

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historians might try to show the good individual as a model for men in the future, the novelists (until the Christians) seem to have no such lofty ambition. If the historians and novelists have no interest in altering the minds (and thus the lives) of their readers (and thus society), both in their own ways do offer their readers something with which they could withstand a treacherous and ungracious society.22 While Thucydides and Herodotus seek a kind of objectivity and distance by writing their histories in the third person (even when referring to themselves), Chariton uses the first person to introduce his narrative (diēgēsomai ‘I shall narrate’; 1,1,1) and might thereby hint that he wishes to be considered as an eyewitness: he implies that he will not invent the narrative but relate something that has already taken place (genomenon) in Syracuse. Chariton might be accused of impersonating an historian and passing off his work as a history, but he has left a clear signal that his work is something else: the direct object or diēgēsomai is pathos erōtikon (‘a love affair’). Chariton offers his reader ‘fictional truth’ not ‘fictitious truth’; he has no need to pass over uncomfortable events, to interpret events to favor his friends and party, to align interpretation with an ideology, or to lie: ‘Being a genre, [fiction] rests on conventions, of which the first and perhaps only one is that fiction specifically, but not always explicitly, excludes the intention to deceive’.23 Like the historians Chariton will present a narrative, but instead of a narrative whose subject matter is the affairs of state, Chariton will offer a story of the affairs of Eros. Whose narrative, Chariton’s or the historian’s, will strike the reader as closer to the reality of his or her daily life? While both accounts represent events which have already occurred, did the ancient reader ask himself which narrative portrayed real (i.e. historically accurate) and which fictional (i.e. mimetic or characteristic of human beings) actions? Or did he ask himself from which narrative could he learn something, which narrative would he enjoy? There is a concern among the authors with truth, but in a rhetorically trained author perhaps the concern is more with believability than with truth. Hunter frames some of the issues in the discussion about truth/reality and the nature of narrative in historiography and the novels: ————— 22

23

See Eagleton 1983, 33. But some novels (Bildungsroman and roman à thèse) have every intention of teaching. Suleiman 1983, 240: ‘According to some critics, the authoritarianism that characterizes the roman à thèse is endemic to all novels’. She goes on to quote C. Grivel, Production de l’intérêt romanesque, The Hague 1973, 318: ‘To tell a story supposes the desire to teach, implies the intention of importing a lesson and of making it obvious. The narrative, by means of the individual case recounted, offers (tacitly or otherwise) a model: it shows positively the code at work and makes one draw the necessary conclusion of assent from the spectacle’. Riffaterre 1990, 1.

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It [reading Chariton] is as though we are reading bits that Thucydides forgot to put in (or, being Thucydides, chose to omit). It seems very probable that such ‘historical novels’ were not uncommon, and the many links between the novels and historiography are crucial both for how we read them and for how they were probably read (and regarded) in antiquity. This is not a question of reviving the hoary old question of whether or not the Greek novel derives (in some quasi-biological sense) from historiography. Rather, it is obvious that the novels which survive are overtly concerned with their truth-status, as though their right to exist was always something which required justification. Thus Chariton’s work begins … ‘My name is Chariton, of Aphrodisias, and I am clerk to the attorney Athenagoras. I am going to tell you the story of a love affair that took place in Syracuse’. The structure borrowed from fifth-century history is obvious, but the juxtaposition of ‘love affair’ (pathos erōtikon), with its suggestions of poetry and myth and ‘took place’ (genomenon), which seems to assert a strict historicity, turns the familiar categories on their head.24 Historians writing of even the near past (more than a few generations earlier) receive their information from other historians, various records, and social memory, while novelists depend on imagination, stimuli like erotic paintings, and earlier writers for their narrative. The ancient historians or novelists accept that which is handed down to them as true or traditional, and the reader of a history or a novel accepts as true or traditional that which he receives. In his discussion of myths (and did the Greeks believe them?) Veyne makes a strong case that ancient historians accept even unlikely stories (if they were widely held) handed down by their predecessors, as having some historical basis; they reject only the most unlikely elements of these stories but leave the bulk of them.25 Sources of stories are not scrutinized carefully, and the authority of the author/source is not questioned diligently, for the tradition is taken to be true in its outline. Chariton accepts the story of the battle of Syracuse in 413 BC, selects events, omits events, adds events, and then passes it down to his reader. The authority of the author is not questioned, and the force of the tradition is everywhere manifest. While providing an historical time and setting for the reader, Chariton does nothing to jar his senses and keep him from reading more. For his part, the reader leaves his own world, enters that of Chariton’s narrative, and believes what he reads – believes it, that is, as long as he is living in it. Later, however, does he disbelieve Chariton’s whole narrative or does he amalgamate it or parts of it with Thucydides’ story? Veyne explains the phenomenon this way: ‘All we need to do is open the Iliad and we ————— 24 25

Hunter 1991, 8. See also Hunter 1994; Rabau 1990; Hägg 1987. Veyne 1988, xi-xii, 1-7.

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enter into the story, as they say, and lose our bearings. The only subtlety is that later on we do not believe. There are societies where, once the book is closed, the reader goes on believing; there are others where he does not’.26 This rational approach of the Frenchman is countered by the Canadian in a more comprehensive and appreciative view of the irrational: ‘The improbable, desiring, erotic, and violent world of romance reminds us that we are not awake when we have abolished the dream world: we are awake only when we have absorbed it again.’27 Whether the events in the Iliad or Thucydides or Chariton are historically true is really of secondary concern. What matters is whether or not the reader (at best) believes them to be true (i.e. the author has been persuasive) – or the reader (at worst) does not question if they are true or false. Veyne concludes that ‘a world cannot be inherently fictional; it can be fictional only according to whether one believes in it or not’.28 Frye would agree in part with that but would also extend Veyne’s application of truth to myth and fiction. A story in and of itself is not necessarily true or false; only the reader’s acceptance of the authority behind it can make it true: ‘The original criterion of truth is personal: a thing is true because a tradition of sufficient authority, or a person representing that tradition, says or endorses it’.29

Bibliography Adamietz, J. 1995. ‘Circe in den Satyrica Petrons und das Wesen dieses Werkes’, Hermes 123, 320-334. Alvares, J. 2001. ‘Some political and ideological dimensions of Chariton’s Chaireas and Callirhoe’, CJ 97, 113-144. Beck, R. 2000-01. ‘History into fiction: the metamorphoses of the Mithras myths’, AncNarr 1, 283-300. Bakhtin, M. 1981. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, Austin: University of Texas Press. Bowersock, G. 1994. Fiction as History: Nero to Julian, Berkeley: University of California Press. Bowie, E.L. 1977. ‘The novels and the real world’, in B.P. Reardon (ed.), Erotica Antiqua. Acta of the International Conference on the Ancient Novel, July 1976, Bangor: University College of North Wales, 91-95. Branham, R. 2002. ‘A truer story of the novel?’, in R. Branham (ed.), Bakhtin and the Classics, Evanston: Northwestern University, 161-186. Brooks, C. 1951. ‘Irony as a principle of structure’, in M. Zabel (ed.), Literary Opinion in America, New York: Harper & Row, 729-741.

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Veyne 1988, 22. See also Stark 1989 and Treu 1989. Frye 1976, 61. Veyne 1988, 21. Frye 1976, 17.

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Canary, R. (ed.). 1978. The Writing of History, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. De Temmerman, K. 2014. Crafting Characters: Heroes and Heroines in the Ancient Greek Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Doulamis, K. 2000-2001. Rhetoric and irony in Chariton: a case-study from Callirhoe’, AncNarr 1, 55-72. Eagleton, T. 1983. Literary Theory. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Fehn, A. (ed.). 1992. Neverending Stories: Towards a Critical Narratology, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Ferguson, J. 1975. Utopias of the Classical World, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Forster, E.M. 1974 [1927]. Aspects of the Novel, London: Penguin. Frye, N. 1976. The Secular Scripture, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Fusillo, M. 1977. ‘How novels end’, in D. Roberts (ed.), Classical Closure. Reading the End in Greek and Latin Literature, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 209-227. Gill, C. & Wiseman, T.P. (eds.). 1993. Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Grossman, L. 1978. ‘History and literature’, in Canary 1978, 3-39. Hägg, T. 1987. ‘Callirhoe and Parthenope: the beginnings of the historical novel’, ClAnt 6, 184-204. Holzberg, N. 2003. ‘Utopias and fantastic travel: Euhemerus, Iambulus’, in Schmeling 2003, 621-628. Horsfall, N. 1991-92. ‘Generic composition and Petronius’ Satyricon’, Scripta Classica Israelica 11, 123-138. Hunter, R. 1991. ‘What’s novel in the Greek Novel?’, CA News 5, 7-9. Hunter, R. 1994. ‘History and historicity in the romance of Chariton’, ANRW II 34.2, 10551086. Hunter, R. 2009. ‘Fictional anxieties’, in G. Karla (ed.), Fiction on the Fringe: Novelistic Writing in the Post-Classical Age, Leiden: Brill, 171-183. Kuch, H. (ed.). 1989. Der antike Roman, Berlin: Akademie-Verlag Berlin. Kytzler, B. 1973. ‘Utopishes Denken und Handeln in der klassischen Antike’, in R. Villgradter (ed.), Der utopische Roman, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 45-68. Kytzler, B. 1988. ‘Zum utopischen Roman der klassischen Antike,’ GCN 1, 7-16. Laird, A. 1993. ‘Fiction, bewitchment, and story worlds: the implications of claims of truth in Apuleius’, in Gill & Wiseman (eds.), 147-174. Lützeler, P. 1992. ‘Fictionality in historiography and the novel’, in Fehn 1992, 29-44. Marincola, J. 1997. Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morgan, J.R. 1982. ‘History, romance, and realism in the Aithiopika of Heliodorus’, ClAnt 1, 221-265. Morgan, J.R. 1989. ‘A sense of the ending: the conclusion of Heliodorus’ Aithiopika’, TAPA 119, 299-320. Morgan, J.R. 1993. ‘Make-believe and Make Believe: the fictionality of the Greek Novels’, in Gill & Wiseman (eds.) 1993, 175-229. O’Sullivan, J. 1995. Xenophon of Ephesus. His Compositional Technique and the Birth of the Novel, Berlin: de Gruyter. Rabau, S. 1990. ‘La première phrase du premier roman’, Poétique 82, 131-144. Reardon, B.P. 1974. ‘The Second Sophistic and the novel’, in G. Bowersock (ed.), Approaches to the Second Sophistic, University Park, PA: American Philological Association, 23-29. Reardon, B.P. 1991. The Form of Greek Romance, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

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Reardon, B. P. 2004. ‘Variation on a theme: reflections on Xenophon of Ephesus’, in M. Janka (ed.), Rundgärtchen zu Poesie, Historie und Fachliteratur der Antike [Festschrift zu Hans Gärtner], Leipzig: K. G. Saur, 183-193. Riffaterre, M. 1990. Fictional Truth, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Ruiz-Montero, C. 2003. ‘The rise of the Greek Novel’, in Schmeling 2003, 38-42. Sandy, G. 1982. Heliodorus, Boston: Twayne. Schmeling, G. 1974. Chariton, New York: Twayne. Schmeling, G. 1980. Xenophon of Ephesus, Boston: Twayne. Schmeling, G. 1991. ‘The Satyricon: the sense of the ending’, RhM 134, 352-377. Schmeling, G. 1994-95. ‘Confessor Gloriosus: a role of Encolpius in the Satyrica’, WJA 20, 207-224. Schmeling, G. 1998. ‘The spectrum of narrative’, in R. Hock, J. B. Chance, J. Perkins (eds.), Ancient Fiction and Early Christian Narrative, Atlanta: Scholars Press, 19-29. Schmeling, G. (ed.). 20032. The Novel in the Ancient World, Leiden: Brill. Stark, I. 1989. ‘Strukturen des griechischen Abenteuer- und Liebesroman’, in Kuch 1989, 82106. Suleiman, S. 1983. Authoritarian Fictions: the Ideological Novel as a Literary Genre, New York: Columbia University Press. Tagliabue, A. 2017. Xenophon’s Ephesiaca: a Paraliterary Love-Story from the Ancient World, Groningen: Barkhuis. Treu, K. 1989. ‘Der Realitätsgehalt des antiken Romans’, in Kuch 1989, 107-125. Veyne, P. 1988. Did the Greeks Believe in their Myths?, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wheeldon, M. 1989. ‘“True Stories”: the reception of historiography in Antiquity’, in Averil Cameron (ed.), History as Text: the Writing of Ancient History, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 33-63. White, H. 1973. Metahistory, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. White, H. 1978a. Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. White, H. 1978b. ‘The history text as literary artifact’, in Canary 1978, 41-62. Williamson, M. 1986. ‘The Greek Romance’, in J. Radford (ed.), The Progress of Romance: the Politics of Popular Fiction, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 23-45. Winkler, J. 1985. Auctor et Actor. A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’s Golden Ass, Berkeley: University of California Press. Wiseman, T.P. 1979. Clio’s Cosmetics: Three Studies in Greco-Roman Literature, Leicester: Leicester University Press. Wiseman, T.P. 1981. ‘Practice and theory in ancient historiography’, History 66, 375-393. Wiseman, T.P. 1993. ‘Lying historians: seven types of mendacity’, in Gill & Wiseman (eds.) 1993, 122-146. Zeitlin, F. 2016. ‘Romancing the Classics: the Hellenistic standard and its vicissitudes under the Empire’, AncNarr 13, 37-5.

Thoughts on Diēgēma (Narratio) in ancient rhetoric and in modern critical theory M ARÍLIA P. F UTRE P INHEIRO Universidade de Lisboa

Rhetoric has long since ceased to be synonymous with artifice, insincerity or decadence. Today it is a distinct discipline within literary criticism and critical theory, with a place of its own on the borders of structuralism, ‘New Criticism’ and semiology. C. Perelman’s work on the theory of argumentation has played a major role in this re-evaluation of rhetoric.1 His Neo-Aristotelian approach to rhetoric is an analysis of discourse techniques based on the efficacy of argumentative discourse. Perelman believes that rhetoric should be interpreted through its dialogic interrelation with associated disciplines, such as grammar, logic, politics, philosophy and dialectics. This revival of rhetoric was not an isolated phenomenon in European literary history. In Antiquity, rhetoric was regarded as a ‘producer of persuasion’2 in public and political settings such as assemblies and law courts.3 However, it was not used only for these specific and practical purposes; it became, especially with Isocrates, a much more complex cultural discipline, a paideia. This cultural movement reached its heyday in the second century AD, with the extraordinary efflorescence of rhetorical and literary activity in the Greek world under the Roman ————— 1 2 3

Perelman 1958. Pl. Grg. 453a, Quint. Inst. 2,15,4-5. Compare Walker 2000, viii: ‘What we might call the received, standard history of rhetoric typically presumes that “rhetoric” is and was originally, essentially, an art of practical civic oratory that emerged in the law courts and political assemblies of ancient Greece and Rome, while defining epideictic, literary and poetic manifestations of this art as “secondary”, derivative, and inferior … Practical rhetoric is understood as an art of argumentation and persuasion suitable for deliberation, debate, discussion and decision in the civic arena … while epideictic, poetic or literary rhetoric is understood as a “display” (or “mere display”) of formal eloquence serving chiefly to provide aesthetic pleasure or diversion, or to provide occasions for elegant consumption and displays of high-class taste, or to rehearse, reconfirm, and intensify dominant ideologies’. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 19–32

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Empire. That period, which Philostratus (VS 1,481) termed the ‘Second Sophistic’ due to the resurgence in the influence and popularity of the sophists, was marked by a return to and imitation of the great classical models of the past. Rhetoric became a paideia and no longer a mere technē, an art of the word. It became an object of study in itself, stressing the importance of style and gradually shifting from its classical utilitarian status. The canonical literary forms authorised by the Second Sophistic are closely related to the tradition of rhetorical education, which consisted in the rote learning of a vast repertoire of topoi. These form the basis of the Progymnasmata, treatises or handbooks of compositional exercises for students of rhetoric in Late Antiquity and the Byzantine period. However, the literary culture of the Second Sophistic did not confine itself to rhetoric, but also attached considerable importance to poetics and literary criticism. Modern critical terminology borrows extensively from the ancient theorists, whose ideas have often provided the starting-point for new theories.4 However, although the Progymnasmata contain a repertoire of compositional devices which were indispensable components of rhetorical and literary technique ‘at a time when education was rhetorical training’,5 and which are employed in the ancient and modern novel, most of their theoretical formulations, despite their methodological and normative value, are rather simple and narrowly defined. My aim in this paper is to analyse a fundamental concept of literary criticism, that of ‘narrative’ or ‘narration’ (diēgēma or narratio). I shall briefly discuss the importance of certain aspects of critical theory and literary criticism as evidenced in the Progymnasmata by Theon, Hermogenes and Aphthonius.6 Some of these ideas demonstrate the dominant influence of Aristotle and the Peripatetics,7 of Plato and Quintilian, and were later taken up once again and revisited in the light of modern trends in literary theory. I shall focus mainly on two aspects: the first concerns the definition of diēgēma; and the second deals with the notion of verisimilitude that is closely connected with it.

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Amongst other works worthy of special mention, see Todorov 1977 [1985]; Genette 1983 and 1999; Ricoeur 1983-1985; Derrida 1972. Bartsch 1989, 9. In this paper, the Greek text of Theon is taken from the Budé edition by Patillon and Bolognesi (2002); translations of the Progymnasmata from Kennedy 2003. Butts 1987 has also made a very important contribution to the study of Theon’s Progymnasmata. Fernández Delgado & Pordomingo 2017 assemble approximately forty essays on the role of the Progymnasmata in educational practice and rhetorical training in Antiquity and their importance in a variety of genres. For Gorgias’ Encomium of Helen I have used the translation by Kennedy (1972). All other translations are from the Loeb Classical Library. Butts 1987, 6.

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The rhetoricians of the Second Sophistic devised a theory of narrative. However, whereas Hermogenes and Aphthonius make a distinction between diēgēma (‘narrative’) and diēgēsis (‘narration’), Theon apparently uses the two terms synonymously. According to Aphthonius, who adopted the distinction Hermogenes introduced into the rhetorical tradition: narrative (diēgēma) differs from narration (diēgēsis) as a piece of poetry (poiēma) differs from a poem (poiēsis). The Iliad as a whole is a poiēsis, the making of the arms of Achilles a poiēma. (Progymn. 2) Thus for Hermogenes and Aphthonius the word diēgēsis has a generic sense, whereas diēgēma denotes a smaller section of a discursive account.8 However, since the three rhetoricians propose an almost identical definition of ‘narrative’, the starting point of this paper will be the treatise by Theon, as it is the most complete and the most systematically elaborated. According to Theon’s definition: Narrative (diēgēma) is language descriptive of things that have happened or as though they had happened (5,78).9 This may be compared with Aristotle’s discussion in the Rhetoric (1416b) of diēgēsis as the narrative part of a forensic speech, which he had earlier connected with prosthesis, the ‘statement of the case’ or the subject. In the pseudo-Aristotelian Rhetoric to Alexander, narrative is called apangelia and its main functions are: … to report or to remind our hearers of events that have occurred before, or arrange in groups and exhibit the facts of the present, or forecast what is going to occur. (1438a,5)10 Cicero offers a definition strikingly similar to Theon’s: ————— 8

9 10

The idea implied by the concept diēgēsis, which is that of a relatively lengthy narrative, can be deduced from a passage in the Gorgias (465e), where Socrates uses the term by contrast to legein brakhea (‘to speak in a concise way’): λέγοντος γάρ μου βραχέα οὐκ ἐμάνθανες, οὐδὲ χρῆσθαι τῇ ἀποκρίσει ἥν σοι ἀπεκρινάμην οὐδὲν οἷός τ’ ἦσθα, ἀλλ’ ἐδέου διηγήσεως (465e) (‘when I spoke briefly you did not understand me; you were unable to make any use of the answer I gave you, but required a full exposition’). See also the expression μακρότερον διηγήσασθαι at Smp. 203b. διήγημά ἐστι λόγος ἐκθετικὸς πραγμάτων γεγονότων ἢ ὡς γεγονότων. […] ἢ τὰς προγεγενημένας πράξεις ἀπαγγέλλειν ἢ ἀναμιμνήσκειν ἢ τὰς νῦν οὔσας μερίζοντας δηλοῦν, ἢ τὰς μελλούσας γενήσεσθαι προλέγειν.

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The narrative is an exposition of acts that have been done, or of acts as if they have been done (Inv. 1,27).11 Quintilian uses similar phraseology: The narrative consists in the persuasive exposition of that which either has been done or is supposed to have been done (Inst. 4,2,31).12 Theon’s definition of narrative is obviously very similar to those offered by Aristotle, the author of the Rhetoric to Alexander, Cicero and Quintilian.13 However, he goes on to say that the skills inculcated by the Progymnasmata are as useful for writing literature as for making speeches: There is no secret about how these exercises are very useful for those acquiring the faculty of rhetoric. One who has expressed a diēgēsis (narration) and a mythos (fable) in a fine and varied way will also compose a history well and what is specifically called ‘narrative’ (diēgēma) in hypotheses – historical writing is nothing other than a combination of narrations – and one who can refute or confirm these is not far behind those speaking hypotheses, for everything that we do in judicial hypotheses is there as well (1,60).14 The foundations of modern narrative theory were laid in the early twentieth century by the Russian Formalists, who were the first to make a distinction between, on the one hand, the fabula, the sum total of events extrapolated from the narrative and arranged in chronological order, and, on the other hand, the plot (sjužet), the final way in which these events are presented and connected in the narrative.15 Structuralist theory argues that each narrative is made up of two parts: what is communicated (story – histoire), which is the content element (the chain of events ————— 11 12 13

14

15

Narratio est rerum gestarum aut ut gestarum expositio. Narratio est rei factae aut ut factae utilis ad persuadendum expositio. For a more thorough discussion of diēgēsis, see Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Rh. 10,14; Hermogenes Inv. 108,19 – 109,19 and 119,20 – 125,21; Meth. 445,1-17 and Prog. 4,5 – 6,2, and Aphthonius, Prog. 2,13 – 3,19. ὡς δὲ καὶ παντελῶς εἰσιν ὠφέλιμα τοῖς τὴν ῥητορικὴν δύναμιν ἀναλαμβάνουσιν, οὐδὲ τοῦτο ἄδηλον. ὅ τε γὰρ καλῶς καὶ πολυτρόπως διήγησιν καὶ μῦθον ἀπαγγείλας καλῶς καὶ ἱστορίαν συνθήσει, καὶ τὸ ἰδίως ἐν ταῖς ὑποθέσεσι καλούμενον διήγημα οὐδὲ γὰρ ἄλλο τί ἐστιν ἱστορία ἢ σύστημα διηγήσεων, ὅ τε ἀνασκευάσαι ταῦτα ἢ κατασκευάσαι δυνάμενος, μικρὸν ἀπολείπεται τῶν τὰς ὑποθέσεις λεγόντων. πάντα γὰρ ὅσα ποιοῦμεν ἐν ταῖς δικανικαῖς ὑποθέσεσι, καὶ ἐνταῦθά ἐστι. See Tomashevsky 1965, 68. The first reference in Western literature to this dichotomy (fabula/sjužet) of the Russian formalists was made by Wellek & Warren 1984³, 218 ff.

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to be related in the narrative), and discourse (discours), the expression element (the means by which the events are presented to the reader).16 Some scholars convey this dichotomy by means of other terms such as story and plot.17 Lämmert uses the word Geschichte to correspond to the first term of the distinction made by Todorov and the Russian formalists (histoire or fabula) and Fabel for the second (discours or sjužet).18 This distinction is by no means new: it goes back to Aristotle’s Poetics. According to Aristotle, the representation of an action (praxis)19 was a story or argument (logos),20 whereas the plot (mythos) was ‘the arrangement of incidents’.21 Some modern theorists, however, add a third level. For example, Mieke Bal defines narratology as ‘la science qui cherche à formuler la théorie des relations entre texte narratif, récit et histoire’, identifying the three elements which, in her view, make up a literary work: Un texte narratif est un texte dans lequel une instance raconte un récit ... Un RÉCIT est le signifié d’un texte narratif. Un récit signifie à son tour une histoire … Une HISTOIRE est une série d’événements logiquement reliés entre eux, et causés ou subis par des acteurs.22 Within the field of narratology there are other threefold distinctions, such as those made by Barthes and Genette. However, as Bal points out,23 there is not always a logical connection between the different levels proposed by these scholars. Sometimes the twofold opposition made by the Russian formalists between fabula and discourse is entirely overlooked. Thus Barthes (1966a[1994]) identifies three levels, which he employs as tools in his descriptive analysis of the literary text: the ————— 16

17

18 19 20 21 22 23

See Todorov 1966, 125-151, esp. 126-127, and Stanzel 1984, esp. 32 and 38. On North American Structuralism, see, for instance, Culler 1975, esp. 197 ff. Regarding the dichotomy fabula/histoire vs. sjužet/ discours, see also Doležel 1971, 95-110, Genette 1980, 72, and Chatman 1978, 19-20 and 31. For example, according to Forster 1927/2000, 44 ‘the basis of a novel is a story, and a story is a narrative of events arranged in time-sequence’. As for the concept of plot, which Forster says ‘is also a narrative of events, the emphasis falling on causality’ (87), Muir 1928, 16, proposes the following definition: ‘It designates for everyone, not merely for the critic, the chain of events in a story and the principle which knits it together’. For discussion of the terms story and plot and of how Forster’s principle of causality applies to the latter, see Rimmon-Kenan 1983, 16-19. Lämmert 1975, 19. Po. 1449b 36. Po. 1449b8 and 1445a34. Po. 1449b9 and 1450a4. Bal 1984, 4. Bal 1984, 5.

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functions level (corresponding to functions in Propp’s structural model),24 the actions level (inspired by Greimas’s actantiel theory)25 and the narration level. Similarly, in the introduction to his Discours du Récit, Genette also posits three levels: histoire, récit, narration. Narration is closely connected with the process of enunciation and means ‘l’acte narratif producteur et, par extension, l’ensemble de la situation réelle ou fictive dans laquelle il prend place’. Histoire (story) designates ‘le signifié ou contenu narratif’ and récit (narrative) is ‘le signifiant, énoncé, discours ou texte narratif lui-même’.26 It thus appears that narration is an activity (activité), once it concerns the process of enunciation (le procès d’énonciation), whereas the other two aspects (histoire and récit) concern the product of an activity (le produit d’une activité): the first is the product of invention and the second of disposition.27 These narrative levels are again not new, but represent a reformulation of the Aristotelian analysis of discourse in terms of invention, disposition and elocution (heuresis, taxis, lexis).28 To return to Theon’s Progymnasmata, we find that after listing and describing the various elements of the narrative,29 he affirms that the qualities desired of diēgēsis are three in number: clarity (saphēneia), conciseness (suntomia) and credibility (pithanotēs).30 In exactly the same way, Quintilian says that narratio should be lucida, breuis, uerisimilis,31 since ‘clarity’ makes it easier for the hearer or reader ‘to understand’ , ‘conciseness’ easier for the audience to ‘remember’, and ‘verisimilitude’ easier for the auditor ‘to believe’.32 As Butts remarks, ‘these same three ————— 24

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26 27 28 29

30 31 32

In his pioneering study of plot-structure, Propp defined a function as ‘an act of dramatis personae, which is defined from the point of view of its significance for the course of action of the tale taken as a whole’ (Propp 1968, 20). Propp discerned thirty-one functions following an immutable sequence and whose presence or absence in a particular tale characterises the plot of that tale. Like some other Formalists and structuralists, Greimas (1973) argues that characters (which he calls actants) are general categories underlying all narratives. According to him, characters are subordinated to plot, and their status is merely ‘functional’. A character is defined by his participation in a sphere of actions, and reduced to a strict number of elementary categories (six, in Greimas’ model). Genette 1980, 72. See also Genette 1983, 10-11. See Bal 1983, 6. Rhet. 1403b. I.e. the person (prosōpon), the action done by the person, the place where the action was done, the time at which it was done, the manner of the action and the cause of these things (Theon 5,78). Theon 5,79. Quint. Inst. 4,2,31-32. Quint. Inst. 4,2,33.

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“virtues” of a narrative and these same three reasons … seem to have been the standard triumvirate throughout the long history of the rhetorical tradition’.33 Concerning the last of these qualities, Theon claims that: In order for the narrative to be credible one should employ styles that are natural for the speakers and suitable for the subjects and the places and occasions: in the case of the subjects, those that are probable and follow from each other. One should briefly add the causes of things to the narration and say what is incredible in a believable way, and, simply put, it is suitable to aim at what is appropriate to the speaker and to the other elements of the narration in content and in style (5,84).34 It hardly needs saying that ‘verisimilitude’ (‘plausibility’, ‘credibility’, or ‘believability’ – pithanotēs) is a major concern in rhetoric. Indeed Cicero states that: The statement of fact (narratio) will be plausible if it seems to embody characteristics which are accustomed to appear in real life; if the proper qualities of the character are maintained, […] if the story fits in with the nature of the actors in it, the habits of ordinary people and the beliefs of the audience (Inv. 1,21,29).35 Quintilian also makes this point but adds that an identical principle should be applied to place (loca) and time (tempora).36 He further claims that: The narrative will be credible […] if we assign reasons and motives for the facts on which the enquiry turns […] (Inst. Orat. 4,2,52).37

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Butts 1987, 370 n. 17. See, for example, Rhet. Alex. 30,1438a19-27; Cic. Inv. Rhet. 1,20,28; Rhet. Her. 1,9,14; D.H. Lys. 18; Aphth. Prog. 3,3-4. ὑπέρ γε μὴν τοῦ πιθανὴν εἶναι διήγησιν παραληπτέον λέξεις μὲν προσφυεῖς τοῖς τε προσώποις καὶ τοῖς πράγμασι καὶ τοῖς τόποις καὶ τοῖς καιροῖς· πράγματα δὲ ὅσα εἰκότα ἐστὶ καὶ ἀλλήλοις ἀκόλουθα. δεῖ δὲ καὶ τὰς αἰτίας βραχέως προστιθέναι τῇ διηγήσει, καὶ τὸ ἀπιστούμενον πιστῶς λέγειν. καὶ ἁπλῶς στοχάζεσθαι προσήκει τοῦ πρέποντος τῷ τε προσώπῳ καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις στοιχείοις τῆς διηγήσεως κατά τε τὰ πράγματα καὶ κατὰ τὴν λέξιν. See also Theon 3,105 and 4,76-77, and Butts 1987, 249 n. 34. Probabilis erit narratio, si in ea videbuntur inesse ea quae solent apparere in veritate; si personarum dignitates servabuntur, […] si res et ad eorum qui agent naturam et ad vulgi morem et ad eorum qui audient opinionem accommodabitur. Quintilian Inst. Orat. 4,2,52. Credibilis autem erit narratio […] si causas ac rationes factis praeposuerimus.

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A brief overview of some of the authors who contributed to the theory of verisimilitude (or plausibility) and of some of the meanings the term acquired in the major works of orators and rhetoricians in Antiquity will shed some light on this matter. The sophists’ theories about the power of the logos reinforced the idea that, to persuade an audience, a speech should preferably, even entirely, base itself upon what seems to be true, that is, upon what is plausible (or verisimilar), which is more convincing than reality itself. According to Gorgias, the delight and persuasive effect of a speech do not depend on the truthfulness of its arguments, but on the skill with which it is devised and written.38 This skill or mastery is obviously linked to the ability to produce, by means of appropriate rhetorical devices, ‘believability’ (pithanon),39 upon which the persuasive effect of the speech depends. Plato was one of the first authors in Antiquity to establish some of the principles of the ‘rhetoric of verisimilitude’. In the Timaeus he claims that the diēgēsis (in philosophical matters) should not be ‘absurd’ (atopos) or ‘incoherent’ (aēthēs) but rather that it should lead to probable opinions.40 On the other hand, in the Gorgias, rhetoric, which Plato condemns as lacking any scientific basis, is clearly identified with the haven of probability and persuasiveness.41 In the Phaedrus, the criteria of verisimilitude are said to fall within the sphere of appearance and probability. Persuasion, says Phaedrus, ‘comes from what seems to be true, not from the truth’, and he also says that ‘an orator does not need to know what is good or just, but what would seem good or just to the multitude who are to pass judgement […]’.42 A little later in the dialogue, Socrates says: […] he who is to be a competent rhetorician need have nothing at all to do […] with truth in considering things which are just or good, or men who are ————— 38

39

40

41 42

Gorg. Hel. 13: ….δεύτερον δὲ τοὺς ἀναγκαίους διὰ λόγων ἀγῶνας, ἐν οἷς εἷς λόγος πολὺν ὄχλον ἔτερψε καὶ ἔπεισι τέχνῃ γραφείς, οὐκ ἀληθείᾳ λεχθείς (‘second, logically necessary debates in which a single speech, written with art but not spoken with truth, bends a great crowd and persuades’). Aristotle’s definition of rhetoric is virtually the same. Indeed, he defines rhetoric ‘as the faculty (dunamis) of discovering the possible means of persuasion (pithanon) in reference to any subject whatever’ (Rh. 1,2,1, 1355b). For Quintilian’s criticism of this definition see Inst. Orat. 2,15,13-14. Pl. Ti. 48d: θεὸν δὴ καὶ νῦν ἐπ’ ἀρχῇ τῶν λεγομένων σωτῆρα ἐξ ἀτόπου καὶ ἀήθους διηγήσεως πρὸς τὸ τῶν εἰκότων δόγμα διασῴζειν ἡμᾶς ἐπικαλεσάμενοι […] (‘And as before, so now, at the commencement of our account, we must call upon God the Saviour to bring us safe through a novel and unwonted exposition’). Grg. 486a. Phdr. 260a.

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so, whether by nature or by education. For in the courts nobody cares for truth (alētheia) about these matters, but for that which is convincing (pithanon); and that is probability (eikos), so that he who is to be an artist in speech must fix his attention upon probability. For sometimes one must not even tell what was actually done, if it was not likely to be done, but what was probable, whether in accusation or defence; and in brief, a speaker must always aim at probability (Pl. Phdr. 272d-272e).43 Given the importance the Sophists attached to the persuasive power of logos and to the rhetorical techniques expounded in rhetorical treatises, we can conclude that the notion of verisimilitude is based on the premise that discourse has its own internal rules rather than being governed by correspondence to reality. It is precisely due to this non-conformity to reality regarded as a synonym for truth that Plato’s axiological system condemns the ‘rhetoric of verisimilitude’, because the pattern for gauging probability is merely what most people think, so-called ‘common sense’, which Socrates condemns.44 For Aristotle, probability (eikos) is one of the premises of the enthymeme or rhetorical syllogism,45 which is the proof (or rhetorical demonstration) in argumentative discourse.46 According to the Aristotelian logic system, probability is a plausible premise and a generally approved proposition47 in as much as (just as for Plato) it conforms to the majority’s opinions and expectations. Aristotle further defines eikos by making use, as in the Poetics, 48 of the concepts of ‘universal’ and ‘particular’: For that which is probable is that which generally happens, not however unreservedly, as some define it, but that which is concerned with things that may be other than they are, being so related to that in regard to which it is probable as the universal to the particular (Rh. 1357a-b).49 Unlike Plato, Aristotle regards rhetoric as morally neutral. Nevertheless, Aristotle claims, the orator’s arguments must rest on generally accepted principles (‘for one ————— 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

See also 267a-267b. Phdr. 273b. Rh. 1356b and 1357a. Rh.1354a and 1355a. APr. 2,27,70a. Po. 1451b5-10. τὸ μὲν γὰρ εἰκός ἐστι τὸ ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πολὺ γινόμενον, οὐχ ἁπλῶς δὲ καθάπερ ὁρίζονταί τινες, ἀλλὰ τὸ περὶ τὰ ἐνδεχόμενα ἄλλως ἔχειν, οὕτως ἔχον πρὸς ἐκεῖνο πρὸς ὃ εἰκὸς ὡς τὸ καθόλου πρὸς τὸ κατὰ μέρος.

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ought not to persuade people to do what is wrong’). But he should ‘be able to counteract false arguments, if another makes unfair use of them’.50 In the Poetics, Aristotle had already developed the idea presented in the Phaedrus, that the impossible which is plausible is preferable to the possible which appears implausible,51 establishing public opinion or doxa as the criterion for gauging verisimilitude.52 Finally, in the Rhetoric to Alexander, we find some points in common with Theon’s statements already mentioned above: […] it (our exposition) will be convincing (ouk apistōs) if in regard to facts that are improbable (tas apithanous praxeis) we bring forward reasons (aitias) that will make the events we allege seem likely (eikotōs) to have taken place (Rh. Al. 1438b1-4). I have briefly outlined the classical theory of verisimilitude by referring to the opinions of the main authors who addressed this notion. I shall now summarise the views of some contemporary scholars on the matter. According to Genette,53 the classical notion of verisimilitude is based on the principle of respect for the norm, that is, upon the existence of a set of implications between the specific behaviour of a particular character and an implicit maxim that is accepted by the general public - in short what Genette calls an ideology, which he defines as ‘un corps de maximes et de préjugés qui constitue tout à la fois une vision du monde et un système de valeurs’.54 So a literary text may be judged according to its similarity to reality, each detail depending on the reader’s ————— 50 51

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53 54

Rh. 1355a. προαιρεῖσθαί τε δεῖ ἀδύνατα εἰκότα μᾶλλον ἢ δυνατὰ ἀπίθανα (Po. 1460a26: ‘what is convincing though impossible should always be preferred to what is possible and unconvincing’); and 1461b9: πρός τε γὰρ τὴν ποιήσιν αἱρετώτερον πιθανὸν καὶ δυνατόν (‘for poetic effect a convincing impossibility is preferable to that which is unconvincing though possible’). 1461b10: πρὸς ἅ φασιν τἄλογα· οὕτω τε καὶ ὅτι ποτὲ οὐκ ἄλογόν ἐστι· εἰκὸς γὰρ καὶ παρὰ τὸ εἰκὸς γίνεσθαι (‘Popular tradition may be used to defend what seems irrational, and you can also say that sometimes it is not irrational, for it is likely that unlikely things should happen’). Genette 1969, 74-75. Genette 1969, 73. Along the same lines, Ferreira 1972 emphasises the correspondence between the changeability of the notion of verisimilitude and that of the dominant ideologies, of literary arch-texts and discursive norms. Barthes 1966b (1987), 14 ff. had already laid down and defined the basic rules of the notion he calls vraisemblable critique which changes from generation to generation, according to the public’s taste. In his view, ‘critical verisimilitude’ favours so-called evidences (which he claims to be three: objectivity, taste and clarity), which have a normative nature and are ratified by tradition and public opinion.

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view of what is true and of what is possible. This is the so-called ‘realist motivation’ described by the Russian formalists, which overrides ‘aesthetic motivation’,55 as it allows for the justification of a particular artistic convention through criteria of conformity to reality.56 By choosing, as a means to achieve this realisation,57 to dissimulate what is artificial or, more accurately, fictional, in fiction, realistic aesthetics imposes an essential condition: that fiction conveys the illusion of reality. Todorov puts forward a different view when he says that: ‘Étudier le vraisemblable équivaut à montrer que les discours ne sont pas régis par une correspondance avec leur référent mais par leurs propres lois’.58 Nevertheless, to Genette, non-motivation59 may also become meaningful insofar as it produces zero motivation, which gives rise to a new kind of verisimilitude that can be defined as the absence of motivation as motivation.60 In recent decades, the analysis of the aesthetic experience of the reader has been the object of a new critical approach: the so-called ‘aesthetics of reception’ (Rezeptionsästhetik), which reconnects aesthetic experience with social praxis. According to Jauss: ‘The history of literature is a process of aesthetic reception and production that takes place in the realisation of literary texts on the part of the receptive reader, the reflective critic, and the author in his continuing productivity’.61 As in reader-response theory, the emphasis lies on the impact of the text on its reader(s). From this perspective, the focus is on the personal opinions, questions, responses, expectations and predispositions that the readers already bring with them as the text addresses them. Jauss argues that: ————— 55

56

57 58 59

60 61

See Tomashevsky 1965, 284-285. See also van Rossum-Guyon 1970, 83 n. 1, and Genette 1969, 86 ff., esp. 96 ff. This is what has been called the ‘naive’ meaning of the term ‘probability’. On this subject see van Rossum-Guyon 1970, 82 n. 2. This is the term Genette (1969, 97) uses to refer to the process of making fiction seem real. Todorov 1973 [1987], 93. According to Genette (1969, 96-97), the term motivation was introduced (as well as the term function) in modern literary theory by the Russian formalists to describe how the functionality of the elements of the narrative is disguised under a mask of causal determination. La motivation est donc l’apparence et l’alibi causaliste que se donne la détermination finaliste qui est la règle de la fiction: le parce que chargé de faire oublier le pour quoi? Genette 1969, 98. Jauss 1982, 22.

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‘every literary or artistic work is not “timeless” in the sense of being abstracted from processes of history and tradition, but re-actualised as eventful in each changing context of successive processes of understanding’.62 Appealing to the reader’s experience in constructing meaning or evaluating the aesthetic worth of a literary work will inevitably lead to the realisation that a text might be considered verisimilar or not depending on the moment in time when it is written and the extent to which, at the moment of reading, it meets, surpasses, falls short of, or goes against any given audience’s horizon of expectations. Verisimilitude is a changeable, ambiguous and polysemic concept and, despite the efforts of those who assert the autonomy of discourse, it has always been part of the collective imaginary. I believe that Todorov gives voice to that lasting tradition when he concludes that ‘le vraisemblable nous guette de partout et nous ne pouvons pas lui échapper’.63 One thing is clear: issues related to literature, just as with other fields of knowledge, are a source of never-ending discussion. But what is important is to remind ourselves that ‘novelties’, in the domain of critical theory and literary criticism as well as in literary praxis, are over two thousand years old.

Bibliography Bal, M. 1983. Narratologie (Essais sur la signification narrative dans quatre romans modernes). Utrecht: Hes. Barthes, R. 1966a [1994]. ‘Introduction à l’analyse structurale du récit’, in: E. Marty (ed.), Oeuvres complètes. Paris: Le Seuil, vol.2, 74-103; translated as ‘Introduction to the structural analysis of narratives’, in S. Heath (ed. and trans.), Image-Music-Text. London: Fontana, 1977 (repr.1993), 79-124; in: S. Sontag (ed.), Barthes: Selected Writings. London: Fontana/Collins, 1983, 251-295; in: S. Onega & J.A.G. Landa (eds.), Narratology: an Introduction. New York: Longman, 1996, 45-60. Barthes, R. 1966b [1987]. Critique et Vérité. Paris: Seuil [trans. K. P. Keunemen as Criticism and Truth. Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press 1987]. Bartsch, S. 1989. Decoding the Ancient Novel. The Reader and the Role of Description in Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Butts, J.R. 1987. The ‘Progymnasmata’ of Theon: a New Text with Translation and Commentary. PhD diss.: Claremont Graduate School. Chatman, S. 1978 [1980]. Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film. Ithaca & London: Cornell University Press. Culler, J. 1975. Structuralist Poetics. Linguistics and the Study of Literature. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

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Lundin, Walhout & Thiselton 1999, 193. Todorov 1973 [1987], 99.

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Derrida, J. 1972. ‘La pharmacie de Platon’, in: La Dissémination. Paris: Seuil, 69-199 [trans. Johnson, B. as ‘Plato’s pharmacy’, in: Dissemination. London & New York: Continuum 2004]. Doležel, L. 1971. ‘Toward a structural theory of content in prose fiction’, in: S. Chapman (ed.). Literary Style: a Symposium. London & New York: Oxford University Press. Fernández Delgado, J. A. & Pordomingo, F. 2017. La Retórica Escolar Griega y su Influencia Literaria. Salamanca: Ediciones Universidad Salamanca. Ferreira, V. 1972. ‘Da verosimilhança’, Revista Colóquio/Letras 8, 5-11. Forster, E.M. 1927 [2000]. Aspects of the Novel. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Genette, G. 1969. ‘Vraisemblance et motivation’, in: Figures II. Paris: Seuil, 71-99. Genette, G. 1972 [1980]. ‘Discours du récit’, in: Figures III. Paris: Seuil [trans. J.E. Lewin as Narrative Discourse. Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1983]. Genette, G. 1983 [1988]. Nouveau discours du récit. Paris: Seuil [trans. J.E. Lewin as Narrative Discourse: an Essay in Method. Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1988]. Genette, G. 1999. Figures IV. Paris: Seuil. Greimas, A.J. 1973. ‘Les actants, les acteurs et les figures’, in: C. Chabrol etc. (eds.), Sémiotique narrative et textuelle. Paris: Larousse, 161-173. Jauss, H.R. 1982. Towards an Aesthetic of Reception. [trans. T. Bahti]. Minneapolis: Minnesota University Press. Kennedy, G.A. 1972 [2001]. ‘Gorgias’, in R.K. Sprague (ed.), The Older Sophists. Indianapolis: Hackett. Kennedy, G.A. 2003. Progymnasmata. Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric. Leiden & Boston: Brill. Lämmert, E. 1975. Bauformen des Erzählens. Stuttgart: Metzler. Lundin, R., Walhout, C. & Thiselton, A. 1999. The Promise of Hermeneutics. Grand Rapids & Cambridge: Eerdmans. Muir, E. 1928 [1963]. The Structure of the Novel. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World. Patillon, M. et Bolognesi, G. (eds.) 1997 [2002]. Aelius Theon. Progymnasmata. Paris: Belles Lettres. Perelman, C. 1958. Traité de l’argumentation. La nouvelle rhétorique. Paris: PUF. Propp, V. 1928 [1968]. Morphology of the Folktale. Austin: University of Texas Press. Ricoeur, P.1983-1985. Temps et récit. 3 vols. Paris: Seuil [trans. K. Blamey, K. McLaughlin & D. Pellauer as Time and Narrative. Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1984-1988; New York: Columbia University Press 1995 [repr. 1998].] Rimmon-Kenan, S. 1983. [1988]. Narrative Fiction: Contemporary Poetics. London & New York: Methuen. Rossum-Guyon, F. van 1970. Critique du roman. Paris: Gallimard. Stanzel, F.K. 1984 [1988]. A Theory of Narrative. Trans. C. Goedsche. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Todorov, T. 1966. ‘Les catégories du récit littéraire’, Communications 8, 125-151. Todorov, T. 1973 [1987]. ‘Introduction au vraisemblable’, in Poétique de la prose. Paris: Seuil, 85-94 [trans. by R. Howard as ‘An introduction to verisimilitude’, in: The Poetics of Prose. Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1984, 80-88]. Todorov, T. 1977 [1985]. Théories du symbole. Paris: Seuil [trans. by C. Porter as Theories of the Symbol. Oxford: Blackwell 1982; Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1984]. Tomashevsky, B. 1965. ‘Thématique’, in: Théorie de la littérature. Textes des formalistes russes. Paris: Seuil, 199-232 [‘Thematics’ in: L.T. Lemon & M.J. Reis (eds. and trans.),

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Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press 1965, 61-95]. Walker, J. 2000. Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wellek, R. & Warren, A. 1949 [1984]. Theory of Literature. Orlando: Harcourt, Brace & Co.

Between rhetoric and orality: aspects of the spread of the earliest Greek novels* C ONSUELO R UIZ -M ONTERO Universidad de Murcia

1. Greek novel and pantomime Among the papyri of the Greek novels are fragments of two lost works that featured historical characters: the Ninus Romance and Metiochus and Parthenope. Stephens dates the papyri of the Ninus Romance ‘in the last half of the first century’ (i.e. AD).1 As for Metiochus and Parthenope, Bowie reports Obbink’s view that the ostrakon in which Metiochus reproaches Parthenope for her forgetfulness ‘could have been written as late as the second half of the first century AD’; the papyri are later.2 Both these novels seem to have been of a high literary quality: Ninus is totally rhetorical and a first-class example of classical literary paideia.3 But that these stories did not circulate only in written form is evident from the work of Lucian and from certain mosaics in Antioch from around AD 200 representing both Ninus, and Metiochus and Parthenope.4 ————— * A previous version of this paper was read at ICAN 2008 (Lisbon), to whose audience I wish to express my gratitude. The research has been supported by the financial help of the DGCYT of the Spanish Ministerio de Educación y Ciencia. 1 Stephens & Winkler 1995, 31; Kussl 1997, 143- 145 agrees (though earlier he suggested the middle of the century as the terminus ante quem; Kussl 1991, XI). This is also the dating given in López Martínez 1998, 37. Stramaglia 1996, 124-127 and 151-153, and López Martínez 1998a, 68 suggest that the ostrakon EDFU 306 (1st.-2nd. cent. AD) may also be a fragment of Ninus. 2 Bowie 2002, 54. On Parthenope see the series of studies by Hägg (now collected by Mortensen & Eide 2004), Hägg & Utas 2005, and Lopez Martínez & Ruiz Montero 2016. 3 See Ruiz-Montero 1996, 145-146; Kussl 1997, 146f.; López Martínez 1998b; Bowie 2002, 56. 4 Cf. Quet 1992; for mosaics of a theatrical origin in the late Empire, see Handley 2002, 169173 (Mytilene), Roueché 2002 (Paphos), and Huskinson 2002-2003, who suggests that stories from the novels were recited or enacted in triclinia (p.157 specifically on Ninus and Metiochus and Parthenope in the ‘House of the Man of Letters’.) I treat the evidence in Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 33–47

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The work of Lucian strikes me as especially interesting for the study of the spread of the novels. First of all we have his On Dance, the fullest of the ancient treatises on pantomime.5 We know that pantomime flourished in Rome, especially from Augustus on, but also that it dates back to an earlier Greek tradition, as the term pantomimos is attested on inscriptions at Priene from around 80 BC.6 There is evidence of performances at Aphrodisias in the 1st cent. AD.7 According to Lucian, the content of the pantomimes is generally taken from Homer, Hesiod and above all tragedy (61), but also from history, with characters who predate Augustus. Amongst them are ‘the bold deeds of Antipater of Macedonia as well as those at the court of Seleucus over the affections of Stratonice’ (58), Cleopatra, ‘the wanderings of Aeneas and the love of Dido’ (46). Many dramata are set in Asia: ‘Samos, at the outset, with the pathos of Polycrates and his daughter’s wanderings (planē) extending to Persia, and the stories that are still older…’ (54). Lucian insists that the dancer had to be familiar with the love stories (59) and stresses the pathos and tearfulness of the scenes chosen for the performance (73; 79). The cynic philosopher whom Lycinus tries to convince characterises the songs accompanying the dance as akolasta (2; 4; 5)8 and the dancer as imitating ‘love-sick women, the most erotic of all antiquity, such as Phaedra and Parthenope and Rhodope…’ (2). The audience attending the spectacle is made up of men and women (5), and the dancers can be the noblest from each city (80). Lucian continues his eulogy by stressing the paideia and polumathia of the dancer and his audience,9 which is very vocal in its response (76, aneboēsan); the spectacle (theāma) is ‘delightful and useful’ (71) and of a kind that could be said to improve

————— 5

6

7

8

9

more detail in my Introduction to the forthcoming book Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire. For a comparison between Lucian´s treatise and the Greek love novel see Ruiz Montero 2014. Jory 1981; Jones 1991, 195f.; Hall 2002, 28. On the relation of pantomime to other dramatic performances, see especially Jory 1981 and 2002; Dupont 1985, 392-397; Fantham 1989; Jones 1991; Hall 2002. Jory 2002, who stresses that Aphrodisian masks are unparalleled. This, the earliest evidence we have from Asia Minor, belongs to the period of the Julio-Claudians, the explanation being the strong, and older, links that existed between Aphrodisias and Rome. Pantomimes were introduced as regular Greek games at the start of the 160’s. Lucian wrote his treatise between 162 and 165 and dedicated it to Verus, since the genre was highly valued both by the emperor and by a broader audience. Compare Plin., Pan. 46: effeminatas artes et indecora saeculo studia. For this and other critiques of pantomime, see Fantham 2002. Though not all of them are sophoi (80; compare Pseudol.15). At 76 he adds that the people of Antioch especially honour the dance and ‘nothing ever escapes a man of them’.

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the spectator morally (23; 81).10 The comparison with contemporary rhetoric is such that Lucian goes so far as to suggest that the dancers can also produce solecisms when they dance (80), as well as expressing ēthos and pathos (67; 71; cf. 66).11 Lucian bears witness to the popularity of this kind of performance which is capable of holding its audience spellbound all day long (2; 79). To refer to the contents of the pantomimes he uses terms like diēgēsis (44), historia, (46; 66) or dramata (54). In The Mistaken Critic Lucian unmasks the impostor who, in his youth as an actor in the theatre, upstaged the pantomimes, so gaining the applause of the audience, and then went on to become a rhetor and a sophist (19). He adds that, as a young actor, he was successful playing now Ninus, now Metiochus, and later Achilles in the theatre (25). We are, then, dealing with a form of entertainment, performed both by and for the pepaideumenoi, which did not, however, exclude a wider, less cultivated audience. As to the intermediate stages between the written texts and these theatrical performances, I believe we get some clues from the ostrakon on Metiochus and Parthenope which was used in the same educational context as so many other literary ostraka and as so many Greek literary papyri.12 It is important to note that Lucian compares the content of the novels to that of other ‘canonical’ literary genres in both verse and prose, in a way that implies that the circulation of the novels must be similar to that of the rest of Greek literature.13 Among the rhetorical papyri are large numbers of moral gnomai and fables by Aesop, which were common to the three stages of an ancient rhetorical education, as is richly documented by Cribiore.14 The Life of Aesop belongs to a so-called ‘open tradition’: we have two different versions of a putative original of the 1st century AD, the older of which, the so-called recensio G, dates to the 2nd century AD; an additional papyrus seems to testify to a third version.15 We know ————— 10

11 12

13

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15

The performance will aid the lover to be self-controlled (sōphronizein) and will act as a cure (pharmakon) of grief (79). The same topos is employed by Longus in his proem (Praef. 4; cf. Morgan 2004, 147f.). The inscription at Priene quoted by Jory 1981 already mentions the psuchagogia of the pantomimos. Pantomime acts as a mirror of the spectator, since the dancer displays, among other qualities, paideia and humanity (ταῖς ἐννοίαις ἀνθρώπινον, 81). See 65 for a comparison with meletai. I suggest the banquet as a possible context for this ostrakon in the Introduction (n. 79) to the forthcoming book quoted above, n.4. For the subsequent spread of Parthenope to the East also, see especially Hägg & Utas 2005. Cribiore 2001, 197-201, for the most widely read of these; in her study of 1996 she lists a large number of literary ostraka. See Haslam 1986.

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that much of the material belongs to an oral tradition but that it has themes and motifs in common with Aristophanes, with Euripides, with Plutarch, with Petronius, and with Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, all of which suggests that these Aesop texts were rhetorical in origin and composition. Links have been made between the Life of Aesop and the mime entitled Moicheutria (Adulteress), and there has even been a suggestion that the novel is the source of the mime: if this were the case we would be dealing with a more popular form of transmission, in this case comic, than the pantomime.16 Among the papyri of mime we also find a Leucippe.17 It has also been suggested that the Callirhoe mentioned by Persius 1,134, ‘to these I recommend an edict in the morning, and Callirhoe after lunch’ (his mane edictum, post prandia Callirhoen do) might be the title of a comic performance or the name of a mime-artist, as they generally performed at three in the afternoon.18 Other scholars believe that Persius refers to the novel by Chariton.19 Whatever the case, Persius seems to allude to an oral performance, in parallel to the edict. At the same time, it is clearly the case that the same story could be treated in different literary genres, including theatrical performances. Graverini makes this point in relation to Apuleius’ novel, and has suggested a ‘multimedia’ transmission of the work, based on passages such as 6,24,3 ‘I shall become a great history, and an incredible tale, and some books’ (historiam magnam et incredundam fabulam et libros me futurum), which point to the coexistence of orality and writing.20 ————— 16

17

18

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20

This is the opinion of Andreassi 2002; see the edition and commentary of the mime in Andreassi 2001. The similarities of content she highlights are clear, though they may be due to a common comic source. The name occurs in a ‘memorandum of props’ from the 5th. cent. AD; see Cunningham’s Teubner edition of Herodas 60-61; on Achilles Tatius and the mime, see Mignogna 1997. See the commentary ad loc. by Kissel 1990, 285-287, who discusses several possibilities but does not believe that the reference is to Chariton’s novel. Whitmarsh 2005, 590, n. 14, inclines towards the idea of a literary text, a comedy or a satire. The name ‘Chione’, which appears in a fragment from an ideal love novel (Stephens & Winkler 1995, 289-313; López Martínez 1998, 287-295), is mentioned several times by Martial to refer to a scortum. I think, therefore, that it is difficult to see the Callirhoe mentioned by Persius as an ideal novel. See the good discussion by Tilg 2010, 69-79, who concludes that Persius could refer ‘to the novel or something derived from it’, in such a way that Persius’ first satire (AD 59) must be taken as a terminus ante quem for Chariton. So Bowie 2002, 54, with further bibliography; Reardon 2004, V. For reasons of both language and realia I continue to believe that Chariton was probably a contemporary of Plutarch and Dio of Prusa (see Ruiz-Montero 1996, with bibliography). Dowden 2007, 142, concludes, too, that, for stylistic reasons, our novel should be dated at the end of the 1st cent. AD. Graverini 2007, 151-185.

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The dramatic features of Petronius21 and Apuleius have been acknowledged for some time, but Regine May’s study Apuleius and Drama is especially relevant to the Greek novels, in particular to Chariton, whose novel I discuss in the second section of this paper.22 May concludes that by presenting the text as a spectaculum the novelist Apuleius makes his addresses to the audience comparable to those the sophist Apuleius could have made to the spectators who filled the theatre at Carthage.23 The novel would have been theatrical, both oral and performative in nature. Hardly surprisingly, several of the work’s critics have suggested that a recital in the theatre was the appropriate context for the Metamorphoses.24

2. Chariton´s novel: something to see and to hear25 The same deliberately ambiguous character, half-way between the written and the oral, is more than evident in the novel by Chariton, who uses the oral-narrative verb diēgeomai at the start of the novel (1,1,1): ‘I, Chariton of Aphrodisias, clerk to the rhetor Athenagoras, am going to narrate (diēgēsomai) a love story that took place in Syracuse’, only to conclude it with ‘That is what I wrote (sunegrapsa) about Callirhoe’ (8,8,16), a formula which is an indication of writing which also appears in the rhetorical handbooks.26 The terms diēgēma and diēgēmata are omnipresent in the novel, where they always apply to oral narrative.27 A significant ————— 21 22

23 24

25

26

27

See the discussion by Horsfall 1989; Jensson 2004, 39f.; 77; 245f. I do not mean to imply that Chariton's novel is ‘comic’ in character, like that of Apuleius, or that its structure is theatrical: if anything distinguishes Chariton, it is the supremely ‘narrative’ nature of his literary texture. May 2006, 332. Dowden 1982; Jensson 2004, 75f.; May 2007, 113f.; Keulen 2007, 109f.; Graverini 2007, 151. An earlier version of this section appeared in Ruiz-Montero 2016b. Translations of Chariton are from Reardon 1989 with minor changes. Same formula in Luc. De salt. 35; Demetr. Elocut.111. On the connections between orality and writing in this novel see also the observations by Robiano 2007, 201-222, and Smith 2007, 120f. The verb diēgeomai, already used by Plato (and others) for oral tales (Symp.172b2-174a2: eight occurrences), is typical of forensic Attic oratory, to the extent that diēgēsis became the technical term for the ‘narration’ of the facts (cf. Arist. Rh. 1414a37). However, the term diēgēsis does not appear in Chariton or Xenophon of Ephesus. In later rhetorical theory, diēgēsis is the term employed for a larger comprehensive narration, and diēgēma for a shorter one: cf. the Progymnasmata of Hermogenes (4) and Aphthonius (22). Tilg 2010, 217-20, studies these terms in their rhetorical context. See the list of examples in Tilg 2010, 213, n. 27. Among the remaining novelists we should highlight the diēgēma told by an old woman in X. Eph. 3,9,8, cited as ‘a story (pathos) that

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example is to be found in the monologue in which Callirhoe rues the fact she has become a diēgēma in Asia and Europe (5,5,3). Chariton insists again and again on the ‘unexpected (paradoxon), indeed incredible (apiston)’ (2,8,4).28 The use of these terms links the novel to the Milesian tradition, and indeed the love story of Callirhoe and Dionysius of Miletus is in a sense a Milesian Tale all along.29 But, of course, the tendency to underline the plot of the novel by continuous recapitulations, lengthy diēgēmata on the part of the characters or by means of letters is, as Hägg noted, a technique which is epic in origin.30 Chariton quotes more than thirty hexameters from Homer, one of his essential models.31 Taking his cue from these repetitions, Hägg proposes the idea of an oral performance before a real audience: the formulae used by Chariton and Xenophon of Ephesus would be proof of a popular oral reception.32 But I think that this penchant for repetition, which lends a peculiar rhythm to the narrative, is an indication of a rhetorical mimesis as these recurrences are too frequent to be explained purely in terms of oral reception, the more so if we are thinking of a cultivated audience, as would appear to have been the case for Chariton. Nevertheless, our author displays other narrative strategies that connect him to orality. First let us consider his relation to the theatre. That Chariton was familiar with the theatre of Euripides and Menander, whom he cites verbally, has already been established, as has the fact that he models whole scenes on these genres.33 I will illustrate with just a few quotations. The ‘slave’s trickery’ of Plangon the nurse (2,10,7),34 confidant first of Dionysius and later of Callirhoe, derives from New Comedy: Chariton even describes the expression on her face and her body (2,11,4) and insists upon her ————— 28

29

30 31

32 33 34

took place in the city’, which refers to the content of the novel plot itself, as in Chariton 1,1,1. For a discussion of some aspects of orality in Xenophon, see Ruiz-Montero 2003b. See 2,10,4; 3,3,2; 3,4,1, etc. On paradoxon in Chariton see Kerényi 1927, 9f., 15, n.55. It is worth recalling that the expedition of the Athenians against Sicily was already described by the Syracusan Hermocrates as an apiston in Th. 6,33,1; see the discussion in Smith 2007, 153f. Despite the idealist nature of the novel, Theron constructs a fiction in which Callirhoe is a native of Sybaris (1,12,8; 2,1,9; 2,5,5; the reputation of that city and of the obscene tales connected with it (like the Milesiae) was widespread: see Mart.12,95,1-2 for Sybaritici libelli; Jensson 2004, 270 and 297, and Tilg 2010, 146-155, stressing that Chariton connected his own work both with Milesiaca and Sybaritica. Hägg 1971, a fundamental and classic study. For a general survey of Chariton’s literary models, see Ruiz-Montero 1994 and 1996, and especially on Chariton and Homer Tilg 2010, 141-146. See especially Hägg 1994. See Ruiz-Montero 1994, and Tilg 2010, 137-140, with further references. Compare the slave-girl’s role in the scheme to trap Chaereas: 1,2,4; 1,4,1; 1,4,5-6. The name ‘Plangon’ appears in the comic tradition.

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trustworthiness, axiopistia (2,10,3). The same goes for the attempted act of erotic persuasion by the eunuch Artaxates (6,5,5).35 The plot of the novel is described as a ‘grim drama’ or ‘plot’, (skuthrōpē hupothesis, 4,3,11; cf. 6,8,1), drama skuthrōpon, 4,4,2; cf. 1,4,2; 8,1,2), and other theatrical metaphors might also be mentioned.36 Callirhoe even compares herself to Medea (2,9,3). The author is especially interested in presenting the plot as a spectacle. The presence of spectators (theatai) is constant throughout the work, becoming a motif which gives unity to the plot: not only does Chariton insist on Callirhoe’s visual beauty (3,8,6; 5,5,8; 6,4,5; 8,6,11), but whole cities turn out to see her (4,2,6; 4,5,9; 4,7,6). The people of Babylon want to watch the trial as if it were the Olympic games (6,2,1); the whole of Babylon is a court (5,3,6; 5,4,4; 5,13,6); men and women discuss what has gone on (3,2,15; 3,6,2; 8,7,2; 8,6,6); the masses want to watch the fight at Tyre (7,4,7); the people (dēmos), or the masses (plēthos), are everywhere in the novel, shouting in the streets or the agora (1,5,3; 3,2,17; 3,4,45; 8,6,8; 8,6,10), or talking (8,1,11); Chaereas’ whole army even has a shout (7,3,10-11). The mass could truly be said to be ‘inquisitive’ (8,6,7 periergos) and has nothing better to do than to watch and to listen (8,7,1),37 and to take part. The novel ends with the final diēgēma at the theatre in Syracuse, which is attended by men and women who shout, discuss, question the orator Chaereas, break out in laments and yell incessantly (8,7). The whole thing could be said to resemble a public debating session, where the audience could propose topics, voice its approval or disagreement, butt in, weep with the orator.38 The reactions are the same as those Lucian attributes to the pantomime.39 Chariton enjoys mixing dramatic genres: at 8,1,4 he warns his readers that they are about to witness the ultimate metabolē of the twists and turns of Tyche: I think that this last book (sungramma) will prove very agreeable to its readers: it cleanses away (katharsion) the grim events of the earlier ones. There will be no more pirates or slavery or lawsuits or fighting or suicides or wars or conquests; now there will be lawful loves and legitimate marriage. So, I ————— 35

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See also 6,7,5; 6,5,8; 1,4,9; 2,10,7; a parasitos turns up at 1,4,1. The episode in 1,2,3f. is also clearly comic in origin, and contains comic motifs already present in Ninus, fr. A (see Kussl 1997). For these metaphors see Kokolakis 1960, 61; Tilg 2010, 182-186. See also 8,6,8; 8,6,10-11; theatai and akroatai, together in 5,5,8. See Schmitz 1997, 60-96; Korenjak 2000, 41-65. Salt. 76. Tilg 2010, 289-290, suggests that Chariton’s novel could be to some extent inspired by pantomimes on Dido and Aeneas or the like in the theatre of Aphrodisias.

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am going to tell (lexō) how the goddess brought the truth to light and revealed the unrecognized pair to each other. The story of Chaereas and Callirhoe, which mixes comedy and tragedy, ends happily, like the comedies of Menander and some pieces of Euripides, though it should not be forgotten that for the third of the protagonists, Dionysius, it is in fact a tragedy. The concept of pleasure is mixed here with a certain relaxation. Moreover, the novel offers a convenient morality, referred to by the subsequent mention of right love and legal marriage; the wedding of Polycharmus and Chaereas’ sister, narrated at 8,8,12, is in the same vein. These concepts are similar to the functions attributed to Menander’s comedy by Plutarch: a kind of mental relaxation for the pepaideumenoi and an example of convenient morality.40 Like comedy, the novel could combine hēdonē and ōpheleia.41 In the rhetorical classification of narrative, both genres are narrationes in personis positae: indeed the Roman novels are associated with comedy by Macrobius.42 In this connection it is worth noting that another novelist, Antonius Diogenes, possibly a contemporary of Chariton and possibly also from Aphrodisias, identified himself as a ‘poet of [an] old comedy’, whatever precisely that means (Phot. cod.166).43 Chariton and Diogenes, therefore, constitute different samples of the reception of the ‘dramatic/comic’ tradition in this period. They show that the Hellenistic mixture (poikilia) of genres continued into the Imperial period, where we see the dramatic tradition connected with different genres and understood with diverse nuances.44 There are further aspects of orality that will help us to better understand Chariton’s presentation of his novel. Chariton is the only novelist to refer explicitly to readers (8,1,4, tois anaginōskousin), but he also clearly alludes to an oral audience at 2,8,3, where he refers to Fortune’s power to change the course of events:

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Plut. Quaest.conv. 712b-c, 854a861b, with discussion by Hunter 2000, 267-276. Photius says as much at the end of his summary of Antonius Diogenes’ novel (112a7), whose contents are hēdu and whose denouement is chrēsimōtaton. See Graverini 2007, 155, for a comparison between the reading of a novel and attendance at a theatre. He very nicely observes (156) ‘the ambiguous meaning of the word fabula, that identifies both prose narratives and theatrical plays, is not due to chance’. Sat. 1,2,7-8 equates the comedies of Terence with the works of Petronius and Apuleius: both genres would be argumenta (cf. ad Heren. 1.8.12 and Cic. de inv. 1,19,27). For Antonius Diogenes’ connections with comedy, see Ruiz-Montero 2013. See Plut. Quaest.conv. 711b-c on ‘dramatic’ dialogues in Plato.

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She was outwitted by Fortune, (…) and then she [Fortune] brought about an unexpected, indeed incredible thing. How she did it is worth hearing (axion akousai). The formula axion akousai was used by Plato for oral narrative, but is also a feature of classical Attic oratory.45 That Chariton is behaving like an Attic orator is also plain in his rhetorical questions of the τίς ἄν… kind (5,8,1 ‘who could fitly describe…’), and in his comments of the βούλομαι δὲ εἰπεῖν πρῶτον… kind (3,2,17 ‘First I want to tell…’). All these expressions have their correlates in Attic oratory: Chariton tells the facts as an orator would, and so do his characters in their relentless fondness for story-telling. Is this merely a bookish instance of rhetorical mimesis or does the phenomenon also correspond to a real context? The diēgēma at the theatre in Syracuse may prove of some assistance here. On the heroes’ return to Syracuse the whole populace makes its way to the assembly at the theatre: With one voice the throng cried out, ‘Let us go to the assembly!’ for they were eager both to see and to hear them. More quickly than words can tell the theatre was filled with men and women. When Chaereas came in by himself, they all cried out, men as well as women, ‘Call Callirhoe in!’ (8,7,1) The importance of the people and its opinions is a feature of oral narrative, but it is also typical of oratory. After a few words from Hermocrates by way of introduction and also recapitulation of the first part of the plot, Chaereas gets up to speak: Taking up the tale from there (ἔνθεν ἑλών), Chaereas began his account: ‘We crossed the Ionian Sea safely and landed on the estate of a citizen of Miletus called Dionysius …’ (8,7,9).46 It has been noted that the expression ἔνθεν ἑλὼν comes from the Odyssey 8,500,47 in the scene in which Demodocus has just finished speaking and just before ————— 45

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Pl. Phd. 110b1; Euthd. 283b2; 304d9; Ion 530d6, etc. See also the reference to the akroasis (‘hearing’) of the story of Callirhoe by Dionysius in 3,9,9, and of the trial at Babylon by Artaxerxes in 5,3,11, and by the people attending the trial in 5,5,8 (cf. 5,6,11). Robiano 2007, 217-220, also stresses the dialectical relationship between orality and writing in this passage, which invites the reader to become a lector in fabula, and is a reminder of the initial diēgēsomai. Quoted by Reardon 2004, ad loc. (cf. also Char. 5,7,10). The formula is employed also in the Lucianic Onos 6, in an erotic context.

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Odysseus’ long speech to the Phaeacians; the scene is set at a banquet, though earlier the people had gathered in the agora to listen to Alcinous (8,5). As it happens, Chariton says the people of Syracuse hold Alcinous in special esteem (2,8,11), and indeed Theon, when dealing with the diēgēma in his Progymnasmata, cites the example of the story of Odysseus addressing the Phaeacians.48 Chaereas here is being a new Odysseus and/or an orator in a performance which tells the story of his life, albeit paradoxon or apiston. Chariton, our hupographeus, is turning out to be a veritable rhetor. But this is not all. Chaereas’ long final story is a display of local pride at the deeds of two of its most illustrious citizens, its children and politai, who have returned to the homeland safe and sound: The assembly acclaimed his words. ‘The people are grateful to you, noble Polycharmus, their loyal friend! You are a benefactor of your country (tēn patrida)! You are worthy of Hermocrates and Chaereas!’ After this Chaereas spoke again. ‘The three hundred men here,’ he said, ‘Greeks, my brave company - I ask you to grant them citizenship!’ Again the people cried, ‘They are worthy to be citizens of Syracuse - let us have that voted!’ A decree was passed, and they took their places at once as members of the assembly (8,8,1314). Let us turn from fiction to reality. The term patris is frequent in the inscriptions at Aphrodisias.49 This final scene in the novel underlines the importance of the dēmos, which intervenes no fewer than seven times to cheer the hero on and to ratify its desires, and so we see them passing a decree conferring citizenship on the soldiers who had fought next to Chaereas. We can compare this with many other honorary decrees passed at Aphrodisias and other towns in Asia Minor. One is particularly apposite: it is the second of a series of three texts, not inscribed simultaneously, the third of which is dated to AD 127, probably not much later than Chariton.50 In this inscription the demos of Halicarnassus honours the poet Caius Iulius Longianus of Aphrodisias for various public readings of all kinds of poems,51 so that he will be granted bronze statues in the most illustrious ————— 48 49

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Theon, Prog., 80; 86. See the indices of the on-line edition by Reynolds, Roueché & Bodard 2007. Alvares 20012002, 130, recalls the Zoilus frieze at Aphrodisias, where this figure is crowned by Polis and greeted by Demos. Reynolds, Roueché & Bodard 2007, 12-27. The inscriptions give an idea of the importance of itinerant epic poets in the Imperial period: see the evidence and bibliography in RuizMontero 2003b and the papers in Hunter & Rutherford 2009. ποιημάτων παντοδαπῶν ἐπιδείξεις ποικίλας ἐποιήσατο (l. 2-3).

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places of the city, in the temenos dedicated to the Muses, and next to the old Herodotus in the gymnasion of the ephebes,52 and the public display of his books in the libraries, in order that the young may learn from them as from the writings of the ancients.53 The text is a eulogy of paideia, by which the poet of Aphrodisias (the copy we have was sent there) is awarded the honours of a citizen.54 It should be added that the poet Longianus was ‘enjoyable to the old and useful to the young’,55 two of the very concepts we have observed in Chariton, in Plutarch’s comments on comedy, in Lucian, and in Photius’ remarks on Antonius Diogenes’ novel. In several inscriptions at Aphrodisias there are references to competitions of tragic and comic poets, and to enkomia and other theamata and akroamata.56 I believe that this is the context in which Chariton was operating. I do not mean that the novel could be performed as a category within public competitions, but I suggest the possibility of an oral dissemination of the genre in some manner. From the work of a considerable number of authors of the imperial age we know that there were public readings of comedies and tragedies, either whole or in part, and also of prose works, in theatres and private houses from as early as the Hellenistic period or before.57 We have no documents that record any readings of novels, at least with a special and distinctive name; we do not know what they were called when they were circulating.58 Antonius Diogenes claimed to be a ————— 52

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55 56 57

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καὶ εἰκόσιν vac. χαλκαῖς ἃς ἔν τε τοῖς ἄλλοις ἀνασταθῆναι τοῖς ἐπισημοτάτοις τῆς πόλεως χωρίοις καὶ ἐν τῷ τῶν Μουσῶν τεμένει καὶ ἐν τῷ γυμνασίῳ τῶν ἐφήβων παρὰ τὸν παλαιὸν Ἡρόδοτον (l. 10-14). ἐψηφίσθαι δὲ καὶ τοῖς βυβλίοις αὐτοῦ δημοσίαν ἀνάθεσιν ἔν τε βυβλιοθήκαις ταῖς παρ’ ἡμεῖν ἵνα καὶ ἐν τούτοις οἱ νέοι παιδεύωνται τὀν αὐτὸν τρόπον ὃν καὶ ἐν τοῖς τῶν παλαίων συ[ν]γράμμασιν (l. 14-18). ἡσθεὶς ὁ δῆμος τειμὰς αὐτῷ προσέταξε τὰς προσηκούσας ψηφίσασθαι δεδόχθαι Γαίον Ἰούλιον Λογγιανὸν προῖκα πεπολειτεῦσθαι παρ’ ἡμεῖν (l. 5-7). καὶ τοὺς πρεσβυτέρους εὔφρανεν καὶ τοὺς νεωτέρους ὠφέλησεν (l. 3-4). See Roueché 1993; cf. Apul., Flor. 18,3 for these entertainments. See Plut., Quaest. conv. 711b-d; 712e-713f for akroamata at the banquet (both performances of dialogues from Plato and readings from comedies, especially Menander); adv. Col. 1107f for reading and discussion of a text by Plato and other philosophers; Plin. Ep. 3,1,4 and 9 for a reading and a comic piece during dinner, and a comoedus or a lyristes after, beside several more serious readings aloud during the day; cf. also 9,36; 3,5,1. Further data in Johnson 2000; Lakmann 2002. Why are there no citations of readings or performances of the Greek novel as a genre? There are, I think, four possible explanations: 1) because they simply did not exist; 2) for terminological reasons: there was no single, ‘official’ term for the genre in this period (later on, for Photius, it was dramatikon); 3) because of indifference towards a contemporary, non-‘ancient’ genre; 4) for some strange or irrational reason beyond the scope of philological inquiry. Some of these explanations could be combined.

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‘poet of ancient comedy’, but his text was full of diēgēmata. ‘Hearing’ and ‘seeing’ are categories which are constantly linked in the period, and so they appear in the entertainments at banquets. We scholars tend to make more genre-distinctions than was the case back then. Orality was part of the literary culture of the period, the other side of the same coin, as it were. Besides other prose genres, Chariton combines and reworks three orally performed traditional genres, epic, drama and oratory, into a new genre which is then presented as a contemporary declamatory reading or rhetorical spectacle, that is, which is both written and oral, text and spoken word, though to what extent he was an innovator here is unknown. The fact that there is a papyrus with rather different readings from the Laurentianus, and the anomalies observed in the so-called codex Thebanus, are intriguing, though the case of Chariton would seem rather different from the ‘open tradition’ of the Life of Aesop and the like.59 Nonetheless, a dual dissemination, both oral and written, cannot be ruled out, either super cenam, in Juvenal’s phrase,60 or in a public auditorium. In her study Gymnastics of the Mind (2001) Cribiore concludes that life imitated school; Chariton does not distinguish between them but imitates them both.

Bibliography Alvares, J. 2001-2002. ‘Some political and ideological dimensions of Chariton´s Chaereas and Callirhoe’, CJ 97, 113-144. Andreassi, M. 2001. Mimi greci in Egitto: Charition e Moicheutria, Bari: Palomar. Andreassi, M. 2002. ‘Il mimo tra ‘consumo’ e ‘letteratura’: Charition e Moicheutria’, Ancient Narrative 2, 30-46. Bowie, E. 2002. ‘The chronology of the earlier Greek novels since B. E. Perry: revisions and precisions’, Ancient Narrative, 2, 47-62. Cribiore, R. 1996. Writing, Teachers and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt, Atlanta: Scholars Press. Cribiore, R. 2001. Gymnastics of the Mind. Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Dowden, K. 1982. ‘Apuleius and the art of narration’, CQ 32, 419-435. Dowden, K. 2007. ‘A lengthy sentence: judging the prolixity of the novels’, in M. Paschalis, S. Frangoulidis, S. Harrison & M. Zimmerman, eds., The Greek and Roman Novels: Parallel Readings (Ancient Narrative Supplementum 8), Groningen: Barkhuis, 135-150.

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Sanz Morales 2006 notes the ‘freedom’ of textual transmission in the codex Thebanus of Chariton; Reardon 1996, 15, holds that the scribe may have made alterations and additions, suggesting that the text was seen as public property. Juvenal 15,14: tale super cenam facinus narraret Ulyxes, whom the author compares to a mendax aretalogus (16). I expand on this point in my forthcoming paper “Oral tales and Greek Fictional Narrative in Roman Imperial prose”.

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Dupont, F. 1985. L’acteur-roi ou le théâtre dans la Rome antique, Paris: Belles Lettres. Easterling, P. & Hall, E., eds., 2002. Greek and Roman Actors. Aspects of an Ancient Profession, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fantham, E. 1989. ‘Mime: the missing link in Roman literary history’, CW 82, 153-163. Fantham, E. 2002. ‘Orator and actor’, in Easterling & Hall 2002, 362-376. Gödde, S & Heinze, T., eds., Skenika Beiträge zum Antiken Theater und seiner Rezeption. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Graverini, L. 2007. ‘The ass’s ears and the novel’s voice. Orality and the involvement of the reader in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in Rimell 2007, 138-167. Hägg, T. 1971. Narrative Technique in Ancient Greek Romances, Stockholm: Svenska Institutet i Athen. Hägg, T. 1994. ‘Orality, literacy, and the ‘readership’ of the early Greek novel’, in R. Eriksen, ed., Contexts of Pre-Novel Narrative: The European Tradition, Berlin & New York: De Gruyter, 47-80; reprinted in Mortensen & Eide 2004, 109-140. Hägg, T & Utas, B. 2003. The Virgin and her Lover, Leiden: Brill. Hall, E. 2002. ‘The singing actors of antiquity’, in Easterling & Hall 2002, 4-38. Handley, E. 2002. ‘Acting, action and words in New Comedy’, in Easterling & Hall 2002, 165188. Haslam, M.W. 1986. ‘3720. Life of Aesop (Addendum to 3331)’, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 53, London: Egypt Exploration Society, 149-172. Horsfall N. 1989. ‘The uses of literacy and the Cena Trimalchionis’, G&R 56, 74-85, 194-209. Hunter, R. 2000. ‘The politics of Plutarch’s comparison of Aristophanes and Menander’, in Gödde & Heinze 2000, 267-276. Hunter, R. & Rutherford, I., eds. 2009. Wandering Poets in Ancient Greek Culture: Travelling, Locality, and Pan-Hellenism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Huskinson J. (2002-3) ‘Theatre, performance and theatricality in some mosaic pavements from Antioch’, BICS 46, 131-165. Jensson, G. 2004. The Recollections of Encolpius. The Satyrica of Petronius as Milesian Fiction (Ancient Narrative Supplementum 2), Groningen: Barkhuis. Johnson, W. A. 2000. ‘Toward a sociology of reading in Classical Antiquity’, AJP 121, 593627. Jones, C. P. 1991. ‘Dinner theater’, in W. J. Slater, ed., Dining in a Classical Context, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 185-198. Jory, E. J. 1981. ‘The literary evidence for the beginnings of Imperial pantomime’, BICS 28, 147-161. Jory, E. J. 2002. ‘The masks of the propylon of the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias’, in Easterling & Hall 2002, 238-253. Kerényi, K. 1927. Die griechisch-orientalische Romanliteratur in religions-geschichtlicher Beleuchtung, Tübingen: Mohr. Keulen, W. 2007. ‘Vocis immutatio: the Apuleian prologue and the pleasures and pitfalls of vocal versatility’, in Rimell 2007, 106-137. Kissel, W. 1990. Aulus Persius Flaccus. Satiren, Heidelberg: Winter. Kokolakis, M. 1960. The Dramatic Simile of Life, Athens: Boukouri. Korenjak, M. 2000. Publikum und Redner. Ihre Interaktion in der sophistischen Rhetorik der Kaiserzeit, Munich: Beck. Kussl, R, 1991. Papyrusfragmente griechischer Romane. Tübingen: Gunter Narr. Kussl, R. 1997. ‘Ninos-Roman’, Papyrologica Lupiensia 5, 141-204.

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Lakmann, M. L. 2000. ‘Dramatische Aufführungen der Werke Platons’, in Gödde & Heinze 2000, 277-289. López Martínez, M. P. 1998a. Fragmentos papiráceos de novela griega, Alicante: Universidad de Alicante. López Martínez, M. P. 1998b. ‘La paideia del príncipe Nino’, in, J. M. Labiano, A. López Eire & A. M. Seoane, eds., Retórica, Política e Ideología: desde la Antigüedad hasta nuestros días, Salamanca: Logo – Asociación Española de Estudios sobre Lengua, Pensamiento y Cultura Clásica, vol. I, 51-56. López Martínez, M. P. & Ruiz-Montero, C. 2016. ‘The Parthenope’s novel: PBerol. 7927+9588+21179 revisited’, in: T. Derda, A. Lajtar, & J. Urbanik, eds., Proceedings of the 27th International Congress of Papyrology, Warsaw: Journal of Juristic Papyrology, 235-250. May R., 2006. Apuleius and Drama. The Ass on Stage, Oxford: Oxford University Press. May, R., 2007. ‘Visualising drama, oratory and truthfulness in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses 3’, in Rimell 2007, 86-105. Mignogna, E. 1997. ‘Leucippe in Tauride (Ach. Tat. 3,15-22): mimo e ‘pantomimo’ tra tragedia e romanzo, MD 38, 225-236. Morgan, J. R. 2004b. Longus. Daphnis and Chloe (Translation, introduction and commentary), Oxford: Oxbow Books. Mortensen, L. B. & Eide, T., eds., 2004. T. Hägg, Parthenope. Selected Studies in Ancient Greek Fiction (1969-2004), Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum. Pouderon, B. & Peigney, J., eds., 2006. Discours et débats dans l’ancien roman. Actes du Colloque de Tours, 21-23 octobre 2004, Lyon: Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranée. Quet, M-H. 1992. ‘Romans grecs, mosaïques romaines’, in M.-F. Baslez, P. Hoffmann & M. Trédé, eds., Le monde du roman grec, Paris: Presses de l’Ecole Normale Supérieure, 125162. Reardon, B. P. 1989, trans., ‘Chariton: Chaereas and Callirhoe’, in B. P. Reardon, ed., Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press, 21-124. Reardon, B. P. 1996. ‘Chariton’, in Schmeling 1996, 309-335. Reardon, B. P. 2004, ed., Chariton. De Callirhoe Narrationes Amatoriae, Munich & Leipzig: K. G. Saur. Reynolds, J., Roueché, C. & Bodard, G., eds. 2007. Inscriptions of Aphrodisias, London: King’s College; accessed on-line at http://insaph.kcl.ac.uk/iaph2007/html. Rimmel, V., ed. 2007. Seeing Tongues, Hearing Scripts. Orality and Representation in the Ancient Novel (Ancient Narrative Supplementum 7), Groningen: Barkhuis. Robiano, P. 2007. ‘La voix et la main: la lettre intime dans Chéreas et Callirhoe’, in Rimell 2007, 201-222. Roueché, C. 1993. Performers and Partisans at Aphrodisias in the Roman and late Roman Periods, London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies. Roueché, C. 2002. ‘Images of performance: new evidence from Ephesus’, in Easterling & Hall 2002, 254-281. Ruiz-Montero, C. 1994. ‘Chariton von Aphrodisias: ein Überblick’, ANRW II,34,2, 1006-1054. Ruiz-Montero, C. 1996. ‘The rise of the Greek novel’, in Schmeling 1996, 29-85. Ruiz-Montero, C. 2003. ‘Xenophon of Ephesus and orality in the Roman Empire’, Ancient Narrative 3, 43-62. Ruiz-Montero, C. 2013. ‘¿Antonio Diógenes, autor de comedia? Observaciones sobre la recepción de la comedia en época imperial’, in L. M. Pino Campos & G. Santana

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Henríquez, eds., Καλὸς καὶ ἀγαθὸς ἀνήρ· διδασκάλου παράδειγμα. Homenaje al profesor Juan Antonio López Férez, Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 749-756. Ruiz-Montero, C. 2014. ‘Novela y pantomimo: vidas paralelas’, in A. Martínez Fernández, B. Ortega Villaro, H. Velasco López & H. Zamora Salamanca, eds., Agalma. Ofrenda desde la Filología Clásica a Manuel García Teijeiro, Valladolid: Universidad de Valladolid, 609-621. Ruiz-Montero, C. 2016. ‘Some remarks on the reception of ancient drama in Chariton of Aphrodisias’ Studia Philologica Valentina 18, 385-402. Ruiz-Montero, C. forthcoming, ‘Introduction’, in C. Ruiz-Montero ed., Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire, Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Ruiz-Montero, C. forthcoming ‘Oral tales and Greek Fictional Narrative in Roman Imperial prose’, in C. Ruiz-Montero ed., Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire, Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Sanz Morales. M. 2006. ‘The copyist as novelist. Multiple versions in the Ancient Greek novel’, Variants 5, 129-146. Schmeling, G., ed. 1996. The Novel in the Ancient World, Leiden: Brill. Schmitz, T. 1997. Bildung und Macht. Zur sozialen und politischen Funktion der Zweiten Sophistik in der griechischen Welt der Kaiserzeit Smith, S. D. 2007. Greek Identity and the Athenian Past in Chariton; the Romance of Empire (Ancient Narrative Supplementum 9), Groningen: Barkhuis. Stephens, S. & Winkler, J., eds. 1995. Ancient Greek Novels. The Fragments, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Stramaglia, A. 1996. ‘Fra ‘consumo’ e ‘impegno’: usi didattici della narrativa nel mondo antico’, in O. Pecere & A. Stramaglia, eds., La letteratura di consumo nel mondo grecolatino, Cassino: Università degli Studi di Cassino, 97-166. Tilg, S. 2010. Chariton of Aphrodisias and the invention of the Greek love novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Whitmarsh, T. 2005. ‘The Greek novel: titles and genre’, AJPh 126, 587-611.

Part Two Novels And Novelties

Histoire, mythologie, rhétorique et récit dans le roman de Chariton A LAIN B ILLAULT Université de Paris-Sorbonne

Bryan Reardon a consacré de nombreux travaux au roman de Chariton dont il a donné la nouvelle édition de référence1 après celle de W. E. Blake.2 Je voudrais, en hommage à sa mémoire, présenter quelques réflexions sur ce roman, le premier de la littérature occidentale à avoir été conservé en entier et où les rapports de la fiction avec l’histoire et la mythologie éclairent la situation initiale du genre romanesque. Les protagonistes du roman y apparaissent d’emblée sous le signe de la comparaison. Voici comment Chariton présente Callirhoé : Une merveille de jeune fille et l’ornement de la Sicile tout entière. En effet, sa beauté n’était pas humaine, mais divine et ce n’était pas celle non plus d’une Néréide ou d’une Nymphe des montagnes, mais celle d’Aphrodite ellemême. (1,1,2) Il n’est pas moins élogieux avec Chéréas : Chéréas était en effet un jeune homme de belle apparence qui l’emportait sur tous, semblable aux représentations que les sculpteurs et les peintres donnent d’Achille, de Nirée, d’Hippolyte et d’Alcibiade … (1,1,3) Ces comparaisons hyperboliques reposent sur des références à plusieurs univers, celui des dieux et de la mythologie pour Callirhoé, ceux des héros et de l’histoire pour Chéréas. Cette dernière n’est représentée que par Alcibiade, mais elle n’en est pas pour autant ravalée, au début du roman, à un rang secondaire. Chariton ————— 1 2

Reardon 2004. Je cite et je traduis le texte de cette édition. Blake 1938. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 51–64

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annonce, en effet, ses intentions à la manière d’un historien : « Moi, Chariton d’Aphrodisias, secrétaire du rhéteur Athénagoras, je vais raconter une histoire d’amour qui s’est passée à Syracuse. » (1,1,1). Cette phrase fait écho à celles qui ouvrent l’Enquête d’Hérodote et les Histoires de Thucydide. Elle établit un rapport entre la fiction romanesque et l’historiographie. Ce rapport revêt une très grande importance du point de vue de l’objet du récit comme de sa forme.3 Chariton l’institue juste avant de présenter ses héros en recourant aux rapprochements que nous avons vus. Dès la première page, il situe donc son roman entre deux récits préexistants, l’histoire et la mythologie. L’une et l’autre y sont constamment présentes. Cette présence mérite de retenir l’attention. Sa modalité principale est rhétorique. Elle consiste en un discours tenu par le romancier ou par ses personnages qui parlent en son nom. Et elle a des conséquences sur les formes que prend le récit par rapport à elle. La présence de l’histoire dans le roman de Chariton, c’est d’abord celle d’Hermocrate. Elle a un caractère particulier. En effet, à la différence de Callirhoé, de Chéréas, de Dionysios et du Grand Roi, Hermocrate ne semble pas être un des personnages majeurs de l’intrigue. Il ne quitte jamais Syracuse et se trouve donc absent de Milet, de Babylone, de l’Egypte et d’Arados qui sont les autres scènes de l’action dans le roman. T. Hägg a ainsi pu le qualifier de « background figure ».4 Mais Hermocrate n’en est pas moins régulièrement mentionné dans le récit, tout comme la guerre à laquelle il est identifié. Le stratège syracusain, père de Callirhoé, apparaît dès la première page comme « celui qui a vaincu les Athéniens » (1,1,1). Ce titre de gloire est très souvent rappelé au lecteur. Lorsque Chéréas dépérit d’amour, les Syracusains, à l’assemblée, supplient Hermocrate de lui donner Callirhoé pour épouse et présentent cette décision comme « le premier de ses trophées » (1,1,11), affirmant ainsi que, s’il sauve Chéréas, il en retirera une gloire supérieure à celle que lui a valu sa victoire sur les Athéniens. Le jour de celle-ci est rappelé tout de suite après : selon Chariton, la joie qu’il a procurée aux Syracusains a été surpassée par celle qu’ils ont éprouvée lorsqu’Hermocrate a consenti au mariage de sa fille avec Chéréas.5 Un peu plus tard, les trophées du stratège figurent dans le cortège funéraire de Callirhoé.6 Sa renommée de vainqueur d’Athènes s’étend bien plus loin que la Sicile : à Milet, Dionysios la connaît et il affirme qu’elle vaut à Hermocrate l’amitié du Grand Roi.7 A Syracuse, elle ————— 3

4 5 6 7

Voir en particulier Schmeling 1974, 51-56 ; Morgan 1993, 175-229 ; Smith 2007, 153155 ; Tilg 2010, 156-163. Hägg 1987, 195 (2004, 87). 1,1,13. 1,6,3. 2,6,3.

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lui permet d’obtenir l’envoi d’une ambassade en Ionie pour rechercher sa fille. Cette ambassade conduite par Chéréas s’embarque sur la trière du stratège qui porte encore les trophées de sa victoire.8 Celle-ci est évoquée par le Grand Roi, lorsqu’il se présente en protecteur de Callirhoé, et par Chéréas, quand il fait une offre de service au chef des insurgés Egyptiens.9 Elle donne à Hermocrate l’autorité qui définit son rôle tout au long du roman. Il est l’homme qui décide et dont les décisions ne sont contestées par personne. Il accepte de marier Callirhoé à Chéréas, prend la défense de ce dernier devant le tribunal et obtient son acquittement des juges, mène les recherches en Sicile pour retrouver sa fille, convoque l’assemblée du peuple où le pirate Théron est démasqué, empêche, au nom du respect des lois, que l’exécution de ce dernier soit différée, obtient l’envoi d’une ambassade en Ionie et supervise son départ.10 Enfin, après le retour des héros à Syracuse, il préside l’assemblée du peuple où Chéréas raconte leurs aventures après qu’Hermocrate l’a encouragé et a résumé ce que les Syracusains connaissent déjà.11 Hermocrate joue donc un rôle important et qui est entièrement gagé sur ses exploits passés. Il peut agir comme il le fait et être ce qu’il est à cause de ce qu’il a été et demeure pour toujours : le vainqueur des Athéniens. En le définissant ainsi, Chariton simplifie beaucoup son histoire. Hermocrate est, en effet, une figure majeure de la vie politique sicilienne dans la seconde moitié du Vème siècle av. J. C. Aussi son rôle historique a-t-il intéressé bien des auteurs : Thucydide,12 Xénophon,13 Polybe,14 Diodore,15 et Plutarque16 l’ont évoqué.17 Chez Chariton, il n’en reste presque rien. En effet, le romancier isole la victoire d’Hermocrate de son contexte historique. Il ne mentionne pas l’activité des autres stratèges syracusains, Héraclide et Sicanos, mentionnés par Thucydide,18 ni celle des Lacédémoniens et de leur chef Gylippe. D’autre part, il reste silencieux sur l’action d’Hermocrate avant et pendant la guerre, une action qui retient, en revanche, l’attention de Thucydide : avant la guerre, Hermocrate appelle les Siciliens à l’unité et leur conseille de régler eux-mêmes leurs conflits internes sans faire appel à la médiation des Athéniens dont les offres de bons ————— 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

3,4,16 ; 3,5,3. 5,8,8-9 ; 7,2,3-4. 1,1,12 ; 1,5,2-7 ; 3,3,8 ; 3,4,3 et 15-17 ; 3,5,6-7. 8,7,2 ; 8,7,4-8. 4,59-64 ; 6,33-34 ; 6,72-73 ; 6,76-80 ; 7,21,3-4 ; 7,73-74 ; 8,26 ; 8,29 ; 8,45 ; 8,85. Hell. 1,1,27-31 ; 1,3,13. 12, 25-26. 13,2,4 ; 13,4,1-2 ; 13,18-19 ; 13,34,4 ; 13,39,4 ; 13,63 ; 13,75,2-9 ; 13,91,3 ; 13,96,3. Nicias 16,5 ; 26,1-2 ; 28,4-5. Voir Billault 1989. 6,73,2.

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offices servent la volonté d’ingérence.19 Pendant la guerre, il ne cesse d’encourager les Syracusains au combat en leur tenant un langage de vérité,20 s’emploie à empêcher Camarine de s’allier aux Athéniens dont il dénonce les visées hégémoniques21 et réussit à empêcher ces derniers de battre en retraite alors qu’ils peuvent encore s’échapper.22 Les qualités d’homme d’Etat et de chef militaire qu’il déploie lui valent ce jugement élogieux de l’historien : « C’était un homme qui, tout en manifestant, dans les divers domaines, une intelligence qui ne le cédait à aucune, s’était, dans celui de la guerre, montré un homme de grande expérience et signalé par sa valeur… » (6,72,2).23 Si Chariton, dès la première phrase, semble placer son roman sous l’égide de Thucydide, il ne l’imite donc pas lorsqu’il parle d’Hermocrate. Il définit ce dernier par une seule référence historique isolée de tout événement particulier et censée lui donner une aura sans pareille. Cette aura rejaillit aussi sur d’autres personnages. Certains sont définis, en effet, par rapport à Hermocrate. Callirhoé apparaît d’abord comme sa fille et Chariton lui attribue la fierté d’une fille de stratège.24 Polycharme la désigne de la même façon et Callirhoé elle-même reprend à son compte cette désignation.25 Le lien de parenté avec Hermocrate sert aussi à identifier le fils de l’héroïne. Dans le roman, cet enfant ne porte pas de nom mais, même avant sa naissance, il est désigné comme le petit-fils du stratège syracusain par Callirhoé.26 Celle-ci affirme vouloir donner un descendant à son père, prie Aphrodite pour qu’il égale et même surpasse la vertu d’Hermocrate.27 Chéréas lui-même, qui est le père de l’enfant, en parle comme le petit-fils du stratège.28 Celui-ci devient aussi une référence pour définir a contrario la qualité d’un autre personnage, Théron. Ce pirate a vu les richesses qu’on avait entassées dans le tombeau de Callirhoé lors de ses funérailles et il décide de s’en emparer. Lorsqu’il prend cette décision, il se dit : « Que le sort en soit jeté ! », (1,7,1 ἀνερρίφθω κύβος). Cette phrase qui semble avoir été, à l’origine, un proverbe,29 fut prononcée par César au moment où il décida de franchir le Rubicon et d’entrer en guerre contre Pompée, comme l’indique Plutarque dans sa Vie de César (32,6). ————— 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

4,59-64. 6,33-34 ; 6,72-73. 6,76-80. 7,73-74. Je cite la traduction de Bodin et de Romilly 1955. 1,1,1 ; 1,3,6. 4,2,12 ; 5,1,5. 2,11,2-3. 3,1,6 ; 3,8,8. 8,8,11. Pelling 2011, 317-318.

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Le romancier a sans doute voulu faire écho à ce fait historique. C. Connors trouve de la malice dans l’usage que fait Chariton de ce précédent césarien.30 Cette malice révèle que Chariton entend présenter Théron comme un double dégradé d’Hermocrate. C’est pourquoi il utilise un vocabulaire militaire pour décrire ses méfaits. Pour piller le tombeau de Callirhoé, Théron recrute des hommes qui fréquentent les cabarets et les maisons de passe. Chariton remarque que c’était là « une armée appropriée pour un pareil stratège » (1,7,4 οἰκεῖον στρατὸν τοιούτῳ στρατηγῷ). Les pirates accèdent au tombeau par la mer, lors d’une opération navale clandestine et nocturne qui apparaît comme une misérable réplique des exploits d’Hermocrate face aux trières athéniennes. Et la carrière militaire de Théron ne se termine pas dans la gloire, comme celle d’Hermocrate. Après avoir vendu Callirhoé à Milet, il ne peut empêcher son navire de dériver sans fin en mer, jusqu’au moment où il est recueilli par Chéréas qui le ramène à Syracuse. Théron est conduit à l’assemblée avec une escorte où figurent des instruments de torture et qui apparaît comme la copie dégradée du cortège funéraire de Callirhoé où figuraient les trophées des victoires d’Hermocrate.31 Par cette correspondance, Chariton annonce le dénouement de l’épisode. Théron, qui veut se faire passer pour Crétois, est reconnu. Mis à la torture, il avoue son crime. Au terme d’une procédure expresse dirigée par Hermocrate, il est condamné à mort et mis en croix. Et Chariton de conclure : « Depuis sa croix, il pouvait voir cette mer sur laquelle il avait emmenée prisonnière la fille d’Hermocrate que même les Athéniens n’avaient pu capturer » (3,4,18). Le châtiment de Théron le remet à sa vraie place. Chariton avait présenté ses méfaits comme des contre-façons viles et criminelles des exploits guerriers d’Hermocrate. Il réaffirme maintenant la suprématie du stratège. La gloire militaire apparaît ainsi plus que jamais comme l’apanage d’Hermocrate. Cette gloire devient même un argument lors du procès de Babylone où Chéréas déclare que Dionysios est indigne de la fille d’Hermocrate.32 En revanche, à la fin du roman, le peuple syracusain juge Polycharme digne d’Hermocrate et de Chéréas.33 La vertu du stratège syracusain sert donc de critère pour juger celle des autres. Il apparaît comme un modèle absolu. La guerre victorieuse des Syracusains contre les envahisseurs athéniens, en 415-413 av. J. C., s’impose comme la référence majeure dans le récit,34 même si c’est une référence abstraite qui ne se

————— 30 31 32 33 34

Connors 2002, 23. 1,6,3. 5,8,5. 8,8,13. Bompaire 1977, 61.

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rapporte à aucun épisode particulier et qui se trouve concentrée sur un seul personnage. A côté d’Hermocrate, on trouve dans le roman très peu d’autres noms de personnages historiques. Ils apparaissent furtivement, comme de brèves allusions. Pendant la révolte égyptienne contre le Grand Roi, devant les mercenaires grecs avec qui il veut prendre Tyr, Chéréas mentionne la bataille des Thermopyles et leur promet une gloire semblable à celle des compagnons de Miltiade et de Léonidas.35 Ces deux noms de chefs militaires grecs évoquent, bien sûr, les guerres Médiques, référence appropriée à une guerre contre les Perses. Plus tard, un Lacédémonien parent de Brasidas préconise le départ pour Syracuse des mercenaires grecs qui ont soutenu la révolte des Egyptiens contre les Perses.36 Bien que Chariton n’indique jamais le moment où se déroule l’intrigue de son roman, on peut estimer vraisemblable qu’un parent de Brasidas soit contemporain d’Hermocrate. Alcibiade l’était aussi, mais son nom n’apparaît plus dans le roman après sa mention à la première page. S. D. Smith a cherché à montrer que, conformément à la comparaison qu’il opère, Chariton avait composé le personnage de Chéréas sur le modèle du stratège athénien.37 C’est une démarche intéressante, mais sur laquelle nous ne reviendrons pas ici, car nous ne voulons traiter que de la présence explicite de l’histoire et de la mythologie dans le roman de Chariton. Comparée à celle de l’histoire, la présence de la mythologie paraît plus diversifiée. Elle manifeste une prédilection de Chariton pour cet univers auquel il aime se référer.38 Elle prend la forme de rapprochements entre les personnages et des figures divines ou légendaires. Elle est marquée par une référence majeure, Aphrodite, à qui Callirhoé est souvent comparée et même identifiée.39 Mais la jeune fille est aussi rapprochée d’Artémis, d’Ariane, de Sémélé, de Léda, de Thétis, d’une Nymphe, d’une Néréide.40 Ces rapprochements ont pour objet sa beauté et sa renommée bien plus souvent que les situations où elle se trouve. En revanche, les comparaisons établies au sujet de Chéréas ont la plupart du temps leur origine dans une légende célèbre. Comme il est toujours accompagné de Polycharme, leur couple est comparé à celui que forment, chez Homère, Achille et Patrocle.41 Lorsque Chéréas trouve vide le tombeau de Callirhoé, il évoque lui-même Ariane ravie à Thésée par Dionysos, Sémélé enlevée par Zeus et Thétis qui, bien que déesse, ————— 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

7,3,9 et 11. 8,2,12. Smith 2007, 199-244. Steiner 1969, 134. 1,1,2 ; 2,2,6 ; 2,3,6 ; 2,3,9 ; 3,2,14 ; 3,2,17 ; 3,9,1 ; 4,7,5 ; 5,9,1 ; 8,6,11. 1,1,16 ; 4,7,5 ; 6,4,6 ; 1,6,2 ; 3,3,5 ; 8,1,2 ; 4,1,8 ; 6,3,4 ; 2,4,8. 1,5,2.

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demeura auprès de Pélée.42 Si l’évocation de Sémélé est flatteuse pour Callirhoé dont Chéréas se demande si elle n’a pas elle aussi été emportée par un dieu, les deux autres magnifient également les deux protagonistes du roman : Callirhoé est rapprochée d’Ariane et de Thétis, et Chéréas de Thésée, ravisseur de la première, et de Pélée, époux de la seconde. Lorsque Chéréas réapparaît au moment du procès de Babylone, Dionysios le désigne comme un nouveau Protésilas. Ce dernier avait été le premier Grec tué sur la terre de Troade et avait obtenu de revenir du royaume des morts pour rendre une visite à sa jeune épouse Laodamie.43 Au début du dernier livre, Chariton évoque le dénouement préparé par Tychè et qu’Aphrodite n’a pas permis : Chéréas devait quitter Arados en y laissant, sans le savoir, Callirhoé, « non pas comme Ariane endormie ni pour que Dionysos soit son époux, mais comme un butin destiné à ses propres ennemis » (8,2,1-3). Cette fois, la référence à Thésée fait l’objet d’une recusatio : Chéréas n’a pas abandonné Callirhoé comme Thésée l’avait fait pour Ariane. Cette recusatio est suivie d’une référence positive : en lui donnant Callirhoé, Aphrodite a fait à Chéréas un présent plus beau que celui qu’elle avait accordé à Paris en lui donnant Hélène.44 Ce rapprochement de Chéréas avec Paris, Dionysios l’établit déjà, sans le savoir, lorsqu’il réfléchit au risque qu’il prend en emmenant Callirhoé à Babylone. Il rapproche sa situation de celle de Ménélas. Celui-ci était resté chez lui et il avait pourtant perdu sa femme, enlevée par Paris. Dionysios, quant à lui, va emmener la sienne chez les Perses où les Paris sont nombreux.45 La précision de ce parallèle échappe sur le moment au personnage qui l’établit. C’est un parallèle ironique et qui porte sur l’avenir. C’est que, dans le roman de Chariton, les références mythologiques ne rapprochent pas seulement des situations présentes du passé des légendes qui peuvent les éclairer. Ce passé se trouve parfois aussi évoqué par les personnages pour esquisser un avenir qu’ils espèrent ou qu’ils avaient espéré. Callirhoé demande ainsi à Dionysios de la renvoyer dans sa patrie où, dit-elle, on vénère particulièrement Alkinoos parce qu’il a permis à Ulysse de revenir à Ithaque.46 Elle incite donc Dionysios à être un nouvel Alkinoos, mais il ne le sera pas. Pour sa part, il rêvait d’être avec Callirhoé plus heureux que Ménélas avec Hélène.47 Son sort ressemblera, en effet, à celui du roi de Sparte, mais seulement parce que, comme ce dernier, il perdra sa femme. Cette nouvelle ironie dramatique met en lumière le ————— 42 43

44 45 46 47

3,3,4-6. Voir en particulier Homère Il. 2,695-710 ; 13,681 ; 15,705 ; Euripide, Protésilas, Fr. 646657 Kannicht ; Ovide, Her. 13 ; Properce 1,19,7-10 ; Lucien, Dial. Mort. 23,2. 8,1,3. 5,2,8. 2,5,11. 2,6,1.

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caractère aléatoire des références mythologiques lorsqu’elles concernent le futur. Les personnages connaissent leur contenu, mais ne savent pas jusqu’à quel point leur propre sort leur ressemblera. Sans être sûrs de rien pour ce qui les concerne, alors que les aventures des personnages de la mythologie sont déjà advenues, ils peuvent faire des vœux ou des choix. Ceux-ci peuvent être positifs ou négatifs. Lorsqu’elle se demande si elle va garder l’enfant qu’elle porte de Chéréas, Callirhoé est horrifiée à l’idée de prendre exemple sur Médée et sur les femmes scythes, puis évoque Zéthos, Amphion et Cyrus, trois personnages nés en captivité, mais qui connurent des destinées glorieuses comme celle qu’elle espère pour son fils.48 Elle mêle donc le refus et le souhait dans une série de références où se mêlent la légende et l’histoire puisque Cyrus, fondateur de l’empire perse,49 est un personnage historique. Ni son refus ni son souhait ne seront démentis par les faits. Elle ne tuera pas ses enfants comme Médée et son fils sera promis à un grand avenir. Les rapprochements de l’avenir des personnages avec des figures légendaires ou historiques peuvent donc se traduire ou ne pas se traduire dans les faits. Leurs résultats sont aussi divers que les formes qu’ils prennent et que les personnages qui les établissent. La présence de la mythologie dans le roman prend des formes plus diverses que celle de l’histoire. Celle-ci apparaît à l’occasion de références à des personnages et à des événements, mais non dans des citations d’historiens. Nombreuses, en revanche, sont les citations d’Homère qui rapprochent les scènes du roman des péripéties de l’Iliade et de l’Odyssée. Chariton cite le premier poème dix-sept fois et le second neuf fois. Autant d’occasion pour lui d’ennoblir son récit en le reliant aux œuvres de celui qu’il appelle « le divin poète » (5,5,9).50 Mais il opère aussi des rapprochements avec la mythologie au moyen de références à des personnages ou à des situations.51 Citations et références apparaissent dans des discours de l’auteur ou de ses personnages. Les personnages du roman sont tous des créatures de Chariton et ce dernier, en tant que narrateur, se charge souvent lui-même d’assurer la présence de l’histoire et de la mythologie dans le récit. On pourrait donc en conclure que, dans son roman, c’est toujours une seule voix, la sienne, que l’on entend. Mais cette conclusion aboutirait à méconnaître la polyphonie rhétorique qui est un des signes distinctifs du récit. Dans cette polyphonie, Chariton tient bien sûr un rôle ————— 48 49 50 51

2,9,4-5. Hérodote 1,112-120. Voir Billault 1991, 112-115. 1,5,2 ; 2,1,5 ; 2,3,6-7 ; 2,4,7-9 ; 2,5,11 ; 2,6,1-3 ; 2,9,3-4 ; 3,2,14-17 ; 3,3,4-6 ; 3,8,6-9 ; 4,1,8 ; 5,2,8 ; 5,5,9 ; 6,3,4-5 ; 8,1,2-3.

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important. C’est lui qui, dès le début, présente Hermocrate comme le vainqueur des Athéniens et Callirhoé comme sa fille. Il rappelle régulièrement la victoire de Syracuse sur Athènes.52 Mais cette victoire et son auteur sont aussi souvent évoqués par des personnages du roman.53 Ces derniers se réfèrent d’ailleurs parfois aussi à d’autres personnages et à d’autres événements historiques.54 L’histoire n’est donc pas un domaine de référence exclusif pour Chariton. Il le partage avec ses personnages, comme celui des références mythologiques. Il est le premier à évoquer la mythologie dans les comparaisons hyperboliques qui lui servent à présenter ses protagonistes et dont nous avons parlé.55 Il y revient plusieurs fois par la suite.56 Mais ses personnages s’y réfèrent aussi souvent.57 Parmi eux, Dionysios constitue un cas intéressant. Lorsque Léonas lui apprend qu’il vient de lui acheter une belle esclave, qui est Callirhoé, il lui répond qu’une esclave ne peut être vraiment belle et se réfère aux poètes selon qui les hommes beaux sont les enfants des dieux.58 Lorsqu’il voit la beauté divine de Callirhoé et entend Léonas s’adresser à elle comme à une esclave, il blâme ce dernier en citant Homère qui affirme que les dieux rendent visite aux mortels pour les observer.59 Plus tard, Léonas revient sur les circonstances de la vente de Callirhoé où Dionysios croit trouver la preuve qu’elle est une nymphe ou une Néréide, car le destin contraint parfois les divinités à séjourner dans la compagnie des hommes, comme le racontent les poètes et les historiens.60 Au moment du procès de Babylone, Dionysios, qui craint de perdre Callirhoé, se rappelle encore l’image que les poètes et les sculpteurs ont donnée d’Eros, ce dieu amateur de nouveauté et de surprises, et les antiques histoires qui mettent en scène l’inconstance des femmes belles.61 Dionysios ne se réfère donc pas seulement à la mythologie à des fins d’illustration ou pour expliquer des situations où il se trouve. Il l’évoque aussi comme une source de vérités dont il désigne les messagers, qui sont les poètes et les historiens. Il ne se borne pas à rappeler ce que la mythologie apprend aux hommes. Il mentionne aussi la littérature qui leur fournit ces enseignements. Il est le personnage que Chariton utilise pour faire le lien entre son roman et la littérature mythologique qui l’a précédé. Dans cette littérature, Homère occupe le premier rang. Aussi ————— 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

1,1,1 ; 1,1,13 ; 1,3,6 ; 3,5,3 ; 8,6,2-10. 1,4,10 ; 2,11,2-3 ; 3,1,6 ; 3,2,8 ; 4,2,12 ; 4,4,7 ; 5,1,5 ; 5,5,4 ; 5,8,5 ; 5,8,8 ; 7,2,3-4 ; 7,5,8. 7,3,9 et 11. 1,1,2-3. 1,5,2 ; 3,2,14-17 ; 3,8,6 ; 4,1,8 ; 5,5,9 ; 8,1,2. 2,1,5 ; 2,3,6-7 ; 2,4,7-8 ; 2,5,11 ; 2,6,1-3 ; 2,9,3-4 ; 6,3,4-5. 2,1,5. 2,3,6-7. 2,4,8-9. 4,7,6-7.

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Chariton prête-t-il à Dionysios des expériences analogues à celles des héros homériques. A plusieurs reprises, un brouillard vient obscurcir sa vue.62 Lui qui rappelle la vérité d’Homère l’éprouve donc physiquement en la reproduisant. Références et citations assurent la présence de la mythologie dans le roman, mais tout en maintenant avec elle une certaine distance comme avec un autre univers. Avec Dionysios, Chariton inscrit cet univers dans son récit. Mais cet univers est lui aussi composé de récits qui sont comme le texte antérieur sur le fond duquel Chariton écrit son roman. Cependant, ils n’en constituent pas la totalité. Les récits historiques en font aussi partie. Histoire et mythologie sont les deux récits préexistants auxquels Chariton se réfère selon des modalités qui influent sur la forme de son roman. La répétition est la première de ces modalités. Hermocrate est désigné comme le vainqueur des Athéniens et sa victoire rappelée à maintes reprises. Cette insistance peut surprendre et même lasser. Quelle est donc son utilité ? En multipliant les références, Chariton crée une sorte d’effet incantatoire semblable à celui que pourrait produire une répétition orale. Cet effet contribue à créer un réseau auquel participent aussi les références répétées à Aphrodite, à d’autres divinités, à Homère, à ses héros et à d’autres grandes figures de la mythologie. Le discours référentiel du romancier oblige, par ses répétitions, le lecteur à ne pas perdre le fil historique et le fil mythologique de la narration. L’un et l’autre courent tout au long du récit comme des repères, comme des signes de reconnaissance. Cette reconnaissance suggère une continuation. En répétant d’une manière continue ses références à l’histoire et à la mythologie, Chariton laisse entendre, en effet, que celles-ci se continuent dans son roman. Cette continuation est la deuxième modalité de son discours à leur sujet. Dans le cas de la mythologie, elle se limite à des comparaisons et à des rapprochements qui magnifient les personnages et les circonstances qu’ils traversent, mais ceux-ci ne sont pas présentés comme les continuateurs et les successeurs des héros de la légende, même s’ils leur ressemblent. Il en va différemment pour l’histoire dont Chariton indique à maintes reprises qu’elle se continue dans son roman. Hermocrate est, bien sûr, l’exemple principal de cette continuation. Il continue à être le vainqueur des Athéniens longtemps après sa victoire qui ne cesse d’être rappelée comme un événement d’une actualité permanente. Cette permanence est, en outre, censée continuer grâce à un autre personnage qui est destiné à l’assurer : le fils de Callirhoé. S’adressant à l’enfant qu’elle porte, Callirhoé se dit certaine qu’il ressemblera à son propre père et que celui-ci sera heureux de le retrouver au ————— 62

2,7,4 ; 3,1,3-4 ; 3,9,10 ; 4,5,9.

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moment où il sera capable de devenir stratège.63 Dès avant sa naissance, le destin de cet enfant est donc prédéterminé par celui de son grand-père dont il assurera la continuation. Callirhoé n’accepte de le mettre au monde que pour permettre à la famille d’Hermocrate d’avoir une descendance.64 Elle prie Aphrodite pour que son fils ressemble à son grand-père, navigue à son tour sur une trière amirale, remporte des victoires, pour qu’on dise de lui qu’il est plus fort qu’Hermocrate et pour que ce dernier se réjouisse d’avoir un successeur.65 La condition de vainqueur d’Hermocrate perdurera-t-elle vraiment ainsi dans la personne de son petitfils ? Chariton ne le raconte pas, mais il veut en persuader le lecteur. Callirhoé l’espère et même le croit. D’autre part, certaines situations sont présentées comme un retour possible des événements où le stratège syracusain s’est illustré. Dionysios imagine qu’Hermocrate et ses trières vont naviguer jusqu’à Milet pour y reprendre Callirhoé. Chéréas s’y rend avec la trière d’Hermocrate qui porte encore les trophées de sa victoire sur les Athéniens. Lorsqu’il revient à Syracuse, les habitants croient à l’attaque d’une flotte ennemie et s’en remettent à Hermocrate pour faire le nécessaire.66Autant d’épisodes que Chariton situe dans une continuité directe avec les exploits du stratège. Cette continuation de l’histoire peut d’ailleurs aussi concerner d’autres événements. Haranguant les insurgés d’Egypte, Chéréas évoque la bataille des Thermopyles et les soldats de Miltiade et de Léonidas.67 Il présente ainsi sa guerre contre les Perses comme une continuation des guerres Médiques. Elle n’aura pourtant pas la même issue. S’il reviendra luimême triomphalement à Syracuse, la révolte égyptienne sera écrasée et son chef tué. La continuation souhaitée par Chéréas ne se réalisera donc pas. Si le roman est censé continuer l’histoire, il peut donc parfois la contredire. Ces contradictions ouvrent au romancier la voie de la variation. Celle-ci constitue la troisième modalité de recours à l’histoire et à la mythologie. Nous avons vu comment Callirhoé refuse explicitement de se conduire comme Médée.68 Sa vie ne ressemblera pas à celle de la princesse colque. En revanche, elle s’écarte souvent de celle que l’histoire et la gloire de son père semblaient lui promettre. Callirhoé elle-même souligne ces ruptures. Interpellant la fortune, elle énumère ses malheurs : la violence de Chéréas, la captivité dans un tombeau, l’enlèvement par des pirates qui l’ont vendue comme une esclave.69 Voilà bien une vie en tout point opposée à celle qui semblait promise à la fille d’Hermocrate. Chariton laisse ————— 63 64 65 66 67 68 69

2,11,2-3. 1,1,6. 3,8,8-9. 3,2,8 ; 3,5,2-3 ; 8,6,1-10. 7,3,8 et 11. 2,9,3-4. 1,14,6-10.

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apparaître au lecteur ce contraste dans sa terrible évidence et y trouve l’occasion d’une variation dramatique sur le thème du retournement de fortune. Il reprend ensuite ce thème dans la scène où Callirhoé raconte son histoire à Dionysios.70 Mais il ne réserve pas ses variations au sort de son héroïne. Il en développe d’autres par rapport à l’histoire, comme le montre l’épisode où la trière amirale d’Hermocrate est détruite. Chéréas et Polycharme sont arrivés à Milet à bord de ce bateau. Ils sont à la recherche de Callirhoé. Phocas, le régisseur de Dionysios, l’apprend bientôt. Pour protéger le bonheur de son maître, il prévient la garnison perse de la présence d’un navire ennemi. Les Perses incendient la trière et capturent les survivants qu’ils vendent comme esclaves.71 Cet épisode rapide est plus complexe qu’il ne semble. D’abord, l’arrière-plan politique et militaire qui le rend possible reste flou. Chariton n’a donné jusqu’alors aucune indication sur un conflit entre les Syracusains et les Perses. Ceux-ci ne s’en livrent pas moins à une véritable opération de guerre qui restera d’ailleurs sans réponse de la part des Syracusains. D’autre part, Dionysios mis au courant ne dit pas toute la vérité à Callirhoé. En recourant au témoignage des gens du pays, il lui donne une version de l’événement qui le place sous un éclairage singulier : « Des pirates barbares venus de quelque part au cours d’un raid de nuit ont incendié une trière grecque qui avait mouillé à la pointe la veille. Le jour venu, nous avons vu l’eau mêlée de sang et des cadavres flottant au gré des vagues » (3,10,2). Ainsi, les soldats perses alertés par Phocas deviennent des pirates barbares et les ennemis arrivés à Milet des Grecs victimes d’une action criminelle. Cette action a laissé des traces suggestives : la mer ensanglantée qui charrie des cadavres fait penser au tableau de la bataille de Salamine brossé par Eschyle dans Les Perses : « La mer, on ne pouvait plus la voir, remplie qu’elle était d’épaves et du sang des hommes, les rivages et les rochers regorgeaient de cadavres » (419-421). Des Grecs ont donc subi à Milet, de la part des Perses, un désastre dont l’évocation rappelle celui que ces derniers ont subi à Salamine. Se lamentant sur ce nouveau malheur, Callirhoé ne s’y trompe pas : « Quel mal avait donc fait cette trière pour que des barbares l’incendient, elle dont pas même les Athéniens ne s’étaient emparés ? » (3,10,8). Cet épisode semble bien traduire, dans les références historiques qui ponctuent le récit, un renversement des alliances. Jusque-là, les Athéniens étaient l’ennemi redoutable qu’Hermocrate et les Syracusains avaient vaincu, en y gagnant une gloire éternelle. Pendant la guerre du Péloponnèse, les adversaires d’Athènes avaient reçu l’aide des Perses. Cette alliance semble perdurer dans le roman. Dionysios affirme que le Grand Roi envoie encore des présents à Hermocrate pour le ————— 70 71

2,5,6-12. 3,7,1-3.

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remercier d’avoir vaincu les Athéniens.72 Plus tard, le Grand Roi se pose encore en protecteur de Callirhoé, la fille du vainqueur des Athéniens qu’il désigne comme les pires ennemis des Perses et de lui-même.73 Mais, en incendiant la trière amirale d’Hermocrate encore ornée des trophées de la victoire sur les Athéniens, les Perses ont repris, en fait, les hostilités contre les Grecs. La lutte de ces derniers contre les barbares revient sur le devant de la scène. Callirhoé peut donc, devant l’eunuque du Grand Roi, décrire Chéréas en ces termes : « Chéréas est de noble naissance, au premier rang d’une cité que pas même les Athéniens n’ont vaincue, eux qui à Marathon et à Salamine ont vaincu ton Grand Roi » (6,7,10). Et Chéréas, haranguant ses mercenaires en guerre contre les Perses, pourra bientôt évoquer les soldats de Miltiade et de Léonidas.74 Chariton développe donc, sur le triangle des relations entre Syracusains, Athéniens et Perses, des variations accordées à l’évolution de l’intrigue qui voit des héros grecs de Sicile, auréolés de la victoire de leur patrie sur les Athéniens, devenir les victimes des barbares qui avaient aidé à cette victoire et se défendre contre eux. Les références historiques du romancier restent les mêmes, mais il les évoque selon des perspectives qui changent en fonction de l’action. Le récit romanesque prime donc sur le récit historique qui le précède. Il le conserve, il l’inclut, mais il le réoriente selon son propre mouvement. La présence de l’histoire et de la mythologie dans le roman de Chariton passe donc par des références et des rapprochements contenus dans le discours du romancier ou dans celui de ses personnages. Répétition, continuation et variation sont les modalités dominantes de ce discours qui reflète les relations que la fiction romanesque entretient, à ses débuts, avec deux des plus riches traditions du monde grec, la tradition historique et la tradition mythologique. En organisant ces relations comme il le fait, Chariton dessine une forme littéraire nouvelle, ‘the form of Greek romance’ à laquelle Bryan Reardon a consacré un livre de référence.75

Bibliographie Billault, A. 1989. ‘De l’histoire au roman : Hermocrate de Syracuse’, REG 102, 540-548. Billault, A. 1991. La création romanesque dans la littérature grecque à l’époque impériale, Paris : Presses Universitaires de France. Blake, W. E. 1938. Charitonis Aphrodisiensis de Chaerea et Callirhoe Amatoriarum Narrationum Libri Octo, Oxford : Clarendon Press.

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2,5,3. 5,8,8-9. 7,3,11. Reardon 1991.

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Bodin, L. et de Romilly, J. 1955. Thucydide. La guerre du Péloponnèse. Livres VI et VII, Paris : Les Belles Lettres. Bompaire, J. 1977. ‘Le décor sicilien dans le roman grec et dans la littérature contemporaine’, REG 90, 55-68. Connors, C. 2002. ‘Chariton’s Syracuse and its Histories of Empire’, dans M. Paschalis et S. Frangoulidis (eds.), Space in the Ancient Novel. AncNarr Suppl. 1, Groningen : Barkhuis, 12-26. Hägg, T. 1987. ‘Callirhoe and Parthenope : The Beginnings of the Historical Novel’ ClAnt 6, 184-204 (= Hägg 2004, 73-98). Hägg, T. 2004. Parthenope. Selected Studies in Ancient Greek Fiction (1969-2004), Copenhague : Museum Tusculanum. Morgan, J. R. 1993. ‘Make-believe and Make Believe: the Fictionality of the Greek Novels’, dans C. Gill et T. P. Wiseman (eds.), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Exeter : Exeter University Press, 175-229. Pelling, C. 2011. Plutarch Caesar, Oxford : Oxford University Press. Reardon, B. P. 1991. The Form of Greek Romance, Princeton : Princeton University Press. Reardon, B. P. 2004. Chariton. De Callirhoe Narrationes Amatoriae, Münich & Leipzig : Saur. Schmeling, G. L. 1974. Chariton, New York : Twayne. Smith, S. D. 2007. Greek Identity and the Athenian Past in Chariton: The Romance of Empire, AncNarr Suppl. 9, Groningen : Barkhuis. Steiner, G. 1969. ‘The Graphic Analogue from Myth in Greek Romance’, dans Classical Studies Presented to Ben Edwin Perry by his Students and Colleagues at the University of Illinois, 1924-1960 (Illinois Studies in Language and Literature 58), Urbana, Chicago & London : University of Illinois Press, 129-137. Tilg, S. 2010. Chariton of Aphrodisias and the Invention of the Greek Love Novel, Oxford : Oxford University Press.

Citations of Xenophon in Chariton S TEPHEN M. T RZASKOMA University of New Hampshire

The influence of the classical historians on Chariton has received the attention of scholars since d’Orville’s editio princeps (1750), and many have noted how obvious and strong that influence is. For instance, over four decades ago Schmeling (1974, 24) remarked that ‘Few pages go by without Chariton imitating the three great Greek historians, Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon’. Just a year earlier A. D. Papanikolaou (1973, 16–22) had catalogued these imitations in a widely cited book, but in truth the number of them there hardly seems to justify a strict acceptance of Schmeling’s statement. When it comes to the specific case of Xenophon, such mild hyperbole is actually quite common in the literature. Jakob (1903, 26) characterized the historian’s influence as literally indispensable to Chariton’s project: ‘Unzweifelhaft wäre Charitons Roman nie geschrieben worden, hätte der Autor nicht an Xenophon einen Vorgänger gefunden’. Cobet (1859, 234) was equally clear though less dramatic: Neminem ex omnibus Chariton frequentius imitatur quam Xenophontem, praesertim Anabasin et Cyropaediam. As a basic measure, we might note that Reardon’s excellent critical edition of Callirhoe contains in its apparatus fontium 15 entries for Xenophon in 147 pages. In other words, a recognized imitation of Xenophon (most of them specific and verbal) occurs on one of every 10 pages. This is impressive on the face of it, but my aim here is to show that we are far from having identified all those places where Chariton imitates Xenophon and have, if anything, underestimated the influence of Xenophon’s works on Callirhoe. It stands to reason that a full and convincing evaluation of the allusive relationship Chariton creates between his novel and the works of Xenophon can only be made when we have as complete an inventory as possible of those passages where Chariton seems consciously to establish that relationship. My goal here is to discuss nine passages in Chariton—not included in the 15 noted in Reardon (2004)—in which we can see a direct or close verbal imitation of the Athenian writer. The progress the discipline has made in the study of the literary texture of

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Chariton, I would argue, though considerable in many ways, has been hampered by a concatenation of historical quirks that has kept us from remarking more of the specific debts Chariton owes to Xenophon, even as his general dependence on the historian has been acknowledged and explored. I would note, too, that if we have failed to identify and analyze fully the hypotexts from Xenophon, who is already so widely acknowledged for his importance to the author of Callirhoe, we should not be surprised to find that we have missed imitations and echoes of and allusions to other authors.1 The ultimate point of such an investigation ought not to be engaging in Quellenjagd for its own sake, but as a step in the continued interpretation of Chariton’s work. Still, we ought to be certain of what our data are, and in that connection it is clear that we should not feel any great confidence that philologists in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries did all the groundwork for us, as they did in so many other areas and for so many other authors. Our predecessors did not fail at this task out of intellectual, moral, or methodological inadequacy. They simply did not undertake it at all. The result is that Papanikolaou’s catalogue, with its careful footnotes that conscientiously give credit to those earlier scholars who had spotted and discussed the imitations, is deceptively authoritative. First, it is not entirely accurate, since it leaves out a few examples. But second and more important, through its few new additions to the long-identified citations—Papanikolaou’s original contributions to the list are both meagre and not always compelling2—it gives the impression that the lowhanging fruit had all been plucked by those nineteenth-century philologists. Papanikolaou, however, like his predecessors, never made any claim to completeness. On the contrary, he qualifies both of his Xenophontic lists with ‘for example’ (1973, 19–20): ‘Chariton hat vieles aus Xenophons Kyroupädia übernommen…z.B…’ and ‘Chariton hat auch die Anabasis benutzt. Vgl. z. B….’

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2

See, for example, my discussions of an unnoticed verbatim citation of E. HF 1307-1308 at Char. 3,10,6 in Trzaskoma 2010 and of three possible Aristophanic reminiscences in Trzaskoma 2009 and another in Trzaskoma 2011. Compare the judgment of Hunter (1994, 1059 n. 20): ‘[Papanikolaou’s] list of ‘borrowings’, however, contains both plausible and very implausible examples’. For instance, Papanikolaou (1973, 20) sees Char. 5,3,7 καταπηδήσας ἀπὸ τοῦ ἵππου (‘jumping down from his horse’) as an imitation of Cyr. 7,1,38, but this is a common way to talk about someone jumping off a horse, an event that occurs with great frequency in ancient works. See J. AJ 20,59, Plu. Pomp. 41,4, Arr. An. 5,23,1 and Cyn. 18,1. For the similar phrase in Char. 2,3,5 ἀποπηδήσας ἀπὸ τοῦ ἵππου, cf. Plut. Fab. 16,7, Marc. 7,3, Sull. 21,2, Pomp. 8,2, Ael. NA 10,48, and elsewhere in later authors. If we still insist on seeing an imitation of Xenophon here, I would prefer An. 1,8,29 (death of Cyrus) or 3,4,48 (Xenophon’s climb up the hill), or both, as the source. In these places the phrase occurs in far more memorable contexts.

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It is possible to trace clearly how this situation arose, and it goes all the way back to the beginning. Throughout his 485 pages of fulsome and chaotic commentary, d’Orville catalogued parallels, in the broadest sense, of Chariton’s language and ideas. The resulting clutter may have done as much harm as good. He often settles for merely noting a similarity of thought or wording without further comment. His apparent thoroughness gives one the illusory idea that he could not have possibly missed anything, or at least anything important. The verbatim Homeric citations, for instance, are all already to be found in d’Orville, though these are particularly obvious because of their distinctive language and meter. But the vast majority of the parallels in d’Orville are a mishmash of uninterestingly similar constructions and vaguely comparable thoughts. This has made it an unwieldy instrument of analysis and it seems to be rarely consulted directly these days. It was to take a century for any significant advances to be made in the study of literary imitation in Chariton. Luckily, the great Dutch scholar Cobet (particularly in Cobet 1858 and 1859) turned his attention to the text of Callirhoe. His interest, alas, was primarily in emending the frequently corrupt single extant manuscript. This was a worthwhile goal, to be sure, but this narrow emphasis rendered Cobet’s efforts something of a missed opportunity. He was by far the most able scholar of the era to work on Chariton, and his vast knowledge of and intimate familiarity with Xenophon and the other classical prose authors put him in a uniquely strong position to note parallels, imitations, and reminiscences. It is thus somewhat wrenching for a scholar now to read Cobet’s ‘Annotationes Criticae ad Charitonem’. First, one has his promising statement, quoted above, that ‘Chariton imitates no one at all more often than he does Xenophon, particularly the Anabasis and Cyropaedia’. Then one goes through several examples of imitation that Cobet adds to those noted by d’Orville, but moves on to the next page only to find him pull up short: ‘I could point out many more imitations of Xenophon in Chariton, but I will content myself with pointing out one passage, emendation of which depends on that comparison’.3 What is clear is that Cobet never considered it his purpose to identify imitations, though he did identify some, nor even to present all those that he did find—except where it was convenient to do so or it was directly relevant to a narrower and more immediate concern. Other work on the matter during the second half of the nineteenth century was fitful. Hertlein in his edition of the Cyropaedia (1876) noted many of the imitations by Chariton, and even added a few more. But the most notable feature of his treatment was disapproval. Take, for instance, Chariton’s imitation at 5,3,10 of ————— 3

Cobet (1859, 235): Possem multo plures Xenophontis imitationes apud Charitonem indicare, sed satis habebo unum locum indicare cuius emendatio ab illa comparatione pendet.

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the scene in Cyr. 6,4,10 in which Pantheia kisses a chariot. Pantheia and Abradatas are husband and wife. She is captured by Cyrus’ forces and held prisoner. Cyrus treats her well, and in return Abradatas switches sides to fight for Cyrus. She kisses his chariot as he drives off to the battle in which he will be killed. For Hertlein, the transformation of this moment into one in which the people of Babylon kiss the carriage of Callirhoe was simply vulgar (abgeschmackt). Is Chariton really more vulgar? A few pages later in Xenophon, we find Pantheia mourning her husband’s corpse and trying to stick his severed hand back onto the stump of his arm. But what was moving high drama in a classical author was merely vulgar melodrama in a late romancer. Chariton would hardly get any greater respect in what is surely the most famous book ever written on the Greek novel, Erwin Rohde’s monumental Der griechische Roman und seine Vorläufer, the first edition of which appeared in 1876. Rohde had little time for Chariton, whom he saw as merely the last and most decadent in the not very distinguished genealogy of ancient romancers. Because his theory of the origins of the novel depended upon Hellenistic travel and love literature, and because he wrongly placed the most ostensibly historiographical novel, that of Chariton, last in his chronological scheme when it ought to have been at the beginning, he deprecated historiography as a source. As a consequence, Xenophon’s Cyropaedia is barely mentioned, the famous and influential Pantheia narrative from it is discussed only twice (19143, 139 with n. 1 and 374). In any case, Chariton’s imitations are downplayed: ‘Klassischen Mustern, vornehmlich Xenophon und Thucydides, ahmt der Sophist, so gut es gehen will, nach’ (19143, 529). A footnote on the matter simply sends one to Cobet. By the turn of the twentieth century, then, no one had ever systematically looked for imitations of Xenophon in Chariton or analyzed their purpose. That almost changed with Joseph Jakob, a schoolteacher in Bavaria who was asked to fill in for an ill colleague and produce the Jahresprogramm of the Gymnasium where he taught. Although he expressed some reluctance because of the unpolished nature of his work, he put out some of his research in progress as Part I of Studien zu Chariton dem Erotiker (1903). He strongly asserted the importance to Chariton of Xenophon’s work, especially the Cyropaedia, and promised a deeper investigation. I quoted him at the beginning of this paper, but it is worth looking at his whole formulation (1903, 26): ‘Unzweifelhaft wäre Charitons Roman nie geschrieben worden, hätte der Autor nicht an Xenophon einen Vorgänger gefunden, dessen Cyropädie der Autor eifrig gelesen und, wie eine spätere Untersuchung zeigen wird,

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fleissig benützt hat’. Unfortunately, that spätere Untersuchung, presumably what would have been Part II of the Studien, never appeared.4 Work throughout the rest of the twentieth century, particularly in the last half, took up a vigorous exploration of the literary debt—in terms of structure, style, specific elements of plot, and general literary coloring—that Chariton owed to Xenophon and the other historians. Scholars, however, always seemed to assume that the store of close linguistic imitations had been exhausted.5 The lists of verbal echoes from the Cyropaedia and Anabasis that Papanikolaou prints give credit for discovering all of them (aside from the few marginal examples Papanikolaou himself advanced) to only three scholars, d’Orville, Cobet, and Hertlein, all of whom wrote before the appearance of Rohde’s book set off a great deal of further work. This by no means wholly vitiates the work of the scholars who have delineated the nature, purpose, and limits of Chariton’s relationship to historiography and to Xenophon in particular—these have been some of the most persistent and productive trends in Chariton studies in the last century6—but it does mean that at the most basic level their analyses have been to a greater or lesser degree incomplete. Below I list and briefly discuss several verbal imitations of Xenophon that do not appear in Papanikolaou (1973), Goold (1995),7 or Reardon (2004), which I take in combination as a reliable representation of the current communis opinio regarding where such imitations exist. ————— 4

5 6

7

I have been unable to find out the fate of Jakob or his proposed follow-up study. He published an essay on Plato’s Protagoras in the Jahresprogramm of the following year and then in 1911 a short Lucian reader for students. For the most explicit such statement, see Manuwald 2000, 98. Even an incomplete list, for instance, is quite lengthy: Perry (1930; 1967), Bartsch (1934), Schwartz (1943), Zimmermann (1961), Salmon (1961), Müller (1976), Plepelits (1976), Scarcella (1981), Hägg (1987), Billault (1989), Reardon (1991), Baslez (1992), Jones (1992), Hunter (1994), Ruiz-Montero (1994; 1996), Alvares (1997), Laplace (1997), Luginbill (2000). On the specific relationship of Chariton and the Cyropaedia, see also Tatum (1989) and Reichel (1995). Smith (2007) concentrates on the image of classical Athens in the novel and so contains a treatment of several points of contact between history and historiography on the one hand and Chariton on the other, including a discussion (163– 176) of the relationship of Artaxerxes’ hunt in Chariton 6 to that of Cyrus in Cyropaedia 1. When compared with Reardon, Goold omits the imitation at 5,2,4 (≈ Cyr. 6,4,3) and adds five which are not, in fact, imitations. These are 1,1,15 (≈ Smp. 2.24, but this is simply a statement that wine awakens philophrosynē as oil rouses a flame); 4,4,3 (≈ Cyr. 4,1,3, which Papanikolaou identified as a likely imitation; but the phrase and similar ones are very frequent—the use of πράττω instead of ποιέω may, however mark it as Xenophontic); 5,2,2 (≈ Cyr. 2,1,9, but it is merely a reference to the Persian Peers); 6,4,2 (≈ Cyr. 8,1,13, but this is just a generic reference to the tiara); and 6,8,7 (≈ Cyr. 6,1,30, for which see section V. below).

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I. (Char. 5,2,1 ≈ An. 3,1,5) & II. (Char. 5,3,9 ≈ Smp. 1,9) It may be appropriate to begin to increase our store of Xenophontic imitations with some that Cobet remarked, but which were not picked up in subsequent scholarship. I note two. First, concerning Chariton 5,2,1, where Cobet’s emendation (1859, 235) has been widely accepted8 (δεδοικὼς μὴ καὶ τοῦτο ἐπαίτιον [αἴτιον F] αὐτῷ γένηται πρὸς βασιλέως; ‘because he was afraid the King might hold it against him’), he does not merely adduce Xenophon as a parallel for the single word (as the apparatus critici imply) but starts from the assumption that the whole clause was an imitation of An. 3,1,5 (ὑποπτεύσας μή τι πρὸς τῆς πόλεως ἐπαίτιον εἴη Κύρῳ φίλον γενέσθαι…; ‘suspecting that the city might hold his being a friend of Cyrus against him’). Cobet emphasizes this again later in the same paragraph, referring to it as a locus Xenophontis quem imitatur. This is an interesting imitation also for its applicability to establishing our text of Chariton—the modern editors of Xenophon all accept the reading ὑπαίτιον into their texts of An. 3,1,5, whereas the editors of Chariton have followed Cobet’s preference for ἐπ-. Unless we have a particular reason for arguing that Chariton must have had a text with ἐπ- in it, we ought to follow the editions rather than Cobet and print ὑπ- in Callirhoe. Second, Cobet (1858a, 372) indicated that the image of Callirhoe’s beauty striking the Babylonian crowd ‘like a bright light shining suddenly in the depths of night’ when she emerges from her carriage (5,3,9 ὥσπερ ἐν νυκτὶ βαθείᾳ πολλοῦ φωτὸς αἰφνίδιον φανέντος) echoes the effect of Autolycus’ beauty at Xenophon, Smp. 1,9 (ὥσπερ ὅταν φέγγος τι ἐν νυκτὶ φανῇ, ‘as when a light shines in the night’, a passage notable enough to be imitated also at Max.Tyr. 18,4). This is of particular value in assessing Chariton’s literary range and level of education since it adds another work to his repertoire.9 The assessment of Hock (2005, 35) that Chariton shows a depth and breadth of knowledge that could only have been gained from a tertiary, that is, a full rhetorical, education, is followed by a caution: ‘And yet, Chariton’s education must not be overestimated either. Aside from Homer’s epic, which he knew intimately, Chariton’s reading of other poets, historians, and orators tends to go no farther than the core authors and moreover betrays a knowledge of them that derived in many instances from quotations already selected by his teachers and hence found in his school textbooks’. Hock does remark that the Cyropaedia (not a school text as the Anabasis was) is an ————— 8 9

At least Blake (1938), Molinié (1979), Goold (1995), and Reardon (2004). Goold (1995) proposed another imitation of the Symposium, but it does not bear scrutiny (see above, n. 7) and his identification has not subsequently been followed by any authority.

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exception. Still, the Cyropaedia, to judge by the papyri was widely read. On the other hand, Cobet allows us to add another of Xenophon’s works to Chariton’s store of knowledge, and the Symposium was clearly restricted to a much smaller readership than the Cyropaedia.10

III. (Char. 2,3,10 ≈ Smp. 1,8) In 2,3,10, there is a comparison of Callirhoe’s effect on Dionysius’ friends to the instinctive reaction of bees to the leader of their hive: τότε δὲ ἦν ἰδεῖν ὅτι φύσει γίγνονται βασιλεῖς, ὥσπερ ὁ ἐν τῷ σμήνει τῶν μελισσῶνꞏ ἠκολούθουν γὰρ αὐτομάτως ἅπαντες αὐτῇ καθάπερ ὑπὸ τοῦ κάλλους δεσποίνῃ κεχειροτονημένῃ (‘then you could see that royalty is born in people, as it is in a queen bee, because everyone followed Callirhoe spontaneously, as though she had been elected queen for her beauty’). In the analogy of natural royalty to the power the leader of a beehive has, we can see here an acknowledged and well-known imitation of Cyr. 5,1,24: βασιλεὺς γὰρ ἔμοιγε δοκεῖς σὺ φύσει πεφυκέναι οὐδὲν ἧττον ἢ ὁ ἐν τῷ σμήνει φυόμενος τῶν μελιττῶν ἡγεμώνꞏ κτλ. (‘for to me you seem to be a born king no less than is the sovereign of the bees in a hive’). What has not been noted is that Chariton’s addition of beauty to the image perhaps makes this a double imitation. At Smp. 1,8, in the sentence just before the previously discussed passage (II. above), Xenophon speaks of beauty as the source of this natural royalty: εὐθὺς μὲν οὖν ἐννοήσας τις τὰ γιγνόμενα ἡγήσατ’ ἂν φύσει βασιλικόν τι κάλλος εἶναι, ἄλλως τε καὶ ἂν μετ’ αἰδοῦς καὶ σωφροσύνης, καθάπερ Αὐτόλυκος τότε, κεκτῆταί τις αὐτό (‘a person who took note of the course of events would have come at once to the conclusion that beauty is by nature something regal, especially when, as in the present case of Autolycus, someone has it combined with modesty [aidōs] and self-control [sōphrosynē]’) . A reader of Chariton aware of the original source might perhaps inevitably import the detail ‘especially when someone has it combined with modesty and self-control’, both of which are frequently attributed to Callirhoe throughout the novel. As an interesting aside, in Char. 2,10,1 we have the only conjunction in the novel of aidōs and sōphrosynē in the same sentence. There, Plangon assures Callirhoe that these qualities will keep Dionysius from raping her but that he will not allow her to raise the child of another man. Dionysius’ virtue, in other words, is undeniable, but because of the power of Eros it is ————— 10

There are three papyri of it in the Leuven Database of Ancient Books (http://www.trismegistos.org/ldab/index.php), as opposed to 13 for the Cyropaedia.

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somewhat contingent and limited when it comes to Callirhoe (see also VI, VII and IX below).

IV. (Char. 7,3,4 ≈ Eq.Mag. 4,8) We need not stop with the Symposium when it comes to expanding Chariton’s reading list. At 7,3,4 Chariton unmistakably cites Xenophon’s Hipparchicus (4,8), a technical manual for cavalry commanders.11 In the midst of giving advice about spies, Xenophon remarks that they will not always be able to report in time, ‘for many obstacles happen in war’ (πολλὰ γὰρ ἐν πολέμῳ τὰ ἐμπόδια συμπίπτει). Chaereas, who has a brilliant military career in the last part of Chariton’s novel, begins to rally his troops and the Egyptian king with almost the same words at 7,3,4 πολλὰ δὲ ἐν πολέμῳ [καὶ] τὰ ἐμπόδια γίνεται (‘many obstacles arise in a war’). Here again we can see Chariton reading texts outside the norm—well outside, in this case. The Hipparchicus certainly was not on the standard educational syllabus at any level, and the clause is cited nowhere else in ancient literature. As sententious as it seems, nothing like it is found in any ancient or Byzantine lists of proverbs and there are no papyri of any part of the work. Here too, we also gain an editorial advantage: the citation confirms Hercher’s deletion of the intrusive καί and guarantees that the stray word is not a remnant of a deeper corruption. Although I have seen no other verbal imitations of the Hipparchicus, there are several points where one might see inspiration for Chariton. At 4,7 Xenophon says that there are times when pseudautomoloi, or false deserters, are useful. Of course, Chaereas and his men capture Tyre by pretending to be deserters (7,3,5). Xenophon likewise gives advice about deceiving the enemy regarding the number of one’s own troops (5,2–7), a trick that Chaereas likewise masters (7,3,3, though reversing the procedure because he works with infantry, not cavalry).

V. (Char. 6,8,7 ≈ Cyr. 8,5,4 and 8,5,5) Goold (1995, 319 n. a) remarks, ‘For the whole passage [i.e. 6,8,6–7] cf. Xenophon, Cyropaedia 6,1,30’. Hock (2005, 26) seems to believe there is borrowing, but only because both passages have scythe-bearing (drepanēphora) chariots— ————— 11

Novelists’ inspiration from Xenophon’s works, as we can see, is hardly limited to the obvious suspects, such as the Cyropaedia. For an even more striking possible example, see Trzaskoma 2005, 87 n. 25 on the possibility that Longus knew the same Athenian writer’s De Vectigalibus.

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Chariton merely the word, Xenophon a full technical description of the vehicles. Reardon is correct not to follow either Goold (simply because the passage in Xenophon does not relate specifically to that in Chariton) or Hock (we would need more than the presence of chariots to establish a relationship). This does not, however, mean that Chariton is not imitating Xenophon here. The entire passage, which describes the mustering of the Persian army, actually draws upon Cyr. 8,5,2–16, where the order of march supposedly instituted by Cyrus is described.12 In 6,8,7 Chariton has clearly modeled the idea and language of his summation (τοσούτῳ δὲ παρασκευάζεται χρόνῳ πάντα ὑπὸ πάντων, ὅσῳ κἂν εἷς ἀνὴρ παρεσκεύασε, ‘all these preparations are made by all, in the same time as any one man would take to get ready’) on two separate sentences from the original context: Cyr. 8,5,4 (οὕτω δὴ ὁ αὐτὸς χρόνος ἀρκεῖ μιᾷ τε σκηνῇ καὶ πάσαις ἀνῃρῆσθαι, ‘so the same time suffices for any one tent or all to be taken down’) and 8,5,5 (καὶ διὰ τοῦτο ὁ αὐτὸς χρόνος ἀρκεῖ ἑνί τε μέρει καὶ πᾶσι πεποιῆσθαι, ‘and for this reason the same time suffices for any one part and all to be accomplished’).

VI. (Char. 2,5,2 ≈ Cyr. 1,6,27) I mentioned Dionysius’ limited virtue in the face of Eros above, a limitation highlighted by the words of one of his slaves to Callirhoe. Earlier in the same book, another of his servants, Leonas, the estate manager, urges Callirhoe to reveal the truth to Dionysius and praises his master. She is sure to receive all the help she needs, he assures her, for Dionysius is a ‘most just and law-abiding man’ (ἀνὴρ δικαιότατός ἐστι καὶ νομιμώματος). Callirhoe will not, in fact, receive all the help she needs because Dionysius’ virtue will be blunted by the effects of Eros on him. An ancient reader who was a pepaideumenos as familiar with the Cyropaedia as our author might have noted that this is just the sort of man Cyrus’ father hopes he will turn out to be: δικαιότατός τε καὶ νομιμώτατος ἀνήρ (1,6,27). But whereas Cyrus can control his passions when it comes to his prisoner Pantheia, Dionysius is not entirely able to do so with his new slave.13

————— 12

13

This may be a recollection of the muster in Hdt. 7,60 as well, as Baslez suggests (1992, 200), but it seems clear that the Cyropaedia is uppermost in Chariton’s mind. Tatum (1989, 167–168) makes well the general point about the juxtaposition of Dionysius and Cyrus and their relative virtues, but without discussing specific verbal parallels.

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VII. (Char. 8,3,2 ≈ Cyr. 6,4,7) & VIII. (Char. 5,5,6 ≈ 6,4,10) Another man fails to live up to Cyrus’ example because of his erotic attraction to Callirhoe, namely Artaxerxes, the king of Persia. Chariton carefully draws the comparison in a variety of ways, but none ought to be clearer than a citation of Cyr. 6,4,7 by Chariton in 8,3,2. It is remarkable that this citation has remained unnoticed for so long. First, there is its source. If we consider together all of the possible imitations of the Cyropaedia identified by earlier scholars, fully half are of the Pantheia/Abradatas portions of the narrative. Of these, the bulk are from 6.4.2–11, the whole of which makes up about two pages of Greek in the OCT edition of Marchant (1910). Second, there is the closeness of it. Scholars have quibbled about whether some of the other imitations are actually imitations, but this one is so close to the original that the echo is unmistakable. In 6,4,7 Pantheia speaks to Abradatas of the great gratitude they owe Cyrus. For when she was allotted to him as a prize, he did not make her his slave or have sex with her, but διεφύλαξε δὲ σοὶ ὥσπερ ἀδελφοῦ γυναῖκα λαβών (‘He guarded [me] for you as if he had gotten his brother’s wife’). Now to the imitation in Chariton. In 8,3,2 Chaereas and Callirhoe have been reunited. Callirhoe asks what Chaereas’ plans are for the Persian queen Stateira and the noblewoman Rhodogune. Surely, he does not think to take them back to Syracuse? Chaereas blushes, misunderstanding the question, believing that Callirhoe is concerned about him taking the two as his mistresses. But he has other plans; the two will serve as Callirhoe’s maidservants. Callirhoe expresses horror at the idea and tells Chaereas to send Stateira back to Artaxerxes: καὶ γὰρ αὕτη μέ σοι διεφύλαξεν ὡς ἀδελφοῦ γυναῖκα παραλαβοῦσα (‘she guarded me for you as if she had taken in her brother’s wife’). Despite the slight alteration of word order and the change of the participle to a compound to soften the expression, the imitation is unmistakable. The citation has serious consequences for how we read the novel, both in the textual and literary senses. In 8,3,2 D’Orville inserted the words after βασιλεῖ πέμψον αὐτήν. Callirhoe, with this supplement, is made to say, ‘If you want to make me happy, send her [sc. the queen] to the king and Rhodogune to her husband, for she (i.e., Rhodogune) guarded me for you as if she had taken in her brother’s wife’. The supplement, which Reardon prints, is unnecessary. We have enough evidence from Chariton alone to reject the suggestion. Yes, Rhodogune has been mentioned with the queen just above (8,3,1), and she will be addressed a little later (8,3,8) by Callirhoe and sent back to her husband. But in 8,3,2 Callirhoe’s thoughts and language are entirely with the queen. ‘May the gods not

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make me so crazy that I would have the queen of Asia as my slave’, she says at the start of the section. And Chaereas’ response has only to do with Stateira: ‘You are mistress of Stateira and all the spoils’. Stateira is the one who matters here, and it was Stateira to whom the king sent Callirhoe in 5,9,2 with the remark that he was doing so ἵνα παρὰ σοὶ φυλάττηται (‘for you to look after’). Reasonable minds may, of course, disagree, but the presence of the Xenophontic citation seems to add decisive support for the rejection of the supplement. Having the words refer to the queen is consistent with the larger way in which Chariton builds his world, particularly a Persia that is in constant communication with Xenophon’s. In this case, whereas Xenophon’s Cyrus is a king who is capable of resisting love by recognizing its power and avoiding circumstances which would lead to its inevitable conquest of him, Artaxerxes’ virtues in Chariton— and there are many—are fundamentally compromised by his susceptibility to love. The only way that Callirhoe’s faithfulness can possibly be maintained in the circumstances in which she finds herself, which are outlined by the king’s eunuch with remarkable clarity, is by balancing Persian royal power against Persian royal power. It is the protection of Stateira that prevents the king from gaining complete access to Callirhoe. And at the same time, it is Stateira who comforts Callirhoe. It is Stateira, in other words, who takes on Cyrus’ role as royal protector of a captive woman’s virtue. Artaxerxes, despite the fact that he is king, takes on the role of Xenophon’s Araspas, the man in the Cyropaedia assigned to guard Pantheia. He is convinced he cannot be conquered by love but is utterly undone by its power. Chariton’s sophisticated recollection and redeployment of elements of Xenophon’s narrative are not a mere window dressing of culture and literary education, and they are hardly an inevitable outcome of setting large parts of the novel in Persia. With conscious effort, consummate skill, and a light touch—the latter proven, perhaps, by how long the citation went unremarked—Chariton infuses his own work with depth and resonance by playing off of the Cyropaedia. This is emphasized by further parallels. Cyrus gains the loyalty and fighting strength of Abradatas by returning his wife to him; Artaxerxes rewards the loyalty and fighting strength of Dionysius by returning his wife to him. But in doing so Artaxerxes chooses the wrong husband, and does so against Callirhoe’s will. Stateira, by contrast, is truly interested in restoring to Callirhoe the husband she wants. When the queen first meets her in 5,9,3, she comforts her instantly: θάρρει, ὦ γύναι (‘take heart, my dear’). People constantly tell both Callirhoe (see 2,5,12; 5,5,6; 7,6,7; and 8,1,8) and Pantheia (5,1,6 and 6,4,10) to cheer up, and Reardon compares the example at Chariton 7,6,7 with Cyr. 5,1,6. If anyone doubts that so common a phrase can be called imitation, we ought to be quite sure it is: at 5,5,6 Plangon utters a peculiar variation: θάρρει, δέσποινα, καὶ χαῖρε (‘take heart, my

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lady, and be glad’). Elsewhere in preserved Greek we have this pleonastic formulation only in Cyr. 6,4,10: θάρρει, Πάνθεια, καὶ χαῖρε (‘take heart, Pantheia, and be glad’). The similarity of phrasing highlights the divergent fates of the two heroines. Plangon’s utterance marks the beginning of Callirhoe’s path to regaining her husband; Abradatas’ words to Pantheia are his last, and the pair will be reunited only in death. The importance of Stateira’s initial encouragement at 5,9,3 and her steadfast support of Callirhoe’s wish to return to the husband of her choice is signaled not only by the choice of those simple words, θάρρει, ὦ γύναι, but also by the fact that her assurance to Callirhoe, ‘you will have the husband you want’ (ἕξεις ἄνδρα ὃν θέλεις) is precisely echoed by Chaereas himself in 8,1,8 (‘θάρρει’ φησίν, ‘ὦ γύναι, ἥτις ἂν ᾖς, οὐ γάρ σε βιασόμεθαꞏ ἕξεις δὲ ἄνδρα, ὃν θέλεις’, ‘“take heart, lady,” he said, “whoever you are. We are not going to use force on you. You will have the husband you want”’). By this point he has metamorphosed into a Cyruslike figure, as self-controlled and magnanimous in victory as Xenophon’s king. Persia’s troubles in the novel, by contrast, are caused precisely by the fact that Cyrus’ virtues are no longer all present in the king. To the good fortune of the hero and heroine, however, the queen has virtues to complement those of the king.

IX. (Char. 7,1,9 ≈ Hier. 6,10) To end this collection of passages, I adduce a somewhat more distant echo, but one that, if it is accepted, is of interest for both its own sake and because it indicates that Chariton was familiar with yet another—and somewhat unexpected— text of Xenophon, namely, the Hiero. In the previous two examples, Chariton can be seen using Xenophon’s work to nuance his characterization of the Persian royals, and we see something similar, although rather more subtle, in 7,1,9, when Chaereas is complaining of his and Polycharmus’ inability to attack the king: ‘“Yes,” said Chaereas, “but how can the two of us by ourselves, poor as we are, and in a foreign country, do any harm to a man who rules so many great nations and possesses the resources we have seen? He has bodyguards, and other guards before those (τοῦ μὲν γὰρ σώματος αὐτῷ φυλακαὶ καὶ προφυλακαί).”’ On the surface this is merely a neat turn of phrase that clarifies the abundance of the court of Artaxerxes, and the notion of having bodyguards for one’s bodyguards adds, depending on how one reads the moment, a touch of pathetic humor or of bitter sarcasm. It seems inspired, however, by Hier. 6,10, where Hiero is discussing the crushing fear that a tyrant lives with. In 6,8 he makes a comparison to the ever-present anxiety of being on campaign with the heightened awareness

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of the presence of the enemy nearby. His interlocutor, Simonides, makes the observation that to lessen fear, those on campaign set guards (φύλακας) and take confidence from their vigilance. Hiero distinguishes these from the bodyguards of a tyrant, noting that ‘Your sentries have sentries in front of them (αὐτῶν μὲν γὰρ προφυλάττουσιν οἱ νόμοι)—the laws,—and so they fear for their own skins and relieve you of fear.’ The connection here is not the sort of close verbal similarity we often see in Chariton’s use of Xenophon, but of a shared striking image, that of guards that guard other guards. It may be a stretch to suggest that Chariton here expects his readers to equate Artaxerxes’ prophylakes with the laws (as if to say, ‘Artaxerxes has the typical guards of a tyrant, but his guards—unlike those of a tyrant like Hiero—have Persian laws keeping them loyal’), but it is perhaps a possibility for some readers who recognize the hypotext. Easier to accept is a general coloring that the reminiscence could evoke, for the Hiero contains, among its other ruminations, meditations on the nature of despotic passion and Hiero’s insistence that modest citizens (such as, we may well be thinking, Chaereas in our novel) enjoy love and marriage more than tyrants (such as Artaxerxes) who can use their power and position to obtain the objects of their desires. Chaereas, like Simonides, misses the point that despotism displays its wealth and power, but ‘its difficulties are kept hidden away in the tyrants’ souls’ (Hier. 2,4). These nine passages expand our inventory of Xenophontic imitations in Chariton by more than 50 percent, and it is difficult to imagine that we have now found all those that exist. Taken together and analyzed even in the relatively cursory manner I have adopted here, they demonstrate the importance of identifying such instances. They affect how we constitute our text, how we interpret characters and events in isolation, and how we read the novel as a whole. Considering the importance of intertextual studies for our current understanding of ancient prose fiction,14 and considering the obviously important place Chariton holds in our understanding of the development of the genre, it is incumbent upon us not to assume that our philological forerunners did all of the initial heavy lifting for us.15 ————— 14 15

For an overview, see Morgan and Harrison (2008). It is a both a pleasure and a sadness to dedicate this essay to the memory of Bryan Reardon, who was an eager and challenging correspondent of mine for the last few years of his life. He never failed to provide honest encouragement or forthright counterargument, as appropriate, though I had neither been his student nor institutional colleague. His support of my current project, a monograph on intertextuality in Chariton, was for me a source of delight and motivation. This contribution is poor recompense for his patience and generosity (and those of Janette Reardon), but I hope it will be sufficient to reveal the depth of my gratitude and admiration. I would be remiss if I did not also thank here the Fondation Hardt, where

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Bibliography Alvares, J. 1997. ‘Chariton’s Erotic History’, AJPh 118, 613–629. Bartsch, W. 1934. Der Charitonroman und die Historiographie, Diss. Leipzig. Baslez, M. F. 1992. ‘De l’histoire au roman: la Perse de Chariton’, in M. F. Baslez, P. Hoffman, & M. Trédé, (edd.), Le Monde du Roman Grec . Études de Littérature Ancienne 4, Paris: Presses de l’Ecole normale supérieure, 199–212. Billault, A. 1989. ‘De l’histoire au roman: Hermocrate de Syracuse’, REG 102, 540–548. Blake, W. E. (ed.), 1938. Charitonis Aphrodisiensis De Chaerea et Callirhoe Amatoriarum Narrationum Libri Octo, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Cobet, C. G. 1858. ‘Charitonis loci aliquot emendati’, Mnemosyne 7, 123–124. Cobet, C. G. 1858a. Novae Lectiones. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Cobet, C.G. 1859. ‘Annotationes criticae ad Charitonem’, Mnemosyne 8, 229–303. D’Orville, J. P. (ed.), 1750. Χαρίτωνος Ἀφροδισιέως τῶν περὶ Χαιρέαν καὶ Καλλιρρόην Ἐρωτικῶν Διηγημάτων λόγοι ή, Amsterdam: Petrus Mortier. Goold, G. P. (ed. and trans.), 1995. Chariton: Callirhoe, Cambridge, MA: Loeb Classical Library/Harvard University Press. Hägg, T. 1987. ‘Callirhoe and Parthenope: the beginnings of the historical novel’, ClAnt 6, 184– 204. Hertlein, F. C. 1876. Xenophons Cyropädie, Berlin: Weidmann. Hock, R. F. 2005. ‘The educational curriculum in Chariton’s Callirhoe’, in: J. A. Brant, C. W. Hedrick, & C. Shea (edd.), Ancient Fiction: The Matrix of Early Christian and Jewish Narrative, Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 15–36. Hunter, R. 1994. ‘History and historicity in the romance of Chariton’, ANRW II.34.2, 1055– 1086. Berlin: de Gruyter. Jakob, J. 1903. Studien zu Chariton dem Erotiker. Erster Teil, Aschaffenburg: Programm des K. Humanistischen Gymnasiums Aschaffenburg. Jones, C.P. 1992. ‘Hellenistic history in Chariton of Aphrodisias’, Chiron 22, 91–102. Laplace, M. 1997. ‘Le roman de Chariton et la tradition de l’eloquence’, RhM 140, 38–71. Luginbill, R. D. 2000. ‘Chariton’s use of Thucydides’ History in introducing the Egyptian revolt’, Mnemosyne 53, 1–11. Manuwald, G. 2000. ‘Zitate als Mittel des Erzählens – Zur Darstellungstechnik Charitons in seinem Roman Kallirhoe’, WJA 24, 97–122. Marchant, E. C. (ed.), 1910. Xenophon. Institutio Cyri, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Molinié, G. (ed.), 1979. Chariton. Le Roman de Chairéas et Callirhoé, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Morgan, J. & S. Harrison, ‘Intertextuality’, in: T. Whitmarsh (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 218–236. Müller, C. W. 1976. ‘Chariton von Aphrodisias und die Theorie des Romans in der Antike’, A&A 22, 115–136. Papanikolaou, A. D. 1973. Chariton-Studien, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Perry, B. E. 1930. ‘Chariton and his romance from the literary-historical point of view’, AJPh 51, 93–134.

————— I researched and wrote much of this paper, and the Graduate School of the University of New Hampshire, which supported my research with a Summer Faculty Fellowship. I presented the citation at Char. 8,3,2 in a paper at the 2007 Annual Meeting of the American Philological Association in San Diego, and I thank that original audience for its comments and questions.

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Perry, B.E. 1967. The Ancient Romances: A Literary-Historical Account of their Origins, Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press. Plepelits, K. 1976. Chariton von Aphrodisias: Kallirhoe, Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann. Reardon, B. P. 1991. The Form of Greek Romance, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Reardon, B.P. (ed.), 2004. Chariton Aphrodisiensis: De Callirhoe Narrationes Amatoriae, Munich-Leipzig: K. G. Saur. Reichel, M. 1995. ‘Xenophon’s Cyropaedia and the Hellenistic novel’, in H. Hofmann (ed.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel 6, Groningen: Forsten, 1–20. Rohde, E. 31914. Der Griechische Roman und seine Vorlaüfer, Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel. Ruiz-Montero, C. 1994. ‘Chariton von Aphrodisias: ein Überblick’, ANRW II.34.2: 1006–1054. Ruiz-Montero, C. 1996 ‘The rise of the Greek Novel’, in: G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, Leiden: Brill, 29–85. Salmon, P. 1961. ‘Chariton d’Aphrodisias et la révolte égyptienne de 360 avant J.-C.’, Chronique d’Égypte 36, 365–376. Scarcella, A. M. 1981. ‘Metastasi narratologica del dato storico nel romanzo erotico greco’, in: Atti del convegno internazionale ‘Letterature classiche e narratologia, Perugia: Istituto di Filologia Latina, 341–367. Schmeling, G. L. 1974. Chariton, New York: Twayne Publishers, Inc. Schwartz, E. 1943. Fünf Vorträge über den griechischen Roman, Berlin: DeGruyter. Smith, S. D. 2007. Greek Identity and the Athenian Past in Chariton, Groningen: Barkhuis. Tatum, J. 1989. Xenophon’s Imperial Fiction, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Trzaskoma, S. M. 2005. ‘A novelist writing “history”: Longus’ Thucydides again’, GRBS 45, 75–90. Trzaskoma, S. M. 2009. ‘Aristophanes in Chariton (Plu. 744, Eq. 1244, Eq. 670)’, Philologus 153.2, 351–353. Trzaskoma, S. M. 2010. ‘Chariton and Tragedy: Reconsiderations and New Evidence’, AJPh 131.2, 219–231. Trzaskoma, S. M. 2011. ‘Aristophanes in Chariton Again (Plu. 1127)’, Philologus 155, 367– 368. Zimmermann, F. 1961. ‘Chariton und die Geschichte’, in: R. Günther & G. Schrot (edd.), Sozialökonomische Verhältnisse im alten Orient und im klassischen Altertum, Berlin: Deutsche Historiker-Gesellschaft, 329–345.

‘A Cast of Thousands’: the riddle of the Antheia Romance solved (?) J.R. M ORGAN KYKNOS, Swansea University

I first met Bryan Reardon at the first International Conference on the Ancient Novel (ICAN) at Bangor in North Wales in 1976. Two years later he was the External Examiner at the viva for my D.Phil. in Oxford, an occasion which he delighted in describing for years thereafter, but of which I have little recollection myself. So started an academic contact which grew into a close and (on my side at least) highly valued friendship, not just with Bryan himself but with Janette also. They were even bold enough to invite our children to stay with them, sans parents, in Normandy, unforgettable experiences all round. I like to think of Bryan as my academic father, not that we agreed about everything, but I hope that I have at least inherited his exacting standards and his joy in finely tuned academic discourse, to say nothing of his taste for good food and fine wine. Dear Bryan, this paper, belated though it be, is a token of more gratitude than I can express, little in return for much.

I Since the end of the nineteenth century a specialist corner of Classics has concerned itself with the deciphering and publication of fragments of papyrus, particularly from the rubbish tip of the town of Oxyrhynchos in Egypt. This has been especially fruitful for our knowledge of fiction: fragments from roughly two dozen texts of which we were previously ignorant have been published to date, and new discoveries continue to be made.1 The classical literature that we have today survived only because, until the invention of printing, copies were made by hand. It is clear that the Christian copyists of late antiquity and Byzantium did not ————— 1

See Morgan 1998 for a survey of what was known at that date. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 81–97

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copy texts that were not part of the curricular canon or which were somehow morally or religiously dangerous. Much of the prose fiction of antiquity fell victim to their censorship, and most of what we have survived precariously. Papyrus discoveries have restored to us such gems as the Phoinikika of Lollianus, where, within a couple of pages we have human sacrifice, cannibalism, group sex, farting and a ghost. These scraps pose exquisite problems of identification and interpretation, and in this paper I shall focus on one in particular that has so far defied scholarship, the so-called Antheia Romance. This is PSI 726 (= Pack² 2627), published by M. Norsa in 1920, a fragment measuring 11.5 x 20 cm, and containing the remains of three columns of text from a papyrus roll, written in a cursive hand of the second or third century, on the reverse of a text of Demosthenes.2 COLUMN 1 .. ]ειϲ δ’ ἦϲαν [ 10-12] ο̣ν̣ [ ... ] ̣ ρ̣οτ̣ε̣ρ .] . · τοὺϲ μητ̣ [ 10-12 ] π̣ουϲ̣ .. κον̣.. ]αν ὥϲπερ ... [ ......] ϲ̣εχ . ο̣ϲ ἐρρωμέ]νο̣ι· μήτε ϲ̣ . [ . ]εν̣ . [ ... ]των διε̣μεν[ .. μήτ]ε ἀναστῆναι ...... νταϲ [ ...... ..... ] .. τεϲ τὸν νεὼν καὶ χεῖρ[αϲ νί]ψ̣αν̣τεϲ καὶ] πό̣δαϲ καὶ εἴ τι ἄλλο ἦν ἄκρον̣· ε̣νι ..... δ]εϲποτικῶν ἀναθημάτ[ων] κα...... ] .... π̣ο̣ν̣ προ .. ο .... ......] .. β̣ .. δ̣[ . ]φ̣ρ̣ο̣υ̣ ... τ.[ .... ...... ̣ τεϲ δ̣ί̣φρο[υ] τοῦ̣ τ̣ῆϲ ..... ......] τ̣αιϲ ἡλίκαιϲ π̣[άϲ]αιϲ ρ̣ . ω̣ .... ......]τα̣ . η̣[ . ]ικου ἀνέϲτρεφε . ε̣κ̣ .. .....]τ̣οξα̣ρ̣ην ὡϲ δια̣ .. α̣ϲια̣υ̣τ .... ρ̣α̣ ......]περ πολλῶν ἀπολογηϲαμεν . ν

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The text and apparatus printed here are from Stephens & Winkler 1995, 280-283 (under the title ‘Antheia and a Cast of Thousands’); I have adapted their translation in a few places. They provide a short introduction and a detailed papyrological commentary in which possible readings and supplements are discussed. Their text is generally more judicious than the enthusiastically supplemented one printed as No. 9 in Zimmermann’s earlier edition of novel fragments (Zimmermann 1936, 78-84). López Martínez 1998, 296-306 reprints Zimmermann’s text, with a Spanish translation and commentary. Normal papyrological conventions are used. Square brackets enclose editorial supplements of lacunae in the papyrus itself; underdotted letters are damaged or doubtfully legible. The lines are of a standard length, so that reasonably accurate estimates can be made of how many letters are missing in the lacunae.

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......]η̣ϲιν φό̣νων. ἡ δὲ ἐπεὶ κατά...... εἰϲ] τὴν πολίχνην ἔμελλεν, τὸ μὲν ........ ] τοῖϲ κόλποιϲ κατέθετο, μή τιϲ αὐτὴν ἀφέλη]ται πάλιν. αὐτὴ δὲ ἀνατείναϲα

COLUMN 2

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ἐγγραψάτω· Λύϲιπποϲ δ’ ἐ̣[λ]θ̣ὼν ἐπὶ θάλατταν ϲὺν Εὐξείνῳ πυνθάνεται τῶν γνω[ρί]μων τὴν κατάϲταϲιν̣ [π]ᾶ̣ϲ̣αν .... ωϲα [ 2-3 ] πολιτ .... · Θραϲέαϲ̣ μ̣ὲ̣ν̣ ἄρχ̣ει .. ω̣ν̣ι̣ϲ̣ [ . ] . τ̣ο̣ϲ. Θαλαϲϲία δὲ ἀναρπάϲαϲα τὸ π̣λ̣ο̣ῖ̣[ο]ν̣ Κλεάνδρου Θραϲέαν περιέπει κ̣αὶ .. [ ..... ειϲιν ἀλλ̣ ........ ὅτε ἐξέ[π]λευϲεν λαθοῦϲα αὐτὰ̣[ϲ ὧ]ν̣ αὐτῇ μελ̣[εῖ. ] - ἀϲφαλὲϲ γ̣ὰ̣ρ δοῦν̣α̣ι ̣ ... τὰϲ Θαλαϲϲίαϲ β̣ουλάϲ - τ̣ὰ δὲ Ἀ̣ν̣θ̣[εί]α̣ϲ ἑλομένη, [ . ] .. [ . ]ρεϲ̣ . [ .. ]ν̣ Ἀνθείαν ἰ̣δοῦϲα τὸ φάρ[μ]α̣κον κα̣ὶ̣ κατακρύψαϲα ὡϲ μάλιϲτα ὑ̣ .. [ . ] ... εϲ ... περιεγ̣έ̣νε̣τ̣ο̣.” “ τὰ δὲ Ἀνθείαϲ, [ο]ὐ̣δ’ ἔχ[ει] λέγειν, φίλτατε;” “ οὐκ οἶδα,” ἔφη “ϲαφῶ[ϲ. ὁ] μὲν γὰρ Λύϲανδροϲ αὐτὴν ὑ̣π̣[ὸ̣ ἁ]ρ π̣α̣γ̣ῆϲ παρέδωκεν δ . [ .. ] ... καὶ Θραϲέ̣α̣[ϲ ἐξή̣ρ̣η̣το ἐπ’ α̣ὐ̣τῆι. δ[ῆλ]α̣ τ̣α̣ῦτα ἅπαϲιν· [τὰ δὲ] ἄλλα εἰκαϲία καὶ λόγοϲ μεμιγμένοϲ [ ...... ]ατι ἔχοντι τὸ ἄπι̣ϲ̣τον καὶ παράδο[ξον.”]

ἐϲωζόμην [ ταύρων ορ[ ἐκεῖνοι κ[ ανο ... αυ[ ωρα α ...[ θαι καὶ κτ . [ Ἄρτεμιν. ο[ ψευϲαμεν[ .. λ[ .. ]ενο[ μήτε αὐτὸϲ . [ ἐκείνην ατ[ [ .... ]ϲαφη [ .... ]ηδε . [ ...... ] . [ [ ........ ] . [ .[ .ο.[ τα[ ραϲ κακιϲ[τ-

Col.1 1. ]ειϲηϲαν corrected to ]ειϲ δ’ ἦϲαν in text and added again in the margin, τρ]εῖϲ Zimm. 2. ]. · pap. 4. ]ναι· corrected to ]νοι· pap. τῶν δε̣[δε]μέν̣[ων Zimm. 5. μήτ]ε ἀναϲ̣τῆναι̣ [ε]ὐν̣η̣θ̣έ̣νταϲ Crönert-Lodi 6. ϲήρ]α̣ν̣τ̣ε̣ϲ Crön. χεῖρ[αϲ Lav. νί]ψ̣αν̣[τεϲ Crön., νί]ψ̣αι Lav. 9. τ̣ὸ̣ν πρό[πολ]ο[ν Crön. 11. δ̣ί.φρο[ν Lav. 12. π̣[άϲ]αιϲ Zimm. 12-13 ῥ̣[ύ]μ̣αι δὲ ἦ[ϲαν μεϲ]ται ἐπ̣ινίκου Zimm. 13 ἐπ̣[ιν]ί̣κου ἀνέϲτεφεν Norsa 14. το̣ξαρην Zimm. ταῦ[τα Lav. 15. καθά]περ Lav., καί]περ Zimm. ἀπολογηϲαμένων ed.pr. 16. ἔγκλ]ηϲιν Wil., ἀπείλη]ϲιν Crön. φονων: pap. 16-17 κατα|[λύειν εἰϲ Lav., κατα|[λείπειν Zimm. 18. [φάρμακον ἐν] Lav. 18-19 αὐ|[τὴν Lav. 19. [ἀφέλη]ται Zimm., ἀφαιρῇ]ται Lav. παλιν· pap.

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Col.2 1. ενγραψατω· pap. ἐ[λ]θ̣ων Zimm., πλ]έ̣ων Lav. 3-4. τ̣[ῆϲ ἕ]ω̣ϲ ἄ|[ρτι] πολιτ[ε]ί̣[αϲ Zimm. 4. [μὲ]ν̣ Zimm. ἄρχει Lav. μό]νοϲ ? Zimm. 5. ] . το̣ϲ· pap., [ο]υτοϲ ed.pr., α]ὐτόϲ ? Zimm. 5-6. π̣λ̣οῖ[ον ed.pr. 6. περιέπε[ι Lav. 7. τε πάρ]ειϲιν ? Zimm. 7-8. δὲ ἐξέ|[π]λ̣ευσεν ed.pr. 8-9. αὐτὰ̣[ϲ ὧ]ν αὐτῇ με|[λεῖ Zimm. 9. δ’ οὖν [ὅθ]εν Zimm. 10. [β]ουλάϲ̣ Lav., δ̣ούλαϲ̣ Zimm. τ̣ὰ δε[ῖπ]ν̣α̣ Zimm. ἀφελομένη ed.pr. μενη· pap. 11. καὶ τ]ρέϲα̣[ϲα]ν̣ Zimm. 12. μαλιϲταϋ pap. 13. ἔ]ϲεϲθ̣α̣ι̣ Lav. περιέπειν ἐ[ὰν Lav., περιέπειν ε[ἴα Zimm. 14. [ϲο]ι̣ δέχ[ου] Lav., [ἐπ]ι̣δέχ[ου] Zimm. φιλτατε: pap. 15-16. ἀφ’ ἁρ|[παγῆϲ] Crön. 16. δὴ [ἱκ]α[νά· Zimm. Θραϲέα[ϲ δ’ Zimm. 17. ἐξ[επτό]η̣το ἐπ’ α̣[ὐ]τ̣ῆι Zimm., Lodi δ[ῆλ]α̣ Crön. 18. τὰ δὲ] Zimm., τὰ δ’] Lav. ικαϲια pap. 19. πλάϲμ]ατι Zimm., μυθεύμ]ατι Lav. 19-20 ἄ[πιϲ]τον Zimm., ἄπλ̣η̣στον ? ed.pr., ἀ[δύνα]τον Lav. 19-20. παράδο|[ξον Lav.

Col.3 1. [κἀγὼ μὲν]| ἐϲωζόμην Zimm. 2. Ταύρων Crön. a paragraphos below; traces too broken for certainty κακίϲ[τηϲ ? Zimm.

6. κτᾶ̣[ϲθαι Crön. 7. αρτεμιν pap. Possibly 7-8. ἔ]ψευσα μὲν Lav. 18-19. [ϲυμφο]|ρᾶϲ

COLUMN 1

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]and there were ]some ... ]just as ... the strong ... ]neither to ]nor cause to leave ] ------ing the temple and washing their hands [and] feet and any other extremity. ]of the despot’s dedications ] ] ] .... chair .... ]to all the women of the same age ].... he was overthrowing ] ... on the grounds that ]having defended himself [against a charge] of many killings. But when she was about to [... into] the village, she put the [poison?] in her clothes, lest someone [rob her] again; and she stretching out

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COLUMN 2 A: “let him write it down. Lysippos, having come to the sea with Euxeinos, is making enquiries from his acquaintances about the whole situation ... government (?); Thraseas is ruling ... Thalassia, having seized Kleandros’ boat, is showing respect to Thraseas ... ... when she sailed out unseen by the women for whom she is responsible - for it is safe to give out ... Thalassia’s plans – having chosen Antheia’s cause, she ... Antheia, after she saw the poison and concealed it to the best of her ability ... she survived” (?) B: “About Antheia’s affairs, is it not possible to speak, my beloved?” A: “I don’t know,” he said, “for sure. Lysandros handed her over in a kidnap ... and Thraseas is aroused for her. This much is public knowledge. The rest is conjecture and muddled talk, [-------] holding the unbelievable and astonishing.”

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II Judging by the Demosthenes text on the other side (Or. 51,7-10), we have roughly the top third of each column. The left-hand column is heavily damaged, and only the first few letters of the right-hand one remain. What we can gather is as follows. In the first column a temple is mentioned (line 6), and hands and feet and ‘any other extremity’ are being washed (lines 6-7),3 – possibly actions of ritual piety. A reference to ‘despotic dedications’ (line 8) hints that the scene is set under some sort of autocracy, which normally controls the temple.4 There is mention of a διφρόϲ, which might be a chariot or a chair. In line 12 ταῖς ἡλίκαιϲ πάϲαιϲ suggests that a group of young women is somehow involved,5 and, sure enough, towards ————— 3

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The active participle νιψάντεϲ implies that the hands and feet are not those of the people doing the washing. The adjective δεϲποτικόϲ can refer to the master of a slave as well as to a despot in the political sense, and we cannot exclude that sense here. However, since rulership seems to be an issue later in the fragment, the political sense is on balance the more likely. ἡλίκοϲ is in principle not age-specific, but in practice the adjective and the cognate noun ἡλικία are most often applied to youth and the young.

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the end of this column (line 16) a single female actor emerges, unnamed. Depending on restoration, she is either about to leave or to enter a πολίχνη (either a village or a fortress), and therefore conceals something in her bosom so that it should not be stolen again. The letters τοξαρην can be made out in line 14. Lines 15-16 seem to involve someone defending themselves against a charge of multiple homicide.6 The second column is more legible, but if anything even more confusing. A dialogue is in process; the papyrus uses a punctuation mark like our colon to indicate change of speaker. In line 14 one of the speakers addresses the other as ‘dearest’ (φίλτατε, masculine vocative) suggesting that she is a woman, and the two are lovers. The first speaker, the man, seems to be dictating a communication to a third party, summarising the current position with a series of proper names that appear to be already familiar to the recipient of the communication – and to the reader of the text; presumably a scribe is present. Lysippos and Euxeinos have come to the sea and are making enquiries from their acquaintances about the situation;7 Thraseas rules; the fact that this is being communicated at all to the recipient of the letter implies that it is information new to him or her and suggests that Thraseas has only recently acceded to this position. Thalassia has seized a boat belonging to Kleandros, and is acting in a certain way towards Thraseas.8 Presumably she has used the stolen boat to take her to Thraseas. In so doing, she has furtively abandoned some females for whom she is responsible, having chosen the cause of Antheia.9 The speaker breaks off his dictation in the middle of this sentence to tell his companion as an aside that it is safe to divulge Thalassia’s intentions to the recipient of the letter. She has seen the poison (he continues) and concealed it to the best of her ability; this seems to resume the situation at the end of column 1, which would identify the unnamed woman there as Thalassia, and the crowd of other young women as those in her care. At this point (line 13) the second speaker – the woman – asks for more information about Antheia’s position. ‘I do not know for sure’, is the reply; Lysandros has kidnapped her and

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The vowel that would determine the gender of the participle is unfortunately illegible. ϲὺν Εὐξείνῳ could be taken syntactically with either ἐλθὼν or πυνθάνεται. In the first case Euxeinos accompanied Lysippos on his journey to the sea, in the second he was already there. The verb περιέπει (line 6) could mean ‘treat well’ or ‘treat badly’. Usually it is accompanied by a modal expression that determines the sense. Used absolutely, as apparently it is here, it could mean ‘show respect towards’ (as Xen. Mem. 2,9,5) or ‘be vigilant towards’ (as Plb. 4,10,5). This is the only possible meaning of the text printed by Stephens & Winkler; it is peculiar that in their introduction they describe Thalassia as ‘evidently a political supporter of Thraseas’ (Stephens & Winkler 1995, 277).

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handed her over, and Thraseas is aroused for her: with love or anger? This much is common knowledge, but all else is conjecture. From the third column very little can be gleaned. The name of Artemis (line 7) led some early scholars to suppose a setting in Ephesus, but its combination with ταύρων (line 2) might suggest a Skythian setting, recalling the scenario of Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris. Let us try to pull this together. The text of the letter being dictated in the fragment presents an analeptic snapshot of a part of a complex narrative structure: fighting and killing have been taking place; Antheia has been kidnapped by Lysandros and delivered to the tyrant Thraseas, who has strong feelings towards her; Thalassia has sneaked away from her companions and gone in a stolen boat to try to rescue her, perhaps by ingratiating herself with Thraseas; she has seen and hidden a drug or poison, perhaps to forestall any suicide attempt that Antheia might make with it. This would make her a female version of the stock romantic figure of the hero’s best friend.10 A third woman, one of the participants in the dialogue, is concerned about Antheia. Thraseas is served by Lysandros. The similarity of formation between the names Lysippos, Lysandros and Kleandros at least raises the thought that the bearers of these names are somehow connected with one another; Euxeinos and Lysippos are working in concert. The implication of what we can reconstruct is that the three women are on one side of a conflict, and the men, with the exception of the first speaker in column 2, who is in love with one of the women, are on the other. This fragment contains at least seven proper names: Lysippos, Euxeinos, Thraseas, Kleandros and Lysandros are male; Antheia and Thalassia are women. Let us see how we can make them work. The majority of the masculine names are very common: the Lexicon of Greek Proper Names identifies 140 individuals called Lysippos, 161 called Kleandros and 192 called Lysandros; Thraseas is less common, but still registers 48 individuals. All these appear evenly spread by geography and period. Euxeinos is rare in this spelling: the Lexicon has only 9 (6 from the Bosporus region), but common variants (such as Euxenos) raise the figure to 108. The women’s names on the other hand are much less common: Antheia is epigraphically attested just once, and Thalassia is attested only in Latin on the tombstone of a mime actress living in Rome.11 Even the masculine form Thalassios does not appear before the third century CE, when it is held by several Christians, becoming increasingly popular in the fourth and fifth centuries. Although ————— 10

11

Compare Polycharmos in Chariton, who repeatedly forestalls the hero’s attempts to kill himself. CIL VI,10112. I am grateful to Costas Panayotakis for drawing my attention to this document.

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ancient society was such that in general women have left fewer traces than men in the documentary record, the disparity is striking. When we turn to the etymology of the names the same distinction appears, though less starkly. It is hard to see how most of the male names here are ‘speaking names’, with the exception of Thraseas, whose name implies that he may be thrasys in a bad sense,12 aptly for a despot who gets his henchmen to abduct women to serve his pleasure. Lysippos (‘Looser of Horses’), Lysandros (‘Looser of Men’), and Kleandros (‘Fame of Men’) look like typically chosen warriornames, but at least we can say that the people who bear them are Greek. The female names, on the other hand, do have a relevant literal sense. Thalassia, the ‘sea-woman’ could hardly be more apt for a lady who steals boats and sails stealthily over the seas; and Antheia suggests a floral, fragrant beauty, of exactly the kind that wicked tyrants get worked up over. I have not been able to get far with historical resonance: at least from what we can see in this tiny fragment, the famous sculptor Lysippos and the Spartan general Lysandros, the most renowned owners of these names are not being evoked. The most prominent historical Kleandros is probably the tyrant of Gela,13 but several other minor Kleandroi and Lysippoi stalk the pages of Herodotos and Xenophon;14 none of them carries any useful baggage, and the names are too common and the historical figures too insignificant to see either Herodotos or Xenophon as the source of these names in the fragment. This is not an historical novel that introduced famous real people into the fiction to give it verisimilitude and authenticity.15 There is, however, one important piece of intertextuality, to which we shall return shortly: the novel by Xenophon of Ephesos has a heroine called Anthia,16 and a Tyrian pirate who falls in love with her is named Euxeinos.17 ————— 12

13 14

15

16

17

LSJ offer ‘over-bold’, ‘rash’, ‘arrogant’, ‘insolent’ as possible translations, alongside the more neutral ‘bold’ and ‘confident’. Mentioned in Hdt. 7,154-155. For example, Kleandros an Arkadian seer (Hdt. 6,83), Kleandros the Spartan harmost at Byzantion (Xen. Hell. 6,4,18); Kleandros of Sikyon (Xen. Hell. 7,1,45); Lysippos a Spartan harmost (Xen. Hell. 3,2,29). One interesting Kleandros, who has left no trace in the literary tradition, is the mythical founder of the city of Kibyra in southern Phrygia; he is known only from an inscription and coin images (Weiss 1992). An alternative legend makes the founder of Kibyra an eponymous Amazon. As, for example, Hermokrates the Syracusan statesman in Chariton, or Rhodopis the courtesan in Heliodoros. Spelled thus in the only manuscript of the novel, though some editors have chosen to print her as ‘Antheia’. Stephens & Winkler 1995, 285 mention a Spartan governor named Euxeinos who occurs in Xenophon (Hell. 3,2,29); again too obscure to be relevant here.

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III The time has come to lay my cards on the table, and say what I think this is. A setting in Skythia, with a community of women actively involved in conflict means that this must be a story about Amazons, whose contact with Greek men has led to much bloodshed and a complex series of erotic situations. It has been generally assumed that Antheia is the heroine of the story,18 but this is only because we know of another novel-heroine of that name. It is much more likely, I think, that the unnamed second speaker in the dialogue in column 2 is the main female protagonist: an Amazon whose true love for a Greek man, across cultural and political boundaries, provides the main intrigue – a sort of Romeo and Juliet situation, perhaps. Thraseas may be a local Skythian king or tyrant, with whom the Greeks are in alliance; depending on how we restore or understand ἐξήρητο in column 2 line 17,19 he has been inflamed by the beauty of the Amazon Antheia, or he is furious with her for resisting his vile attentions; she seems to have attempted or threatened to kill herself by poison rather than submit to him. Euxeinos might be one of his men, with an appropriately local name for a setting near the Black Sea. Thalassia looks like an Amazon admiral, captured by Kleandros or pretending to be in love with him, who steals her captor’s boat, abandons her troops, and goes to join Thraseas, although her real counsel is to rescue Antheia. If this speculation is anywhere near correct, this novel will have been rather unlike the five surviving Greek novels, in that it is set outside the Hellenic world. On the other hand, Amazons had a historiographical pedigree and an erotic charge extending back to the role of the Amazon queen Penthesileia in the Trojan War. Herodotos (4,110-117) tells the story of Amazons who murder their Greek captors at sea, but are then unable to sail the ship and are carried to Skythia. After discovering that the new arrivals are women, the Skythians form a plan to get children by them. A single erotic encounter (4,113) leads to a broader cohabitation, although the Amazons’ language proves impossible for the Skythians to master. Eventually, a dialogue takes place in which the Skythians propose to return to their community and make the Amazons their wives there, while the Amazons declare that it is impossible for them to live like and alongside the Skythian women. So it is decided that the young Skythians and the Amazons together will move away and found a new community. This is the origin of the Sauromatai. Thus the reader of the work from which our fragment derives would have easily naturalised the Amazons into a cultural frame of reference, and expected a particular sort of story to be associated with them. Although most of the early ————— 18 19

For example, by Stephens & Winkler 1995, 277. I see here a part of ἐξαίρω rather than of ἐξαιρέω.

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tradition about Amazons stresses their hatred of men and marriage, there was a softening in their representation in the Hellenistic and Imperial periods, when they started to be put to decorative uses in art.20 In the Imperial period in particular, Amazons feature in the foundation myths of several cities of Asia Minor, including Ephesos and Smyrna. At the relevant period, Amazons make a significant appearance in Philostratos’ Heroikos (56,11 – 57,17). Digressing from the Amazons’ involvement in the Trojan War, the vine-dresser tells of some Greek traders sailing from the Black Sea towards the Hellespont who are captured by Amazons. At first their captors intend to sell them to the Skythian cannibals, but an erotic attachment grows up between one of the Greeks and the sister of the Amazon queen, who intervenes to save the men. These Greeks are able to learn the Amazons’ language, teach them the skills of sea-faring, and tell them about the rich sanctuary on Achilleus’ sacred island of Leuke. The Amazons build a fleet and sail off to plunder the sanctuary. In anger Achilleus drives the Amazons’ horses mad: they eat their riders and a storm destroys the Amazons’ ships in the harbour. This strange story combines the idea of sea-faring Amazons with that of an erotic attachment to Greeks in a way which is remarkably reminiscent of our fragment. Further novelistic interest in Amazons is evinced by the Alexander Romance, where Alexander exchanges letters with them, and then writes to his mother Olympias about his encounter with them.21 Although their letters proclaim the official line that they are all virgins and there is nothing male among them, and that martial valour is the centre of their value-system, they end by sending him 500 hostages for a year, with the stipulation that if any of them loses her virginity to a foreigner she must stay with Alexander’s men. This looks like a tantalising prolepsis of events that are not narrated in our text, and certainly suggests the possibility of a sexual liaison across cultural boundaries between an Amazon and a Greek. The meeting of Alexander and the Amazons is narrated only in his letter to Olympias, and in describing them he emphasises their stature and attractiveness.

IV Interestingly, we have fragments from another novel with an Amazonian background, the so-called Kalligone Romance.22 This seems to feature a Greek ————— 20 21 22

For details, see Devambez 1981, esp. 649-650. Alex.Rom. 3,25-27. PSI 981 = Pack² 2628; Greek text and discussion in Zimmermann 1936, 46-50, Stephens & Winkler 1995, 267-276, and López Martinez 1998, 145-155. This fragment in translated

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heroine, who receives bad news about the Sauromatai, but is prevented from killing herself by a character named Eubiotos. In anger she proudly proclaims that she is ‘no Amazon and no Themisto’. That this is not mere rhetoric is confirmed by a recently published fragment from a different copy of the same text, in which (clearly earlier in the story) Kalligone is shipwrecked and taken before the Amazon queen Themisto, who admires her stature and beauty. Against this backdrop, the vehemence with which, in the older fragment, Kalligone denies being an Amazon suggests that there is a real possibility that she might be taken for one, perhaps because she is, at that point in the narrative, disguised as one.23 She is in an emotional state connected with someone called Eraseinos, cursing the day when she saw him while hunting. The etymology of Eraseinos’ name and Kalligone’s behaviour suggest that they are the protagonist lovers, and Kalligone’s disguise may be a device to allow her to be close to him: possibly he is a Greek associating with Amazons, who, given the literary pedigree outlined above, can be expected to carry an erotic charge that threatens the central relationship. Eubiotos’ role in concealing Kalligone’s dagger casts him as a conventional ‘hero’s friend’. The new fragment, however, raises the possibility (based on the speculative completion of a name beginning Eu-) that he is her father and the former king of Borysthenes, though, if that is the case, it is not clear whether in the older fragment either of them is aware of the identity of the other. In any case, Kalligone is a princess. The name Eubiotos also occurs in one of the stories told by the Skythian Toxaris in Lucian’s work of that name,24 borne, as in Kalligone, by a Greek king from the Bosporos area. Lucian’s Toxaris is a text roughly contemporary with the Antheia fragment; and the name Toxaris, we can now see, appears in the first column (line 14).25 While there is little to support Rostovtzeff’s idea that Kalligone and Toxaris were different versions of the same authentic local legend,26 the recurrence of names at least suggests that there was a corpus of stories surrounding the area and involving Amazons, around which fictional narratives could be built. I am not, of course, suggesting that the Antheia fragment belongs to the same text as Kalligone. It is difficult to judge its prose style when the only remotely continuous passage is a dictated letter, whose short simple sentences are more a ————— 23 24 25

26

by Bryan Reardon in Reardon 1989/2008, 826-827. P.Oxy. 5355 (published by Parsons 2018) is discussed but not printed by Stephens & Winkler. Thus Stephens & Winkler 1995, 268. Luc. Tox. 51-54. Devambez 1981, 653, lists 66 personal names attested for individual Amazons, in literary texts or as captions in visual artworks. Toxaris is one of them; but, sadly, neither Antheia nor Thalassia appears in the list. Rostovtzeff 1928, Rostovtzeff 1931, vol. 1, 98-99; see also Zimmermann 1935.

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reflection of the dramatic situation than of the author’s stylistic capabilities. Nevertheless, it seems to lack the accomplishments of the Kalligone fragments, which are close to Chariton in their style. My point is that my reconstruction of the context is not something without parallel in the corpus of Greek fiction. And in a general sense it is easy to see how stories about Amazons cohere with the general political and cultural concerns of the period of the Second Sophistic, when what it meant to be Greek in the Roman Empire was a matter of urgent concern, and Greek-ness was often defined and explored through antithesis with non-Greek cultures. This pattern is characteristic of the Greek novels, though none of their writers or readers would have dreamed of formulating their appeal and function in anything like these terms. The Amazons represent an excellent thought laboratory, where Greek social and moral norms can be inverted and reasserted.

V The co-incidence of names of Antheia and Euxeinos with the Ephesiaka of Xenophon of Ephesos was noted in the first publication of the Antheia fragment, and has continued to intrigue scholars, especially since the names in question are relatively uncommon, at least in the relevant spelling. The theory that our text of the Ephesiaka is an epitome of a novel that was once longer and richer, and more competent, has been around since the end of the nineteenth century.27 Could it be, editors such as Zimmermann asked, that our fragment preserves a scrap of the original text of Xenophon’s novel? The answer is, clearly, no: all that is shared is the two names; there is nothing in the Ephesiaka that corresponds to the content of the fragment, however we reconstruct its context. There are two basic models for epitomisation: either (a) the epitomator subjects an entire text to a more or less uniform process of condensation, presenting essentially the same material in a sparer form, or (b) the epitomator selects sections of the text and keeps them in something closer to their original shape, while discarding the remainder completely. If the present version of the Ephesiaka is an epitome of an original of which the Antheia papyrus is a fragment, we would have to accept that it was epitomised on model (b), that the epitomator jettisoned large chunks of the plot and drastically pruned his cast-list. In fact, however, the epitome argument has always been predicated on model (a): it rests on the breathlessness of the plotting ————— 27

The theory is particularly associated with Bürger 1892, who attempts to identify places in the Ephesiaka where epitomisation has occurred. The rebuttal by Hägg 1966/2004 demonstrates that Bürger’s precision in identifying particular instances of epitomisation may be misplaced, but does not overturn the epitome theory in principle.

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and the wilful lack of elaboration, which suggest that the abbreviator kept the incident-rich plot more or less intact and just retold it as briefly as he could. Although both Antheiai are no doubt creatures of great beauty, even if they are not both heroines, there is no discernible connection between Xenophon’s infatuated pirate Euxeinos and the character here. Must we then conclude that the co-incidence of names is no more than that: a co-incidence? Probably not, as there is also a striking thematic parallel. Xenophon’s Anthia procures poison and attempts suicide to avoid marriage with the lustful eirenarch Perilaos.28 The Antheia of our fragment also has, or has had, some poison; whether it is she who conceals it in the first column for her own future use, or, as I have suggested, Thalassia who is concealing it to prevent Antheia using it, the purpose of the poison appears to be the same – death rather than an unwanted union with a figure of authority, in this case the tyrant Thraseas, whose very name characterises him as a thoroughly bad egg. Let us note in passing here that Xenophon’s Anthia obtains from Perilaos thirty days’ postponement of the wedding, hoping for something to turn up.29 The poison that she then procures from the sympathetic Ephesian doctor Eudoxos turns out to be a sleeping-draught, and she is entombed alive, revives in the tomb, and is stolen by pirates.30 This episode is clearly connected with the experiences of Chariton’s heroine Kallirhoe, who is also presumed dead, buried alive, revives in the tomb, and is stolen by tomb-robbers. Xenophon is a literary magpie, picking up the shining jewels from other people’s plots and melding them into a creation of his own. The names are another element in his literary borrowing, possibly even intended as signposts to alert his reader to the game he is playing. This is not the place to open up the epitome-argument, but I cannot rid myself of the sense that something has happened to our text of the Ephesiaka; a ludic intertextuality would be one of the first casualties of the process of epitomisation. But could it not be that the text from which the Antheia fragment derives borrowed from Xenophon rather than vice versa?31 In itself that is perfectly possible, but it becomes less likely as the co-incidences between the Ephesiaka and other texts multiply. We have already mentioned the Kalligone fragment, which features an Amazon queen called Themisto. This name has a reasonable mythological pedigree, and was even given to Homer’s mother in a Cypriot tradition recorded by Pausanias.32 It is not particularly common in the real world. ————— 28 29 30 31

32

Xen.Eph. 3,5-6. Xen.Eph. 2,13,8; the thirty days run out at 3,3,7. Xen.Eph. 3,8,1. Cf. Stephens & Winkler 1995, 278: ‘The names suggest that this piece belongs in some rather self-conscious relationship to Xenophon’s Ephesiaka.’ Paus. 10,24,3.

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Nevertheless, this name too turns up in Xenophon, borne by the mother of the hero Habrokomes. The co-incidence becomes the more striking if I am right in arguing that the Antheia fragment derives from another work set in the same Amazonian ambience as Kalligone. And still we are not finished. The father of Xenophon’s Anthia is called Megamedes. This name recurs in yet another fragmentary novel, called the Chione Romance from a named character who appears to be its heroine.33 This is known to us from three columns of a seventh-century palimpsest parchment codex purchased in Egypt by Ulrich Wilcken but destroyed in a fire at Hamburg docks before it could be properly edited; we have to rely on what Wilcken was able to transcribe in Egypt, but unfortunately he could not remember for certain how the columns were arranged, so that their ordering and proximity to one another remain a matter of speculation. The same codex also contained a text of Chariton’s novel, and there are distinct similarities of style and situation which have fuelled the hypothesis that Chione and Kallirhoe are from the same pen. Given the uncertainty of the ordering of the fragments and the provisional nature of Wilcken’s transcription, reconstruction of the situation and plot is difficult, but several comments are à propos. First, Chione’s name is another of those speaking names, connected with the Greek word chiōn (‘snow’).34 Secondly, one of the fragments appears to be a debate in which her inheritance of the kingship is a major concern; she is, in other words, a princess. This reading has been contested by Marini (1993), precisely on the grounds that it would be implausible in the kind of realistic Greek setting in which the other novels play out. However, the Greek seems clear enough, and we have been discussing other novels in non-Hellenic settings. In fact, we might well ask ourselves where it would be most plausible to find a future queen whose name connects her with the cold snows of the north acceding to a throne: are we still among the Amazons? Thirdly, and most importantly: although there has been no agreement about the exact context into which the fragments may be fitted, some details are clear enough.35 In the first fragment, someone is saying that, as the throne will pass to her (Chione) and her future husband, plans must be laid carefully; a period of thirty days has been granted for consideration of the issue. The third fragment presents a dialogue between Chione and someone to whom she voices the amatory ————— 33

34

35

The so-called ‘Codex Thebanus deperditus’ = Pack² 244. The first publication is Wilcken 1901.Text in Zimmermann 1936, 40-46, Stephens & Winkler 1995, 289-301, López Martínez 1998, 287-295. Translation by Bryan Reardon in Reardon 1989/2008, 824-825. The citation of the fragments follows the numbering of Stephens & Winkler 1995. Anderson 2000, 50-57, connects the Chione fragment and the Ephesiaka as putative archetypes of the Snow-White fairytale. For a survey of interpretations and reconstructions, see Morgan 1998, 3347-3349.

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commonplace that if they cannot live together....36 This must be her true beloved. The fragment opens with this lover saying that Megamedes’ arrival is imminent, but he has given Chione no cause to abandon him. It looks as if the heroine is being forced towards a marriage with a man (Megamedes) who is not the man she loves, and has been given thirty days’ grace in which to make a decision. Although Megamedes is not present and seems a decent man,37 and although the beloved is with the heroine, unlike Habrokomes, this situation closely recalls Anthia’s predicament when confronted with the possibility of marriage to Perilaos in the Ephesiaka. The coincidence of the name Megamedes in the two novels again seems to point up their relationship.

VI Our analysis has led to the hypothesis of a subgenre of the Greek novel in which Amazons were prominent, represented among the fragments by Antheia, Kalligone, and (possibly) Chione. The erotic charge of the Amazons is evidenced by the epic cycle and narratives in Herodotos, Philostratos and the Alexander Romance, but there does seem to be something of extraordinary interest going on here. It is not simply that a physically fit and scantily dressed warrior- or hunterwoman is an obviously potent fantasy for a male reader, as the Persian king in Chariton fantasises about seeing Kallirhoe dressed for the hunt.38 Amazons can easily be pressed into service as examples of the barbarian other, an imaginary society where Greek norms are inverted and thus defined through the antithesis. But equally they are, within the Greek imaginary, an almost unparalleled example of an assertive female subject devoid of societally enforced dependence on the male. This status can play out in two ways. On the one hand, the Amazon may be represented as a predatory female, with no compunction about using men for breeding or sexual satisfaction, while holding them in some sort of subjugation. On the other hand, as a free agent, the Amazon may choose whom she loves, and her freely given wholehearted love is the more meaningful for its naturalness and lack of necessity. In either role, the Amazon fits perfectly into a stereotypical romantic scenario, playing, so to speak, the roles of either Arsake or Charikleia. The narrow line that divides a new sense of the feminine self from transgressive ————— 36

37

38

The text becomes lacunose at this point, but no great effort of the imagination is required to supplement the sense. Perhaps he was like Dionysios in Chariton, who is a highly sympathetic character despite being cast in the structural role of love-rival. Char. 6,4,5-6.

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sexuality would be a source of powerful interest and subversive emotion in such a story. Moreover, the Amazon’s proximity to transgression and subversion would sit uncomfortably with the sexual ethics of developing Christianity, which might be part of the explanation as to why these particular stories were not copied and transmitted like the surviving Greek novels, although Chione at least was being read as late as the seventh century.39 The discussion has also connected Xenophon of Ephesos with all three of our Amazonian novels. And in fact Amazons and Ephesos are frequently associated. As early as the fifth century BCE, Pindar attributed the foundation of the Artemision at Ephesos to Amazons.40 Later in the same century the most famous sculptors of Greece produced statues of wounded Amazons to be dedicated in the Artemision; the one by Polykleitos was adjudged the best, with Pheidias as runner-up; these famous pieces remained on view in the temple and were much copied.41 Archaeological finds suggest that the association was genuinely ancient,42 but the idea that the Amazons founded the temple or even the city itself was of particular interest to writers of the Hellenistic and Imperial periods. Kallimachos alludes to it in his oblique fashion, no doubt symptomatically of his interest in heterodox origin myths.43 In addition to the passage of Pausanias in which Pindar is quoted, the story crops up in Strabo and Plutarch, while, in another passage, Pliny names Amazons as the founders of the city. Tacitus records ambassadors to Rome rehearsing the antiquity of their city and connecting the temple with Amazons fleeing from their defeat by Bacchus.44 The re-emergence of this mythic connection is part and parcel of the period’s general interest in origins and identity. In the period of the Second Sophistic, Ephesos is personified by an Amazon in the visual arts, and particularly on coins.45 It may be that these romantic Amazon stories were created in Ephesos in the atmosphere of that city’s interest in Amazons and exploitation of them as an element of its self-representation; the Antheia fragment does include a clear naming of Artemis in the third column, in a context which is irrecoverable: Amazons are widely associated with the goddess, but the connection would resonate with an Ephesian audience perhaps more than any other. In any case, it is not implausible that an Ephesian novelist would have taken ————— 39

40 41

42 43 44 45

For early Christian anti-pagan polemic making use of the Amazons as examples of female immorality, see Witek 2001, esp. 295-297. Cited, and immediately refuted, by Paus. 7,2,7. See Plin. NH. 34,53. The wounded Amazon statue types are illustrated and discussed by Bol 1998. Langner 2014. Kall. Hymn 3,233. Strab. 11,5,4; Plut. Quaest.Gr. 66; Plin. NH. 5,115; Tac. Ann. 3,61. Weiss 2004, 187-188.

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a particular interest in Amazon stories, wherever they emanated from, and signalled his engagement with them by an intertextual game with the names of their characters.46

Bibliography Anderson, G. 2000. Fairytale in the Ancient World. London & New York: Routledge. Bol, R. 1998. Amazones volneratae. Untersuchungen zu den ephesischen Amazonenstatuen. Mainz: Zabern. Bürger, K. 1892. ‘Zu Xenophon von Ephesos’, Hermes 27, 36-67. Devambez, P. 1981. ‘Amazones’, LIMC 1, 586-653. Hägg, T. 1966/2004. ‘Die Ephesiaka des Xenophon Ephesios – Original oder Epitome?’, C&M 27, 118-161; translated as ‘The Ephesiaca of Xenophon Ephesius – Original or Epitome?’, in: Parthenope: Studies in Ancient Greek Fiction. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 159-198. Langner, M. 2014. ‘Amazonen als Einwanderinnen. Ursprung, Konstruktion und Dekonstruktionmythischer Verwandtschaft in Athen und Ephesos’, in A.-B. Renger & I. Toral-Niehoff (ed.), Genealogie und Migrationsmythen im antiken Mittelmeerraum und auf der arabischen Halbinsel. Berlin: Topoi, 103-133. López Martínez, M.P. 1998. Fragmentos papiráceos de novela griega. Alicante: Universidad de Alicante. Marini, N. 1993. ‘Osservazioni sul “Romanzo di Chione”’, Athenaeum 81, 587-600. Morgan, J.R. 1997. ‘On the fringes of the canon: work on the fragments of Ancient Greek fiction 1936-1994’, ANRW II.34.4, 3293-3390. Parsons, P.J. 2018. ‘5355. Novel (Calligone)’, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 83. London: Egypt Exploration Society. 63-72. Reardon, B.P. (ed) 1989/2008. Collected Ancient Greek Novels. Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: California University Press. Rostovtzeff, M. 1928 ‘“Скифскій” романь’, Seminarium Kondakovianum 2, 135-138. Rostovtzeff, M. 1931. Skythien und der Bosporus. Berlin: Schoetz. Stephens, S.A. & Winkler, J.J. 1995. Ancient Greek Novels. The Fragments. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Tagliabue, A. 2015. ‘Thrason’s work in the Ephesian Artemision: an artistic inspiration for Xenophon of Ephesus’ Ephesiaka’, Hermes 141, 363-377. Weiss, P. 1992. ‘Kleandros’, LIMC 6, 65-66. Weiss, P. 2004. ‘Städtische Münzprägung und zweite Sophistik’, in B. Borg (ed.), Paideia: the World of the Second Sophistic. Berlin & New York: De Gruyter, 179-200. Wilcken, U. 1901. ‘Ein neue Roman-Handschrift’, APF 1, 227-272. Witek, F. 2001. ‘Amazonen’, RÄC Suppl.1, 289-302. Zimmermann, F. 1935. ‘Lukians Toxaris und das Kairener Romanfragment’, PhW 55, 12111216. Zimmermann, F. 1936. Griechische Romanpapyri und verwandte Texte. Heidelberg: Bilabel.

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Tagliabue 2015 argues that Xenophon was inspired by another artwork attested as on display in the Artemision. His approach is complementary to mine in suggesting a specifically Ephesian dimension to Xenophon’s invention.

Λέξεις Λόγγου E WEN B OWIE Corpus Christi College, Oxford

1. Introduction This paper has two principal objectives. The first is to give a flavour of the postclassical vocabulary in Longus’ artistic prose and to see at what literary level the range of authors with whom he shares such vocabulary locates him. The second is to see whether any of his choices of words might help us to get nearer to determining the date at which he was writing. This second objective is perhaps unattainable, for reasons that I shall address when I reach that part of the paper, but it seemed to me worth trying to see what could be done. The first objective cannot be achieved by attention to vocabulary alone, or even to vocabulary considered with some attention to a word’s syntactical behaviour, as I shall sometimes be offering. A much wider investigation would be needed, taking in forms of verbs, declension of nouns, the uses of cases and of prepositions, etc. An investigation on that scale, which would vastly exceed the space allowed for this paper, was last conducted for Longus by G. Valley, in his Inaugural Dissertation.1 This paper builds upon Valley, and hopes to be more useful than his work in at least one respect: Valley very rarely gives precise references for the places in other texts in which he found words or grammatical and syntactical features also found in Longus. That makes it maddeningly difficult to check whether modern editions of these authors do indeed have the word or usage also found in Longus, or whether it is indeed closely parallel, or rather involves differences that could be significant. The issue of modern editions also affects the Longan end of our calculations. Valley justly complained that his work on Longus was hampered by the absence of a reliable critical edition. Since Reeve’s Teubner2 that complaint cannot be voiced. But problems and choices still remain for anybody conducting an ————— 1 2

Valley 1926. Reeve 1982, revised 1986 and 1994. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 99–112

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investigation like this. Thus, although John Morgan (2004) generally accepts Reeve’s text in his excellent edition and commentary, Jeffrey Henderson (2009) sometimes makes different decisions, as do I in my edition and commentary for Cambridge. I take just one example. Valley 1926, 15, notes that at 2,29,3 Longus uses the nominative δελφίν instead of the classical form δελφίς. δελφίν is indeed the reading of the MS in the Laurentiana, F; but V has δελφίς, as do both MSS of Longus at 3,28,2, and Reeve is surely right to print δελφίς at 2,29,3. This is one of very many cases where the scribe of the Laurentianus shows himself – or his source – to be slovenly, imprecise and apparently quite ready to write down what was in his head rather than what he saw. That should alert us to the possibility that some, perhaps many, post-classical forms in our manuscripts have come into the tradition by corruption.

2. The Literary Level of Longus’ Prose This first main section of my paper assembles some lexical evidence for Longus’ literary aspirations. It says nothing of the many respects in which he succeeds in writing Attic Greek, sometimes making choices which were also approved by Atticist lexicographers, but it documents, albeit selectively, his use of words that he almost certainly could not have found in a classical Attic author, or even in Homer or Herodotus, but that may have been known to him from post-classical literary texts, from non-literary texts, or from the spoken Greek of his time. Α. Some words that are hapax legomena, or are not found in extant literary texts before Longus. 1. ἁλωνοτριβεῖν , ‘work on the threshing floor’, 3,29,1: only here and in the Suda α 1385. The word may well have been current in spoken Greek. Cf. ἁλωνοφυλακεῖν, P.Cair.Zen. 745,86 of the 3rd century BC, and ἁλωνευόμενος, Suda α 1383 (documenting its use by App. Mac. 13). 2. ἐγκόμβωμα, ‘jacket’, 2,33,3: a term first found not in a literary text but in Poll. 4,119, who explains it as an outer garment worn by slaves over a tunic (ἐξωμίς) to keep it clean. It is found later in Basil of Caesarea, Enarratio in prophetam Isaiam 3,125 (on Isaiah 3,20) and in Hesychius s.v. κοσύμβη κ 3774 and κοσσύμβη / κόσσυμβος κ 3780.

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3. ἐμπαροίνημα, ‘object of drunken lust’, 4,18,1: the word appears again only again only in Nicetas Choniates, Μan. 1 p. 171 line 22 and Joannes Cinnamus, Epitome p. 183 line 3 (cf. πρωτoφoρήματα, 3,12,2, below no.5). But the use of the verb ἐμπαροινεῖν in J. Ap. 1,8, AJ 6,12,7, Lucian DDeor. 8,4, Tim. 14 cautions against concluding the noun to be a neologism by Longus, or emending to παροίνημα, the MSS reading at 4,19,5, which Jungermann wanted to emend to ἐμπαροίνημα on the basis of its use at 4,18,1. 4. κυνόδεσμος, apparently ‘dog-leash’, 2,14,3: the masculine κυνόδεσμος appears only here in Greek literature, but the existence of the slang terms κυνοδέσμη (Phryn. PS 85 de Borries) and κυνοδέσμιον (v.l. in Poll. 2,171) – for a cord used by human males, particularly athletes, to tie up the foreskin or penis – suggests that the literal sense ‘dog leash’ may well have been current at some level. As often, a reader is uncertain whether Longus saw (and perhaps welcomed) the likelihood of the slang usage competing with a literal reading here. 5. πρωτοφόρημα, ‘first product’, 3,12,2: only here before the twelfth century, when it is used by Constantine Manasses, Breviarium Chronicum 79 and by Nicetas Choniates, Or. 12,114 (cf. no. 3 ἐμπαροίνημα), but Ath. 13,565F has the verb πρωτοφορεῖν. It seems likely, but is not demonstrable, that all the above words were known to Longus from spoken Greek or from non-literary Greek texts. The same is perhaps true for the form ὁμογάλακτος. 6. ὁμογάλακτος, ‘one nursed at the same breast’, 4,9,3. It is unclear whence Longus gets this nominative singular form ὁμογάλακτος, since in its other appearances (Arist. Pol. 1252b18, Philoch. FGrH 328 F35a & b, and several others) the acc. plural is ὁμογάλακτας. Perhaps Longus encountered the word in a lexicographer and misformed the nominative singular, or perhaps this form was current in the koine, since it appears as a gloss in Hesychius s.v. ἁγάλακτες α 260 and in the Byzantine legal text Βασιλικά, 25,5,20 and 48,2,11. It is also possible that Longus in fact wrote ὡς ὁμoγάλακτoς, using the correct Attic genitive. Likewise Longus’ literal use of the term χειραγωγία may be drawn from spoken Greek. 7. χειραγωγία, ‘leading by the hand’, 4,12,3: this is our first literal use of χειραγωγία in literature; it is already used metaphorically in Max.Tyr. 9,4 Trapp

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(if indeed Maximus writes earlier than Longus). It is also found in a documentary text BGU 1768,1, and in Σ Eur. Or. 663. The noun χειραγωγός, ‘guide’, 4,24,2, is first used literally by Act.Ap. 13,11 or Plu. an seni 21 = Mor. 794d,3 cf. Philostr. Her. 51,5; and first metaphorically by Plu. de fort. 3 = Mor. 98b.4 The verb χειραγωγεῖν, ‘lead by the hand’, 1,21,5, appears only in post-classical Greek (first in the Septuagint), usually metaphorically, of physical or spiritual guidance. Longus seems to play with this metaphor in his unusual literal use (cf. his game with ἐκθηριώσας, 1,20,3), for which the closest parallel is Anacreont. 1,9-10 West: τρέμοντα δ’ αὐτὸν ἤδη | Ἔρως ἐχειραγώγει (‘Eros led him [an aged Anacreon] by the hand as he trembled’). There are some other words in this category which it may be more likely that Longus knew from a literary text now lost to us. 8. εὐωρία, ‘joys of spring’ (Morgan), ‘letizia della stagione’ (Pattoni), 1,9,2: first here in extant literature, then in Lib. Ep. 434,4, though its existence is perhaps implied by the verb εὐωριάζειν ([A.] Pr. 17 conj. Porson, S. fr. 561). The sense ‘freedom from care’ is the only one noted by the Suda ε 3628 s.v., whereas Hesychius ε 7319 glosses it ὀλιγωρία, ἀμέλεια, and Photius’ lexicon gives both the senses τὸ μὴ πάνυ φροντίζειν, ε 2382, and ὀλιγωρία, ε 2381; εὐωρία also appears with the sense ‘freedom from care’ in a magical papyrus, Sammelbuch 4324,7. 9. κορυμβοφόρος, ‘berry-bearing’, 2,26,1: first here in extant literature, but its use by Nonnus in Dionysiac contexts (e.g. D. 14,311; 24,102) may well draw on a lost Hellenistic hexameter or elegiac poet. 10. παταγή, ‘clap’, 1,22,2: V has χειρὸς παταγῆι, which is printed by Vieillefond and Pattoni; F has χειροπλαταγῆι; Cobet proposed χειρὸς πλαταγῆι, which is printed by Reeve, but with the note that V’s χειρὸς παταγῆι might be right. παταγή is found at D.P. 574 (in a maritime context: note the proximity of τῆς θαλάσσης in Longus 1,22,2). 11. προσκαταγέλαστος, 2,19,2: Ath. 11,508b (and later Julian Or. 6,182b (conj.)) has the verb προσκαταγελᾶν, and Reeve retains the verbal adjective προσκαταγέλαστοι, which appears nowhere else in Greek literature. Cobet had proposed reading πρὸς καταγέλαστοι. 12. ῥινηλασία, ‘hunting by scent’, 1,21,2: Anon. Londinensis ἰατρικά 33 and 34, then in a late paraphrase, perhaps by Eutecnius, of [Opp.] Cyneg. 9,3. Τhe ————— 3

4

I take the Acts of the Apostles to be the earlier of these two texts, but some might think differently. Against the authenticity of Philemon fr. 127 Kock, cited by LSJ, cf. K-A VII p.317.

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Suda ῥ 173 offers it as a gloss on ῥινολαβίς. Βut ῥινηλατεῖν, used by Longus 2,13,3, is already in A. Ag. 1185, cf. S. Ichn. 88; ῥινηλάτης Poll. 2,74, Opp. Hal. 2,290. 13. ὠρυγμός, ‘howling’, 2,26,1; 2,30,3: Poll. 5,86, Ael. NA 5,51 (v.l. Theoc. 25,227). But Maccius 8 GP = AP 6,233 could coin (?) the form ὤρυγμα. B. Words and usages first found in post-classical literary texts A large number of words and usages are post-classical, and, if Longus knew roughly the same range of texts known to us, would be likely to carry for him and for his more educated readers the flavour of philosophical or historiographic writing of the Hellenistic and Greco-Roman periods with few or no aspirations to Atticism. I arrange these in the chronological order of the authors in which we find them first, partly because those that appear only at the end of the chronological sequence might be argued to have some bearing on my second question, Longus’ date. 1. Words first in Epicurus: ἐξολισθαίνειν, ‘slip and slide’, 2,28,3: a post-classical form (first in Epicur. Ep. 2 p.45 Usener) for the classical ἐξολισθάνειν. Cf. ἀπωλίσθαινε, Plut. Alc. 6.1. 2. Words first in (?) Chrysippus: ἀνατροφή, ‘nurture’, 1,11,1: post-classical, always of rearing young. Perhaps in Chrysipp. fr. 234 quoted by Origen Cels. 3,69, and fr. 1139 quoted by Gal. UP 1,14,4, but first securely in D.S. 32,15,2, then Plu. TG 8,4, etc., Arr. Cyneg. 29, Artem. 1,16 (25,15 Pack), often in Soranus. Longus may use it because he does not want to repeat τροφή a fifth time. 3. Words first in Callixeinus of Rhodes: ἁλιτενής, ‘projecting into the sea’ 2,12,3: the word appears first in Callixeinus, FGrH 627 F1, applied to a ship, in the sense ‘of shallow draught’; and in this sense in Poseidonius FGrH 89 F73 (= Str. 17,3,4), D.S. 3,44. ἐπιλήνιος, ‘of the vintage’, 2,36,1: Callixeinus ap. Ath. = FGrH 627 F2, p.170,11 J. 4. Words first in Aristophanes of Byzantium: ἀρτιγέννητος, ‘new-born’, 1,9,1, a favourite word of Longus (also 1,18,1; 2,4,3, probably 1,15,3), and, after a first appearance in Arist.Byz. fr. 204 Slater,

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found only in post-classical Greek: 1 Peter 2,2, (later quoted by Clement and Origen), Luc. Alex. 13 and 14, DMar. 12,1). 5. Words first in Polybius: ἀγερωχία, ‘boisterousness’, 2,4,2: Plb. 10,35,8, later Dio of Prusa Or. 32,9 (the Alexandrian oration, of the insolent self-confidence of Cynics), Philostr. VA 2,28 (in the plural, meaning ‘acts of bravado’). ἀσκόπως, ‘(not) aimlessly’ 4,31,1: first at Plb. 4,14,6, and with a negative first at Jos. BJ 3,53 (later AJ 2,2,3); then from the second century onwards in technical writing (e.g. Cleomedes De mot. circ. 190,14), but not in high literature. ναυαρχίς, ‘flagship’, 2,28,2: first in Plb. 1,51,1. 6. Uses first in Polybius: ἀλύειν 1,28,2, in the sense of purposeless wandering: Plb. 26,1,1, Dio of Prusa Or. 7,79, Plu. TG 21,6, Luc. DMar. 13,1, Philostr. Her. 6,2. (though there is possibly an echo of Achilles at Il. 24, 12). βάλλεσθαι, ‘construct’ of fortifications, 3,2,4: Plb. 3,105,10. βαστάζειν, in sense ‘purloin’, 1,3,1: Plb. 32,15,4. ὡς ἔνι μάλιστα, ‘to the best of his ability’, 1,20,3: Plb. 21,4,14; later Luc. Prom.es 6, Hld. 7,11,14 etc. ἀνακτᾶσθαι in the sense ‘cause to recover’, 2,18,1: first in Plb. 3,60,7, cf. Dio of Prusa, Or. 7,7, Arr. Epictet. 3,25,4. λοιπόν (without the article), ‘henceforth’, 1,7,2 etc., is poetic (e.g. Pind. Pyth. 1,37) until Plb. ξενίζειν 4,26,3 in the sense ‘be strange or unfamiliar’: Plb. 3,114,3, Gal. 17(1), 162, Luc. Anach. 16, Merc.cond. 24, de hist.conscr. 25. 7. Uses first in the Septuagint: ποίμνιον, of a single beast, pr. 2; 1,8,3 etc.: 1 Kings 25,2, 1 Ep.Pet. 5,2, cf. IGSK 33.120 (4th c. AD). 8. Words first in Philodemus: προσεκκαίειν, ‘further inflame’, 4,16,1: a post-classical compound, cf. Phld. Lib. p21 O., J. BJ 3,9,6, Plu. Quomodo adulator ab amico 19 = Mor. 60e περὶ τοὺς ἔρωτας. 9. Uses first in Parthenius: προσρεῖν, ‘rush towards’, (in form of aorist participle passive προσρυείς) and a personal subject, 4,19,1: Parth. Erotopath. 7,1 (Lightfoot does not discuss). This use continues in imperial writers: Plu. Brut. 16,2, cf. Amat. 16 = Mor.

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760a, Philostr. VS 2,30, Luc.(?) Am. 8, perhaps taking authority from the absolute use at Men. Dysc. 225 προσερρύη. 10. Words first in Cicero: παλιγγενεσία, ‘rebirth’, 3,4,2: Cic. Ad Att. 6,6,4; then (if he is later) Memnon of Heracleia FGrH 434 F40,2. 11. Words first in Nicolaus of Damascus: τυροποιεῖν, ‘make cheese’, 3,33,1: FGrH 90 F104 (unless Str. 3,5,4 and 4,5,2 were written earlier). 12. Words first in Diodorus Siculus: ἀνατροφή: see under Chrysippus. παιδευτήριον, in the sense ‘(source of) school(ing)’, 2,9,1: first in D.S. 13,27,1, cf. Str. 4,1,5, 181C (both writers alluding to παίδευσιν at Th. 2,41,1), and later Jul. Or. 9,182b Bidez. The sense of παιδευτήριον at 2,9,1 is nearer to ‘lesson’ than to ‘school’. περίκηπος, ‘adjacent garden’, 4,19,4 (again 4,28,2; 4,29,4): this sense is first found in literature in D.S. 34/5,2,13 (whose content, but not necessarily vocabulary, comes from Poseidonius, cf. FGrH 87 F108), though it appears earlier in documents (e.g. P.Cair.Zen. 193,8, 3rd c. BC), cf. later D.L. 9,36. διορμίζειν, ‘moor’, 2,25,2: D.S. 20,88, then Hierocles, p.56 von Arnim. 13. Phrases and forms first in Diodorus Siculus: ἡμέρας γενομένης, ‘at daybreak’, 4,9,3: D.S, 20,86 and 109, Jos. BJ 6,141, Plut. Agis 31,1, etc. ξυρᾶν, ‘shave’, 4,10,1: ξυρᾶν (here ξυρώμενος, a participle found elsewhere before the third century only once in Plut. and Origen) replaces Attic ξυρεῖν in later Greek, cf. D.S. 1,84, Artem. 1,22, Luc. Cyn. 14, v.l at [Plu.] reg. et imp. apophth., Alex. 10 = Mor. 180b. πεφρόντισται, ‘it has been decided’, 2,23,3: πεφρόντισται as the passive of φροντίζειν is a post-classical use, always as here in the perf., cf. D.S. 15,78; 16,32, Ael. NA 7,9, Philostr. VS 1,11,496 and for the adv. πεφροντισμένως, D.S. 12,40. 14. Words first in Dionysius of Halicarnassus: ἀνακλητικός, of a tune used by a goatherd to recall his flock, and for different types of syrinx music, 2,37,3; 4,15,3: this sense is classical for the verb ἀνακαλεῖν cf. Pl. R. 440d3, but the adjective is not attested until post-classical

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Greek, where ἀνακλητικὸν σημαίνειν in a military context is ‘to sound a retreat’, D.H. 8,65, Chariton 8,2,6, and, of a hunt, Chariton 6,4,9; cf. metaphorically Lucillius, Anth.Pal. 11,136,5 σάλπιγξον ταχέως ἀνακλητικόν. Longus may have constructed his use by analogy with such instances rather than on the basis of any knowledge of herders’ tunes specific to recalling goats. δεξίωσις, ‘greeting’, 4,5,2: D.H. 5,7,4, then often in Philo and Plutarch. 15. Words first in Strabo (?): ὁμοφώνως, ‘in unison’, 3,21,2: first securely Strabo 9,2,29, later Plu. Galba 5. ὀψήματα, ‘honeyed cakes’, 3,5,3: ὀψήματα (and not, as our MSS of Plato read, ἑψήματα), may have been in Longus’ text of Pl. R. 372c7 (the diet of the primitive city reclining on στιβάδες) cf. ὀψίματα in the MSS of Plu. QC 4,1,3 = Mor. 664a. If not, then its first appearance is at Strabo 7,4,6. κρημνοβατεῖν, ‘cliff-walk’, 2,28,3: Valley 1926, 65, asserts the word appears first in Strabo (i.e. 15,1,56), but apparently it was in Ctesias, FGrH 688 F63 (ap. Lyd. mens. 4,14); the noun κρημνοβάταν describes Pan in Anth.Pal. 9,142,1 (= FGE 1424, anon.). 16. Words first in Philo: ἀθήρατος, ‘impossible to catch’, 2,4,3: only here in the novelists, and not found before Ph. spec. 3,44, virt. 40,1; cf. [Opp.] Cyneg. 1,514, Ael. NA 1,4; 5,6 in the sense ‘not caught’. ἐνθαλαττεύειν, ‘stay at sea’, 2,12,5: Ph. Immutat. 98 (= 1,287), later Poll. 1,137, Clem. Al. Paed. 2,2,2, Ael. NA 9,63. 17. Words first in Josephus: ἐκπυρσεύειν, ‘inflame’, 1,15,1: literally in J. BJ 4,10,5 etc. (e.g. 5,169,3, 7,8,5); metaphorically (as here) in S.E. M. 11,179. προσστερνίζεσθαι, ‘clasp to one’s breast’, 4,23,2: not found before J. AJ 2,9,7, cf. Sor. 1,106, Poll. 2,162, Σ Theoc. 3,48, SEG 34,1259 (a flowery lament preserved on stone at Claudiopolis, Bithynia, 1st c. AD). 18. Forms first in Josephus: γαληνότερος, ‘calmer’ (comparative of γαληνός), 2,25,2: γαληνός is poetical (esp. Eur.) until Pl. Ax. 370d, and appears in the novels only here and Hld. 3,3,7; its comparative first appears in J. BJ 1,28,2.

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19. Uses first in Josephus: ἀνευφημεῖν, ‘proclaim [Pan’s] power’, 2,29,2: a late use of the verb, cf. of gods X.Eph. 5,13,3, Ach.Tat. 3,5,6, Hld. 2,27,1; of men J. BJ 4,2,5, Chariton 7,3,11, Hdn. 6,4,1. οὐκ ἀσκόπως, ‘not aimlessly’, 4,31,1: positive first in Plb. 4,14,6 (see above), but the first use with a negative is at J. AJ 2,2,3. The expression (μιᾶς) χρόνον ἡμέρας, ‘space of a (single) day’, 2,39,1: cf. J. AJ 9,22; 2,39,1. ὑπερηφανεῖν, ‘scorn’, with accusative and inf., 4,19,5: J. AJ 4,8,23: apart from the participle ὑπερηφαvέovτες at Il. 11,694, the verb (also at 3,30,5) is postclassical: LΧΧ Ne. 9,10, Plb. 6,10. 20. Uses first in Cornutus: ἀποκοσμεῖν, ‘disfigure’, 4,7,2: Corn. ND 30; later Jos. AJ 16,8,5, Aristides, Or. 43,39 Keil, Paus. 7,26,9, Cassius Dio fr. 102,9. 21. Words first in either Philip of Thessalonice or [Apollodorus Mythogr.]: ἐπισκέπειν, ‘cover over’, 1,21,3: AP 6,62 (=Philip 11 GP), [Apollodorus] 1,6,2. 22. Uses first in Chariton: δέησις, ‘request’, 2,33,1: the use with προσφέρειν is late, cf. Chariton 7,6,9; Ach.Tat 7,1,3, and (with ποιεῖσθαι) Luke 5,33. 23. Uses first in [Apollodorus]: μνηστεύεσθαι, ‘court’, with man as the subject, 3,25,4: [Apollodorus] 2,5,12, J. AJ 4,8,23, [Plu.] narr.am. 4,1 = Mor. 774e. Condemned by Lucian Sol. 9, but used by him at Merc.Cond. 23, Tox. 27; also in [Lucian] Asin. 26. 24. Uses first in Leonides of Alexandria: περιττότερος, in the sense ‘more than’: a favourite usage of Longus, e.g. περιττότερα τῶν αἰγῶν κινούμενος ‘who used to be more restless than his goats’, 1,17,4, cf. 2,12,4; 3,11,1; 3,13,3; 3,20,1; 3,21,1; 3,31,2. The nearest I can find elsewhere is in the mid-first century AD poet Leonides of Alexandria, Anth.Pal. 6,321 (= FGE 1867) θύσει τοῦδε περισσότερα (‘will sacrifice more than he’), but cf. already Pl. Ap. 20c τῶν ἄλλων περιττότερον πραγματευομένου (‘being more busy than the rest’).

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25. Words first in Plutarch: ἀγελάρχης, ‘leader of the flock’, 2,31,2: Plu. Rom. 6,4, cf. Luc. Am. 22. These uses are metaphorical, as are the cognate ἀγελαρχεῖν (Ph. 1,679, Plu. Galb. 17,7), ἀγελαρχία (IGR 3,648, equivalent at Idabessus to ἐφηβαρχία). Longus’ literal, pastoral use of a word more often used metaphorically is a humorous touch. γόμφωμα, of a structure (here a boat) fastened by pegs (γόμφοι), 2,26,2: a late word, Plu. Marc. 15,6, de fort.Rom. 9 = Mor. 321d, Vett.Val. 334,11. ἡμιθωράκιον ‘half-cuirass’, 1,28,1; 1,30,3: a light armour said by Poll. 1,134 to have been developed by the fourth-century tyrant Jason of Pherae. IG IX,1² 1,3,40 = Syll.3 421,40, however, shows the term already in use in Aetolia in the 3rd c. BC, cf. SEG 40,524 B.1,7 from Amphipolis ca. 200 BC. It is not attested in literary texts, however, before Plu. de gen.Socr. 30 = Mor. 596d (then Polyaen. 4,3,13). προσλιπαρεῖν, ‘keep close to’, 1,10,1: e.g. Plu. Aem. 23, 7, de mul.virt. 3 = Mor. 245b-c. 26. Uses first in Plutarch: αἰφνίδιον, ‘suddenly’, 2,25,3: this adverbial use of the neuter first appears in Plu. Num. 15,1, though the adjective αἰφνίδιος is Thucydidean (2,61,3; 8,14,1). ἐπείγειν, of an activity or season that is pressing or imminent, 2,1,1: [Plu.] Consol. ad Apollonium 14 = Mor. 108f. εὐτυχεῖν, ‘have the good fortune to’, with inf., 1,11,2; 4,19,4; 4,35,5: Plu. de fort.Al. 1 = Mor. 333d. 27. Forms first in Plutarch: δεδηιωμένον, ‘devastated’, 4,7,5: the verb is used by classical historians (e.g. Th. 1,81,1), but only here in the novels; the perfect participle passive is found only in imperial Greek: here, Plu. Arist. 10,6, Luc. DMort. 20,11, Hdn. 8,5,4. 28. Words first in the New Testament: νεκρούμενος, ‘becoming a corpse’, 2,7,5: first in Epist. Rom. 4,19, cf. Gal. 11,265, 18 (1), 156, M. Ant. 7,2, and the aorist νεκρωθείς, IG XIV 1976 = GVI 1169 = Kaibel 642 (Rome, 3rd or 4th c. AD). 29. Uses first in the New Testament: σεσοφισμένος, in passive sense, ‘cleverly devised’, 1,11,2: 2nd Ep.Pet. 1,16.

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30. Words first in Babrius: ἐφαπλοῦν, ‘unfold over’, 1,20,2: Babr. 95,2, Sor. 2,11, Orph. A. 457, 1336, Hierocl. in CA 21 p.467, Nonn. D. 15,9. 31. Uses first in Dio of Prusa: στεφανοῦσθαι, ‘be crowned with’, with gen., 2,26,2: Dio of Prusa, Or. 9,10 cf. Philostr. Her. 35,9. 32. Words first in Galen: πρωτόρρυτος, ‘first-flowing’, 3,18,2: Gal. 13,626 Kühn, [Opp.] Cyneg. 4,238. 33. Forms first in Pausanias: εὐαγγελίζεσθαι, ‘bring good news’, 3,33,1: other tenses in middle and passive are found in several imperial texts, e.g. Chariton 2,1,1 and often in Heliodorus. The imperfect middle appears here and in Paus. 4,19,5. 34. Some words shared with Lucian: ἀποβάθρα, ‘gangplanks’, 2,28,3: rare, but found in both Hdt. (9,98,2) and Th. (4,12,1), then Luc. DMort. 20. ξενίζειν, ‘be strange’, 4,26,3: cf. above under 6. Uses first in Polybius; perhaps a Lieblingswort of Lucian noticed by Longus. τραγοσκελής, κερασφόρος, ‘goat-legged, horn-bearing’, 2,24,2, of the cultstatue of Pan: these are regular attributes of Pan in the visual arts, Borgeaud 1988, LIMC; τραγοσκελής is already found at Hdt. 2,46,2 αἰγοπρόσωπον καὶ τραγοσκελέα; the epithets appear together at Luc. DDeor. 2,2, and κερασφόρος at Bis acc. 9. 35. Words first in Sextus: σεμνολόγημα, ‘boast’, 2,32,3: S.E. Pyrrh. Hypot. 3,200, Hld. 9,22,7; D.C. 50,27,2; 53,7,4; 72,4,4 (also in Eusebius and Greg. Naz.). 36. Uses first in Sextus: ὀνειροπολεῖσθαι, ‘dream’, in the middle (the active is classical) 3,9,5: S.E. math. 8,57. 37. Words first in Athenaeus: λινοστατεῖν 2,13,3: Ath. 4.219d (metaphorical), referring to Pl. Symp. 219d, where the word is not in fact used; then [Opp.] Cyneg. 4,64. The noun λινοστασία appears first in Leonidas, Anth.Pal. 7,448,2 (= HE 2025).

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38. Words first in Philostratus: ὑπανθεῖν, ‘begin to bloom’, 3,12,1;5 4,8,1: its first use in a literary text is by Philostr. Imag. 1,31,2 (ὑπηνθηκέναι). Poll. 1,60 and 2,10 shows its currency at some level, and at 1,60 Pollux specifically relates it to spring (ἦρος ὑπανθούσης), the context of Longus 3,12,1. Perhaps both Pollux and Longus knew a literary text (or texts) in which it had already appeared, but to my mind the constellation of appearances in Pollux, Longus and Philostratus’ Imagines suggests that it might be a word coming into vogue late in the second century AD. 39. Words shared with Cassius Dio: μόλις ποτέ, ‘only just’, 2,24,3: Eur. Ion 383, Helen 396; Th. 7,40,3; Men. Dys. 684, Sam. 493; Plu. Pel. 8,5, 11,6; Dio of Prusa 7,56; 11,107; Luc. Nec. 12, Rh.Pr. 5 (ποτὲ μόλις); D.C. 5,18,11; 36,30,2; 40,17,2; 48,41,6; 48,43,6; 54,16,6; 57,4,3; 63,25,2; 65,5,3, Hdn. 3,15,2 Aristid. 48,6K (= Hieroi logoi 2,6). Cf. μόγις ποτέ Pl. Prt. 314e2, Lg. 798a5. μόλις is naturally much used by the novelists: 23 times by Chariton, 4 by Xenophon (adept at missing tricks), 13 by Achilles Tatius and 12 by Heliodorus. 40. Words shared with Heliodorus alone among the novelists: ἀνεύρεσις, ‘recovery’, 4,28,3: Hld. five times (4,5,7; 4,33,3; 6,4,2; 6,7,2; 9,24,4). λυμαίνεσθαι, ‘damage’, 4,1,1: Hld. ten times (devastare 4,11,3; 7,3,4; 8,1,4; 8,9,13; 9,6,5; 9,18,2; corrumpere 3,8,2; contaminare 4,10,3; 10,16,7; offendere 3,18,2). 41. Uses first in Himerius (!) προξενεῖν, in the sense of ‘find a bride for’, 3,26,3: Him. Or. 1,11.

C. Some conclusions about the literary level of Longus’ prose What I have set out above constitutes only a sub-class of the much more numerous cases of vocabulary and usage that Longus shares with authors of the Hellenistic and Greco-Roman periods most of whose attention is directed to their content and not to their style. Longus does himself often Atticise, but much less consistently than other Atticising writers of the late second and early third centuries. What Valley wrote about his literary models can also be said of his linguistic choices:6 ————— 5 6

ὐπανθούσης V: F offers ἐπανθούσης. At 2,30,3 both MSS have ἐπανθήσασαν. Valley 1926, 79.

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Longus ist ein Eklektiker. Wie eine emsige Biene sammelt er seinen Honig aus den Werken der älteren Dichter und Prosaiker. Mit einer sophistischen Kunst, wie sie wohl nie höher gestiegen ist, fügt er das verschiedene zusammen… In some respects, then, Longus’ linguistic behaviour can be seen as analogous to that of Chariton. As Ruiz Montero and Hernández Lara have shown,7 Chariton’s vocabulary matches that of several writers of the first century AD; but though writing in a period when Atticism was gaining strength and may well have been prominent in some places and for some individual writers, Chariton himself does not follow this path. A century and a half later Longus is writing in a world where some lexicographers and sophists both preach and attempt to practise hardcore Atticism; but Longus blends Atticist and Hellenistic usage without apparent concern.

3. Language and Date Can any arguments about the date at which Longus was writing be constructed on the basis of the words he uses that first appear (above 2.B.32, 34, 35, 37, perhaps 38) in late second- and early third-century authors? I must admit that the hardheaded answer is ‘no!’. These words may have appeared earlier in literary texts that have not survived; and even if they did not, we cannot tell whether (a) their first use was by Galen / Lucian / Pausanias / Athenaeus / Philostratus, and Longus derived the word in question from them, or (b) it was indeed Longus who got there first. If Longus is writing after Pausanias, as I have once argued,8 then it is only in the case of 2.B.38 and perhaps 37 that Longus might be the first to use the word in a literary text; and even there we have seen that for 37, ὑπανθεῖν, its appearance in Pollux may be due to his knowing it from an earlier literary text. But an impressionistic response to these data might be different. The presence of a cluster of words attested for the first time, together with the great enthusiasm for μόλις ποτέ shown by Cassius Dio, and the absence (so far as I have been able to determine) of words in Longus that are first attested in later third-century writing (e.g. in Iamblichus or Porphyry) suggest to me that Longus’ lexicon points to his time of writing as having been the 220s or 230s AD.

————— 7 8

Ruiz Montero 1991. Hernandez Lara 1994. Bowie 2001.

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Bibliography Borgeaud, P. 1988 The Cult of Pan in Ancient Greece. Chicago & London: Chicago University Press. Bowie, E.L. 2001. ‘Pausanias: inspiration and aspiration’ in S. Alcock and J. Elsner (eds.), Pausanias. Travel and Memory in Roman Greece, New York: Oxford University Press. Henderson, J. 2009. Longus: Daphnis and Chloe. Xenophon of Ephesus: Anthia and Habrocomes. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press. Hernández Lara, C. 1994. Estudios sobre el Aticismo de Caritón de Afrodisias, Amsterdam: Hakkert. Morgan, J.R. 2004. Longus, Daphnis and Chloe. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Pattoni, M.P. 2005 (a cura di). Longo Sofista: Dafni e Cloe (con testo greco a fronte), Milano: BUR. Reeve, M.D. 19862. Longus, Daphnis & Chloe, first edition 1982, third 1994, Leipzig: Teubner. Ruiz Montero, C. 1991. ‘Aspects of the vocabulary of Chariton of Aphrodisias’, CQ 41, 484489. Valley, G. 1926. Über den Sprachgebrauch des Longus. Inaugural-Dissertation, Uppsala: Edv. Berlings Nya Boktryckeri. Valley, G. 1928. Longos. Daphnis och Chloe. En Herderoman, Översatt från Grekiskan av Gunnar Valley, Försedd med Teckningar av Yngve Berg, Stockholm: Albert Bonniers Förlag.

Style and ethos in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe C HRISTOPHER G ILL University of Exeter

How should we define the distinctive character or tone of Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe and the ethical values or attitudes associated with that character (which is what I mean by ‘ethos’)?1 The work is, of course, uniquely within surviving Greek prose fiction, a pastoral novel; but this special status provides only the startingpoint for making sense of the ethos of the work. I approach this question, in the first instance, by reference to a striking feature of the novel’s style, namely the alternation between standard prose narrative and dialogue style and a more ornate, even poetic, style.2 In the course of this discussion, I suggest that the ornate style plays a special role in informing the tone and ethos of the novel. The characteristic themes and modes of behaviour with which this style is most closely associated are ones that are given special weight and importance within the work. These themes include the conversion of life into art, the sense of a timeless present, and the reflective but intense expression of emotion. The ornate style is also linked with a specific mode of interpersonal relationship that is especially, though not uniquely, associated with Daphnis and Chloe: that of loving attention and mutual concern. This is marked off by contrast with another mode of interpersonal behaviour, presented as a deflection from the first and centred on violence, manipulation, or exploitation. These themes (like the ornate style with which they are associated) are partly derived from pastoral poetry. But they represent a considered selection or distillation of pastoral motifs; and they may also be informed by certain ancient philosophical ideas, as suggested at the close of this essay. ————— 1

2

‘Ethos’ is sometimes used in ancient rhetorical criticism to mean ‘characterisation’, but I am using the term in a sense common in modern English in phrases such as ‘public school ethos’, ‘socialist ethos’. I characterise the contrast in styles in these terms, rather than (for instance) in terms of Attic and Asianic styles because the latter contrast is more relevant to rhetorical contexts and also raises complex linguistic and stylistic questions which are not germane to the present discussion. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 113–135

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This discussion relates in various ways to questions debated in recent scholarship on this novel, in particular, one which derives from the novel’s unique status as a pastoral novel. Does the novel celebrate nature and the natural (which the pastoral mode lovingly recreates) or, rather, the urban – or urbane – culture with which nature is juxtaposed? Put differently, does the novel invite engagement with the naïve but unspoilt figures, mentality and social world that the pastoral mode presents or with the sophisticated, urban sensibility that informs this presentation?3 On the basis of the material considered here, I would say that the novel celebrates salient features of the pastoral world that is depicted, even if it does so from an implicitly sophisticated standpoint that is not the same as that of the main figures. The suggestion, made at the end of this essay, that the novel presents positively ideas and values which were also espoused by some ancient philosophical theories indicates that these themes could form part of a more sophisticated and theorised framework of thought, even if they are treated in the novel itself with studied simplicity.

Alternation of styles A distinctive and well-recognised mark of the prose style of the novel is the alternation between relatively straightforward passages of narrative or dialogue and more ornate or poetic passages, which punctuate the forward movement of the story. The latter type of passage can be further subdivided into groups, though with certain common stylistic features. The novel opens with a preface centred on a special kind of ecphrasis (verbal account of a picture); and there are subsequent ecphrastic-type descriptions, of the seasons (1,9; 1,23; 2,1; 3,3), of beautiful gardens (2,3; 4,2) or other striking scenes, such as the harmonious advance of the fishing boat (3,21). Another group is formed by passages of emotional expression, such as the reactions of Daphnis or Chloe to the impact of love or to threats to it (1,14; 1,18; 1.23; 1,25; 2,8; 2,22; 4,27-28), or the emotionally charged amoebean contest between Daphnis and Dorcon (1,16). We can also include in this group Lamon’s expression of horror at the destruction of the garden of Dionysophanes (4,8) and Gnathon’s impassioned eulogy of Daphnis’ beauty (4,17). A third group is that of the stories inset into the narrative (1,27; 2,34; 3,23). An exact catalogue of such passages is perhaps not possible, since there is some intermingling of the ————— 3

See e.g. Zeitlin 1990, Effe 1999, Cresci 1999, Saïd 1999, 97-107, Morgan 2004, 15-16, Whitmarsh 2008b, 76-79. Also relevant is Teske 1991, which examines systematically the interplay between the themes of nature (phusis) and art (technē) in the novel. Montiglio 2012, 133-138, approaches this interplay by exploring the role of music in the novel.

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two styles and there are also some intermediate cases. However, on the whole, there is a rather marked contrast between the style of these passages and the rest of the narrative or dialogue. Normally both the narrative and the dialogue constitute fairly typical examples of standard literary Greek prose style in the period, though the style is distinguished by exceptional purity of diction and simplicity or lucidity of syntax.4 Richard Hunter characterises the ornate passages by ‘a concern with symmetry and antithesis in both language and thought’.5 The forms of symmetry include anaphora (repetition of the same syntactical pattern) or chiasmus (repetition of the same pattern in reverse order); anaphora is sometimes organised in groups of three (tricola). Both figures may be reinforced by making the analogous terms synonyms or similar in sound (assonance) or by the use of rhyme. These patterns can be handled in a way that underlines the symmetry or repetition or which softens it by variation in meaning or word-shape.6 As Hunter also points out, this style partly reproduces that of Greek pastoral poetry, in which studied repetition, balance and antithesis are dominant features.7 But Longus’ ornate style also evokes the show-case (‘epideictic’) rhetoric of the fifth-century BC sophist Gorgias. This style was a source of inspiration for a number of writers, including some novelists, in the second century AD, the period of the ‘Second Sophistic’, in which we normally place Longus’ novel.8 This combination of stylistic influences might seem paradoxical, since pastoral style aims at a certain kind of simplicity whereas Gorgianic epideictic is explicitly artful. But the paradox is only skin-deep, since the pastoral mode is actually faux-naïf, reproducing rustic simplicity with palpable artistry. Theocritus combines short clauses and paratactic sentence construction (giving an impression of studied simplicity) with figures of speech that bring balance and antithesis, and this style is adopted and developed by Longus in the ornate passages. I begin by illustrating the relationship between the styles of Theocritus and Longus. Although the examples are relatively full, they identify features which are significant for this discussion as a whole. First, here is an extract from ————— 4 5 6 7 8

See Hunter 1983, 85. Hunter 1983, 86. Hunter 1983, 86-90, with extensive examples. Hunter 1983, 90; also Dover 1971, xlv-xlviii. Hunter 1983, 90-91. A special source of inspiration seems to have been Plato’s pastiche of Gorgianic style in Agathon’s eulogy of erōs in Symposium 195a-197e, esp. 197c-e, echoed in Daphnis and Chloe (DC) 2,7; see Laird 2008, 206-207. On the possible date of the novel, see Morgan 2004, 1-2, and on the Second Sophistic and the Greek novel, Whitmarsh 2005b, 86-89.

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Theocritus 8, which centres on an amoebean exchange (poetry competition) between Daphnis, here presented as a cowherd, and Menalcas the shepherd. ME: Valleys and rivers (a divine tribe), if ever the piper Menalcas played a tune that pleased you, feed his lambs with good will; and if Daphnis ever bring his heifers, let him have nothing less. DA: Springs and pastures (sweet nourishment), if Daphnis makes music like the nightingales, fatten this herd of his; and if Menalcas leads any of his here, let him enjoy feeding them with unlimited plenty. ME: There does the sheep, there do the goats bear twins, there the bees fill the hives and oaks grow higher, where handsome Milo walks; but if he goes away, the shepherd and his pastures there are dry. DA: Everywhere there is spring, everywhere there are pastures, everywhere udders gush with milk and the young are nourished where lovely Naïs visits; but if she goes away, the cowherd and his cows become more parched.9 The passage brings out several characteristic features of pastoral style and ethos that are relevant here. We have, first, the typical combination of simple, rustic diction, short clause units and uncomplicated syntax with verbal repetition used to create balance or antithesis. The most obvious feature, evident also in translation, is the balance between each set of exchanges. In the first set, double vocatives (with added comment on the second item in parenthesis) precede conditional sentences with the main clauses expressing wishes couched in the imperative or optative. In the second set of exchanges, in each case, ascending tricola (groups of three with each group longer than its predecessor) are coupled with relative clauses of location (‘where …’). Conditional sentences reappear to express the contrasting result of the absence of the loved person. At the level of content, the most obvious feature consists in variations of the ‘pathetic’ fallacy (that nature responds to human action or emotion), coupled with reference to two types of interpersonal relationship. In the first set of exchanges, nature (specifically, the environment of each of the herdsmen) is asked to respond positively to the music offered by each of the speakers and to extend the reciprocal favour requested to the other speaker (who is presented as a friend). In the second set of exchanges, there is a vision of natural fecundity in response to the presence of someone, male or female, loved by the speaker, contrasted with a picture of the negative impact on nature of the loved one’s departure. The two types of pattern (stylistic and interpersonal) seem to be deliberately linked. In the first instance, the verbal ————— 9

Theoc. 8,33-48, text and line arrangement as in Gow 1950; translation mine but based on Gow’s.

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patterns are used as an effective way of articulating the content – which centres on the interpersonal pattern. But also there is a further implied link, namely between the reciprocal and harmonious relationships wished for (both between humans and nature and between the people named) and the highly structured, reiterative sound patterns created within the verses.10 Here, in comparison, is Longus’ description of spring early in the novel (with added letters and numbers to aid stylistic analysis): It was the beginning of spring, and all the flowers were in bloom, in the woods (A), in the meadows (B), and on the hills (C). Now there was the hum of bees (i), the sound of sweet-singing birds (ii), the skipping of newborn lambs (iii). The lambs skipped on the hills (iii + C); the bees hummed in the meadows (i + B); the birds filled the copses with the enchantment of their song (ii + A). Everything was possessed by the beauty of spring; and Daphnis and Chloe, impressionable young creatures that they were, imitated what they heard and saw. They heard the birds singing and they sang (ii); they saw the lambs skipping and they leapt about nimbly (iii); they copied the bees and gathered flowers (i). They scattered some of the flowers in the folds of their clothes; and they used the rest to weave little garlands, as offerings to the Nymphs.11 As in the Theocritus passage, at the stylistic level, a combination of highly standard rustic vocabulary, short, straightforward clauses and intricate word and phrase patterns creates a distinctive tone of artful simplicity. As regards word-order, as John Morgan brings out in an acute reading,12 the basic unit is the triad. There are three stages in the description (locations, creatures and human imitation) and each of these stages, as well as the whole description, forms an ascending tricolon, a figure also employed in the Theocritus passage. As indicated by the added letters and numbers, the three stages also deploy variations in the order in which the various items are presented. The first two sequences also form a chiasmus (ABC; CBA) as regards locations. Within the stages there are further phrase patterns; for instance, the first two units in each stage and in each sentence display anaphora (the same type of word in the same order), whereas the third unit varies. As Morgan puts it in summary, ‘The total effect is incantatory, arranging short grammatically simple units in complex patterns, with plentiful assonance and alliteration’. ————— 10

11

12

On possible links of this kind between style and theme, in Longus’ novel, see below text to n. 29. DC 1,9, translation by Gill in Reardon 1989 [2008]. All subsequent translations of DC are from Gill unless otherwise indicated. The Greek text used is that of Reeve 1986 [1994]. Morgan 2004, 156-157.

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At the level of content, this passage, like the extract from Theocritus, displays the ‘pathetic fallacy’, but in a different way. Although the human figures are differentiated from the non-human ones by combining all three types of response, they merge with the natural world by imitating all three responses and by expressing the same joy in being alive that is implied in the non-human reactions. The third human response (which picks up the first natural response to spring), making flowers into garlands for the Nymphs, signals the motif of making offerings to the gods which also figures in the Theocritus passage and is there linked with music. In both passages, a reciprocal relationship is implied: the children’s offering of flowers reciprocates the divine beauty of the spring, whereas Theocritus’ herdsmen invite reciprocation from the natural powers to their musical offerings.13 The passage also indicates a theme brought out much more strongly in the next chapter (1,10), the bonding of Daphnis and Chloe in shared or reciprocal activities with each other, as well as with other natural kinds.14 As in the Theocritus passage, there is an implicit parallel between the structure and harmony embodied in the style and in the relationships described between humans or between humans and nature. What, overall, is the impact of this type of passage, and of the alternation of styles, on the distinctive character of the novel? As indicated earlier, there is some variation in the way such passages are located within the novel. Sometimes, they occur in isolation, and stand out sharply from the surrounding narrative or dialogue, and in other cases there is a cluster of such passages and they merge into the relevant section of the novel.15 The most obvious effect is to introduce variety of mode and to punctuate the story-line; as will be brought out shortly, these passages are often linked with the slowing down of narrative tempo and emotional reflection on events. In this respect, the passages operate rather like the choral sections of Greek tragedies (or of Old Comedy), as opposed to the dialogue that carries the main burden of the dramatic action. (Modern parallels are the alternating plainchant and polyphony of traditional European church music or the combination of recitative and aria in operas or oratorios.) The fact that these parts of the novel have a more elaborate (verse-like or song-like) style reinforces the analogy with dramatic lyric. Also – as is perhaps the case in Greek drama – the ————— 13 14

15

Cf. Theoc. 8,33-34 (noting ‘divine tribe’) and 37-38. On the importance of the shared life and reciprocity in the mode of relationship associated with Daphnis and Chloe, see below text to nn. 32-34. See above text to nn. 2-3. Examples of each type: (isolated passages) the prelude to Book 1 and 3,21, the description of ‘harmonic’ navigation; (clusters) 1,14-18, two emotional speeches and an amoebean love-contest, 2,3-8, descriptive passages and emotional speeches, 2,34-39, inset story, description of singing and dancing, Chloe’s demand for an oath. Within these clusters, there is varying density of the more elaborate style-markers.

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recurrent presence of the more elaborate (lyric-style) passages informs the ethos of the whole work and deepens its tone. This is especially so because of the connotations of many of these passages, which introduce a more reflective or profound note, as will be explained shortly. In addition, although passages of this type stand out from the rest of the novel in some respects (for instance, by elaborateness of style and certain recurrent motifs), there are also common elements in the style of the novel as a whole, especially the studied simplicity of diction and syntax. Thus, the more elaborate passages, while distinguishable, are also intertwined with the rest and have a pervasive effect on the ethos of the entire novel.

Connotations of the ornate passages There are three main types of connotation of the more ornate passages, which are interrelated with each other and with the stylistic characteristics of the passages. One is the conversion of life into art; another is a sense of the timeless present; a third is emotional expression or reflexion. As will be brought out later, all three connotations seem to be decisively influenced by pastoral poetry, although these motifs have other influences too, and have in any case been reworked in various ways in the novel. The interplay between life and art, fact and fiction, is an important and complex theme in the novel as a whole, as some recent treatments have brought out.16 Within this broader interplay, the more ornate passages are especially associated with a particular motif, namely the conversion of life into some type of art-form. This linkage is set up from the beginning of the novel, in which an ecphrasis (couched in the ornate style) serves as the starting-point for the whole work. The picture described encapsulates the events of the story; and so both the picture and the description can be seen as the conversion of action into forms of art (though, in another way, the subsequent action is made part of this art-form, as a retelling of the picture).17 At other points in the novel, ecphrastic-style descriptions (verbal accounts of scenes depicted in a quasi-pictorial way) are, typically, formulated in the ornate style. This applies to the elaborate descriptions of the onset of new seasons, such as that of spring discussed earlier, and also of the beautifully prepared gardens (which are themselves, in another sense, products of artistic

————— 16 17

See e.g. Zeitlin 1990, Morgan 1994 and 2004, 14-15, 16-17, Montiglio 2012, Bowie 2013. On the intricacies and multiple implications of the preface, see Morgan 2004, 145-150.

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composition) of Philetas and Dionysophanes.18 A further ecphrastic-style description, that of a fishing-boat viewed, like a picture, from the shore, carries a further ‘life-into-art’ twist. The sailors are said to sing ‘like a kind of chorus’ and a rounded glen is described as acting ‘like a musical instrument’ and echoing the sound from the ship (3,21). The three stories inset into the narrative (presented in a version of the ornate style) are also related in more or less oblique ways to the surrounding action; and in this respect they also constitute the conversion of the real-life events of the novel into another art-form, that of story-telling.19 Lamon’s aetiological story of the pan-pipes (in which a girl with a beautiful voice, Syrinx, turns into a set of pipes), which is praised as ‘a story sweeter than any song’ (2,35), sets in train an intensive sequence of artistic and imitative activities, partly formulated in the ornate style.20 This sequence includes Philetas playing his pipes in modes that are appropriate for different types of animal (cows, goats, and sheep) and Dryas acting out the grape-harvest in a dance. It also includes Daphnis and Chloe acting out the story of Pan and Syrinx in dance, followed by Daphnis playing the pipes in a way that picks up one of the inset story’s themes, the responses of Pan as lover (2,35-38). We may also see Chloe’s demand in 2,39 that Daphnis swear an oath of fidelity to her by the herds rather than by Pan (a demand also couched in the ornate style) as a continuation of this enactment of the story. Pan’s unreliability as a lover, illustrated in the story, is cited by Chloe as a reason for not taking him seriously as a god to swear by. There is thus a sustained linkage between the conversion of real-life activities into one or other form of art, whether story, music, or dance, and the ornate style, which is itself, of course, a kind of artistic composition in its own right. A second connotation of these passages, and one closely linked with the first theme, is the sense of timeless present. This theme needs to be placed in a rather broader framework, which is also important for making sense of the third connotation, emotional expression, especially that of Daphnis and Chloe. Typically, the action of Greek novels is dominated by a series of adventures, conflicts, and accidents, which ensure that the lovers who are central to the story are kept apart or ————— 18

19

20

See 1,9 (discussed above); 1,23; 2,1; 3,3 (seasons), and 2,3, 4,2 (gardens); Lamon’s lament at the destruction of the beautiful garden (4,8, also in the ornate style) is a kind of inverse of the ecphrastic-type of description. See 1,27; 2,34; 3,23; on the links with the surrounding events, see Hunter 1983, 52-57, Morgan 1994, 69-70, and Morgan 2004, 171-172, 195-196, 213-215. On the life-into-art theme in the novel interpreted in terms of music, see Montiglio 2012. The most obviously ornate parts are 2,34 (the inset story) and 36 (the description of the mimetic dance), but to some extent the whole section has features characteristic of the ornate style.

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unhappy until the close of the story brings resolution in the form of marriage or reunion. Although the chronological framework within which these adventures happen is often quite vague, time in another sense, what Mikhail Bakhtin calls ‘adventure time’ (the progress of emotionally charged incidents), stands at the centre of the novels. In Daphnis and Chloe, by contrast, such adventures play only a relatively minor role and are converted into a more small-scale and pastoral mode. At the same time, chronological time assumes an exceptional importance, at least in the cycle of the seasons, which is carefully correlated with the lovers’ step-by-step advance of sexual and emotional awakening (despite naïveté and external obstacles) from the onset of puberty to an early marriage. The novel allows this relationship to unfold in an unusually leisurely and gradual way, which is partly related to the lovers’ exceptional social status, as unsupervised adolescents and as independent goatherd and shepherd.21 As a result, the dominance of ‘adventure time’ is replaced in this novel by that of ‘idyllic time’ or ‘leisure time’, which is coupled with ‘psychological time’, in which the feelings of the lovers are explored in some depth.22 The sense of timeless present, which is especially associated with the ornate passages, can be located against this background. The implications for the expressions of emotion by the young lovers (and others) will be explored shortly. But I take first the implications for the passages just considered, which combine a relatively elaborate style with the theme of the conversion of life into art. These passages are all, in different ways, ones in which the forward movement of the story (the erotic progress or the incidents which delay or advance this) is temporarily halted or at least retarded. Instead, we have, as outlined earlier, ecphrastic or quasi-ecphrastic descriptions of the current season or a beautiful garden or a passing scene, such as the musical fishing-boat. (In contemporary film terms, such descriptions are like the slow panning of a camera around a natural or artificial context which precedes or interrupts more dynamic incidents.) Analogously, the inset stories, which are digressions obliquely related to the main action, halt the story-line, even if they offer by implication a fresh perspective on it. The sequence of artistic activities (story, music and dance) near the close of Book 2 (34-37) marks another episode in which, as it were, real time is suspended while the figures are absorbed in artistic time. Although the main action is not carried forward, these moments are not mere blanks. Rather, the episodes are ones which command ————— 21 22

On this process, see Konstan 1994, 79-90. This paragraph draws on a helpful treatment of time in the ancient novel, Kim 2008, esp. 145-148, which in turn summarises themes in Bakhtin 1981, 103-104, 224-236. As Kim notes (2008, 156-157), the closest parallel to these exceptional features of DC occurs in Books 1-2 of Achilles Tatius’ Clitophon and Leucippe. On unfolding love and the seasons in DC, see Chalk 1960, 39-44, Morgan 2004, 10-14.

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close attention or engagement – to a scene, story or enactment presented vividly to us or the figures involved. Hence, such moments seem appropriately described as not merely timeless (in terms of the main action) but also as located in a kind of timeless present. The expressions of emotion, which are also typically couched in the ornate style, might seem to constitute an exception to this principle, since they form part of the central story-line of this novel, the unfolding love of Daphnis and Chloe and their progressive understanding of what this means. However, this creates a sense of timeless present in a rather different way. These passages serve as vehicles by which the characters, especially Daphnis and Chloe, can reflect in an emotional way on a specific stage in the erotic development or on some recent upsetting event. They are often soliloquies, expressing the character’s private thoughts, and are in this sense not part of the main ongoing sequence of interactive engagement. For instance, first Chloe and then Daphnis express their inner thoughts on the impact of a love they do not understand (1,14; 1,18; 1,25).23 The symmetrically paired laments by the lovers in Book 4 at the seemingly disastrous impact of the discovery of Daphnis’ identity also constitute intense but reflective soliloquies marking their reactions to the latest turn of events (4,27-28). In the section near the start of Book 2 (3-8) which is largely couched in the ornate style, Philetas’ reminiscence of the first impact of love on him (2,7) is echoed by the joint comments of Daphnis and Chloe, comparing their experiences with his (2,8). Although the whole Philetas episode plays a crucial part in the sexual and emotional development of the young lovers, these specific chapters are presented as reflective commentary on emotional experience, either retrospective (in the case of the old man Philetas) or current (in the case of Daphnis and Chloe). The lament by Lamon at the destruction of the garden of Dionysophanes can also be seen as an intense but reflective commentary on the situation (4,8). Two other chapters in the ornate style in Book 4 (16-17), Gnathon’s appeal to Astylus for help in satisfying his desire for Daphnis and his eulogy of the boy’s beauty in defence of his infatuation, are similar in expressing intense emotion. But they differ in having a more pronounced rhetorical or epideictic character, especially in 4,17, and differ from the other, more direct and heart-felt passages in this respect as well as by the kind of interpersonal mode with which they are linked.24 On the whole, however, these passages constitute (like lyric choruses in Greek Tragedy or Old Comedy) emotionally charged but reflective commentary on the onward march of the action

————— 23 24

Cf. also the despairing but reflective soliloquy of Daphnis after Chloe’s seizure in 2,22. On this contrast in interpersonal mode, see the following section of this article.

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and are thus comparable with the ‘life-to-art’ passages in marking a pause in events.25 An example of this type of passage can illustrate this point. Daphnis is talking to himself about the impact of his first kiss from Chloe (1,18): “Whatever is Chloe’s kiss doing to me? Her lips are softer than rose petals and her mouth is sweeter than honeycombs, but her kiss is sharper than the bee’s sting. I’ve often kissed new-born puppies and the calf that Dorcon gave her – but this is a new kind of kiss. My breath comes in gasps, my heart leaps out of my breast; my spirit dissolves – and yet I want to kiss her again. Oh what a terrible victory! Oh what a strange disease! I don’t even know what to call it! Did Chloe take poison before she kissed me? But then why didn’t she die? How the nightingales sing while my pipes are silent! How the kids jump around while I sit still! How the flowers bloom while I make no garlands! But while the violets and hyacinths flourish, Daphnis wastes away. Will even Dorcon come to seem more attractive than me?” I consider first features of style or content specific to this passage, taken in its context, and then ways in which the style of this type of passage is evocative of the connotations outlined earlier. This speech is closely parallel to an earlier soliloquy by Chloe, on the impact of seeing Daphnis’ naked body (1,14). In both cases, the main emphasis is on the mismatch between their childish and rustic experience or attitudes and the intensity of the erotic experience into which they have fallen without preparation. Thus, in this passage, though the pastoral context seems to offer comparators for Chloe’s kiss, Daphnis’ affectionate responses to animals prove useless as analogues, and the effect of the kiss threatens his earlier harmonious synergy with the pastoral flora and fauna.26 At the same time, at the stylistic level, there is a striking combination of simplicity and artfulness. As in the passage examined earlier (1,9), short clauses and standard or rustic diction are coupled with forms of word order that create repeated patterns of balance and antithesis. The first two-thirds of the passage (1,18,1) contain extended anaphoras. The first two anaphoras (similes for Chloe’s kiss and rustic comparators for the experience) display ascending ————— 25

26

A further parallel is with tragic monologues (most famously, E. Med. 1020-1081), which also constitute a kind of break from the normal interactive process of tragedy; on quasitragic monologues in DC and the (partial) parallel with other Greek novels in the use of this form, see Morgan 2004, 162, Bowie 2007. In the amoebean ‘beauty-contest’ between Daphnis and Dorcon that falls between the two soliloquies (1,16), by contrast, the systematic use of pastoral comparators is not coupled with any sense that they are inadequate to what is being expressed.

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tricolon, with each item longer than its predecessor. In a third anaphora with tricolon, Daphnis lists the psychophysical effects of Chloe’s kiss. In the last third of the passage (1,18,2), the dominant pattern is two-fold, either in reiteration or contrast.27 This pattern is worked out with alliteration, assonance and chiasmus28 to underline Daphnis’ current dislocation from the normal patterns of his pastoral sense of being at ease with natural processes. A related, striking feature of both 1,18 and 1,14 is that the expressions of bafflement are strongly reminiscent of the motifs and images of the preceding poetic tradition as regards the symptoms of love. In this passage, and elsewhere, the echoes of Sappho are especially strong, including the idea that love is ‘bittersweet’ and the influential listing of the psychophysical symptoms of love in Sappho’s poem 31.29 Other familiar poetic motifs include the idea of love as a disease and the lover as close to death. As Morgan points out, such allusions imply a complex interplay between nature and culture: ‘the unschooled character “instinctively” discovers the literary commonplaces of erotic symptomology, thus grounding poetic convention in nature’.30 How does the style of the ornate passages, as illustrated here and in 1,9, relate to the three main type of connotations considered here? I think we can see analogies between the distinctive features of the ornate style, considered in relation to the style of the rest of the novel, and the recurrent themes with which the style is associated. The combination of short phases or clauses and elaborate word-patterns, such as anaphora, chiasmus, and tricolon, create a kind of prose that is more like verse, or indeed like wordless music or dance (in so far as the word-patterns have a structure of their own, apart from the content).31 Put more generally, this type of prose is as much an artistic composition or construction as it is a vehicle for communicating content; and as such it is an especially suitable medium for conveying moments when events are being converted into art-forms. For related reasons, this style is also highly appropriate for conveying moments when the ————— 27

28

29

30 31

Reiteration: ‘Oh, what a terrible victory! Oh, what a strange disease!’; contrast: Daphnis distinguishes (in the form of a tricolon) the normal reactions of the nightingales, kids, and flowers from his own abnormal reactions; also ‘while the violets and hyacinths flourish, Daphnis wastes away’. Alliteration: ὢ νίκης κακῆς· ὢ νόσου καινῆς; assonance: ᾄδουσιν αἱ ἀηδόνες … σῦριγξ σιωπᾷ … ἀκμάζει τὰ ἄνθη; chiasmus: in the eight clauses between οἷον ᾄδουσιν αἱ ἀηδόνες and Δάφνις δὲ μαραίνεται the pattern is consistently verb plus noun – noun plus verb (four times). For love as ‘bittersweet’ (γλυκύπικρος), cf. Sappho 130; for the psychophysical symptoms, cf. Sappho 31, 5-6. On echoes of the preceding poetic tradition in this passage and its context, see also Hunter 1983, 73-74, and Morgan 2004, 159, 167. Morgan 2004, 159. Cf. the comment of Morgan 2004, 157, on 1,9, cited above (text to n.12).

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onward progress of the action or interaction is retarded to give a sense of a timeless present. Although the standard narrative and dialogue passages of the novel have some features in common with the ornate style (notably simplicity of diction and syntax), the relatively longer sentences and less paratactic structure of those passages convey a sense of forward moving action and interaction. The more ornate passages interrupt this forward movement with short phrase units and multiple kinds of repetition and antithesis, thus reinforcing the sense (also created by the content of some of the passages) that action is passing into recreation, repose or stillness, for instance in the sequence of story-telling, music and dance at the end of Book 2. In the passages of emotional expression, the style is related in quite complex ways to the content. For instance, in the passage just considered (1,18), the short and paratactic clauses, combined with repetition, convey a sense of emotional urgency or intensity. At the same time, these passages also serve as vehicles for moments of reflection, in which the figures (often speaking in soliloquy) try to make sense of the most recent twist in their situation. The repeated word-patterns, constructed as types of balance or antithesis, are an effective means of setting out the thought processes (including types of comparison and contrast), by which the figures struggle to comprehend new, puzzling, or upsetting situations. The reflective note is not at odds with a sense of immediacy or directness, as the lovers, for instance, respond tremulously to the overpowering impact of the other’s body or to their own intense psychophysical reactions. I suggested earlier that this reflective process (in which the onward movement of the action is temporarily retarded) aligns the passages of emotional expression with the ‘life-to-art’ theme and the sense of a timeless present. The use of a similar style, one suitable for communicating emotionally intense reflection, reinforces this association. Finally, these passages convey in a concentrated form the fusion of rustic or pastoral simplicity and a more sophisticated or knowing sensibility (that of the narrator and intended reader) that is more widely pervasive in the novel as a whole.

Ethos, ethics and possible influences I suggested earlier that the ornate passages are not simply a striking feature of the style of Daphnis and Chloe, and one that is linked with some important connotations, but that their character has a decisive effect on the ethos of the novel as a whole. I now develop this suggestion, by showing how these passages are intertwined with a well-marked pattern in the presentation of interpersonal ethics in the novel. I also consider the possible formative influences on the dominant ethos

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of the novel, as expressed in these ways. Pastoral poetry is, obviously, a major one, but there are also hints of philosophical influences – or perhaps analogues – despite the absence of any explicitly intellectual passages in the novel. At any rate, some reference to ancient philosophical ideas which might have been part of the author’s thought-world can help to define the distinctive ethos of the novel. There is a persistent contrast in the interpersonal ethics of the novel between a mode of loving attention and concern and a more violent, or at least exploitative and manipulative, mode. The first mode is associated, from the beginning and throughout the story, with Daphnis and Chloe, but not exclusively so. It is also associated with the pastoral (and other) divinities for whom their love-story is a special object of concern, Pan and the Nymphs, and more generally Eros (as a god) and Dionysus, and also Philetas, who acts as a mouthpiece for these divinities.32 This mode of relationship is also extended to the herd animals which Daphnis and Chloe look after and which protect them too in various ways. This loving concern is expressed in two main forms, those of reciprocity and the shared life. Although in modern thought, altruism is often treated as the highest norm of interpersonal ethics, in ancient thought, I have suggested elsewhere, a combination of (certain forms of) reciprocity and the shared life represent the standard norm,33 and this is especially evident in this novel. Although the story of Daphnis and Chloe is partly one of the awakening and gradual fulfilment of sexual desire, it is also, and at the same time, strongly characterised by shared activities, feelings and attitudes, and also by reciprocal assistance and resulting mutual benefit.34 These norms are also expressed in the pattern of the lovers’ relationship with their herd animals (and other animals in their context) and with the divinities, especially the pastoral ones. The young lovers share their lives with these animals – and in a sense with the pastoral divinities – and extend to them their affectionate concern and care, which is also returned by the animals and gods. This relationship can also be seen as one marked by reciprocity, as the animals for whom they care and

————— 32

33 34

See e.g. 1,8-10; 2,2-11; 2,30-39; 4,38-40. See further Chalk 1960, Hunter 1983, 31-38, Morgan 1994, 2004, 9-10. Gill 1998. See e.g. 1,10: ‘They did everything together, grazing their flocks near each other. Often Daphnis rounded up those of her sheep that wandered off, and often Chloe drove the more adventurous of his goats down from the crags … You would have been more likely to see the sheep and the goats separated from each other than Chloe and Daphnis’. Other examples: Chloe helps to rescue Daphnis (1,28-32), Daphnis helps to rescue Chloe (2,22-24). Konstan 1994, 14-36, stresses the importance of reciprocity in love-relations in Greek novels including DC.

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the gods they worship help them at crucial moments and bring their search for the fulfilment of their love to completion.35 There is a well-marked contrast with the more violent, exploitative or thoughtless pattern of interpersonal behaviour displayed, in varying degrees, by virtually all the other human characters in the novel. This alternative pattern of behaviour is related, in a rather subtle way, to the threats or obstacles to the fulfilment of the love relationship between Daphnis and Chloe. Typically, this alternative (more negatively presented) mode of interpersonal behaviour is closely linked with the threats to their love; and modifications to this mode also lead to the promotion of their love match. For instance, threats to their relationship are posed by Dorcon’s violent reaction to Chloe’s rebuff (1,20-21), by Lycaenion’s opportunistic seduction of Daphnis (3,18-19), Lampis’ wrecking of Dionysophanes’ garden (4,7-9) and his seizure and attempted rape of Chloe (4,28), and Gnathon’s attempt to rape or secure possession of Daphnis for his own sexual pleasure (4,12-19). However, in three of these cases, the figures involved qualify or try to make recompense for their wrongdoing; and this modification or reversal works for the well-being of the lovers. For instance, Dorcon’s death-bed gift of his pipes to Chloe (in return for her parting kiss) enables her to rescue Daphnis (1,29-31); and Gnathon’s rescue of Chloe from Lampis is designed to compensate for his earlier attempts on Daphnis (4,29). Lycaenion, after her sexual ‘lesson’ to Daphnis, thoughtfully advises him not to rush off to share his knowledge with young Chloe, as he is disposed to do, and thus preserves her virginity for their eventual marriage – and the story’s happy ending (3, 19-20; 3,24; 4,31; 4,40). The threats to the relationship from outside groups (the pirates in Book 1 and the rich young tourists and the avenging army from Methymna in Book 2) are of a rather different kind. However, in these threats too we can see indications of thoughtless, exploitative and violent ways of treating other people.36 There is also a more nuanced contrast between the interpersonal mode associated with Daphnis and Chloe and that exhibited by their adoptive and real parents. Although the adoptive rustic parents take care of the abandoned children (though only after copying the ‘philanthropy’ of the herd-animals that save the babies’ lives) and then bring them up in a kindly way,37 this is coupled with a keen interest in maximising any financial benefit to be gained from the children, in a way that, at least ————— 35

36

37

For notable animal or divine interventions, see 1,2-6; 1,28-31; 2,24-30; 3,27-28; 4,34; see also above n.27. See 1,28-29, including negative comments by the narrator and Dorcon in 29; 2,12-20; 2,2528, including negative comments by the narrator and Pan in 2,19 and 2,27. See also Whitmarsh 2008b, 77-78. See 1,2-8, esp. 1,3 and 1,5, underlining how the animals’ philanthrōpia and their behaving ‘in a human way’ (anthrōpinōs) induces similar behaviour in the humans.

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initially, threatens the fulfilment of their love-match.38 The natural parents behave, within the story, with generosity and their actions promote the eventual happy marriage. But the narrative does not gloss over the fact that the parents were earlier prepared to terminate their children’s lives when this was not really necessary.39 Thus, the contrast between the two patterns of interpersonal conduct is firmly embedded in the novel and is intertwined with the story of the survival and eventual marriage of the two young lovers. In this sense, the romantic and ethical stories are one and the same. It is worth noting that the existence of these two contrasting modes of interpersonal conduct has implications for the nature-culture contrast which has been a major preoccupation of recent scholarship on this novel.40 The central theme of the novel is the unfolding of the sexual and emotional relationship between Daphnis and Chloe, and this development depends, to some extent, on the educative contribution of older people. Notable roles are played in this respect by Philetas, who goes some way towards explaining both the emotional and sexual sides of love, and Lycaenion, who instructs Daphnis in the physical aspect of sexual intercourse.41 But, as regards their mode of interpersonal behaviour, the lovers seem to have little to learn from other people. From the start of their relationship (as illustrated in 1,9-10), they show towards each other the loving attention and concern, expressed both in forms of shared life and reciprocal help, that characterise their behaviour throughout the novel.42 Although the narrative invites us to see this behaviour as, in some sense, an imitation of the animal, or more broadly natural, behaviour they see around them (and also, perhaps, a response to the protecting pastoral gods), the implication seems to be that this mode of behaviour is natural or instinctive to the children. The older people whose behaviour is modified by contact with the young lovers, such as Dorcon, Lycaenion or Gnathon, seem to be educated – or at least awakened to another way of treating people – by contact with the young lovers. This contrast in modes of interpersonal behaviour is, obviously, distinct from the alternation of styles, and the connotations of these styles, discussed earlier. But the mode of loving attention and the connotations of the ornate style are, typically, linked, as will be explained shortly. The ornate style thus plays a further important role in the novel, as a signal for the preferred mode of interpersonal conduct. This role of the ornate style seems to be indicated at the very start of the ————— 38 39 40 41 42

See 3,25-27; 3,30-32; 4,19-20; 4,30; 4,33. See 4,21; 4,24; 4,35. See above n.2. See 2,3-11 and 3,17-20. See further Konstan 1994, 85-90, Herrmann 2007, 206-210. See above text to nn.13, 31-34.

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novel. The preface, written in the ornate style, consists of an outline description of a painting that tells a story of love (this very story, as it turns out) which the narrator will present in full. It is also made plain that the story is intended to have an ethically educative, as well as a religious, dimension: ‘It will cure the sick, comfort the distressed, stir the memory of those who have loved, and educate those who haven’t’ (Pr.3). The narrator prays that the god Love will let him ‘write about others’ passions’ while maintaining his own ‘self-control’ (Pr.4). Although this preface is generalised in formulation and allows various interpretations,43 the comments could be taken as implying that the account of the love story between Daphnis and Chloe will have an ethically educative role, for instance, by linking the love story with a certain (positively presented) mode of interpersonal conduct. Whether or not the prologue signals this linkage, the association is in fact often maintained within the novel. For instance, the ornate quasi-ecphrastic description of spring in 1,9, discussed previously, represents an early characterisation of their instinctive mode of shared life and reciprocal action (prior to the onset of passionate love).44 As explained earlier, one of the main functions of the ornate style is to convey the reactions of the young shepherds to the impact and progress of their love, to which we have privileged access through their soliloquies.45 Despite the vicissitudes of the circumstances to which they respond in this way, their mode of loving attention does not waver and the ornate passages, with their special stylistic weight and emphasis, underline their consistent maintenance of this mode. The ornate style accentuates other important passages which are closely linked with this interpersonal mode and with the love-relationship between Daphnis and Chloe. A notable example is Philetas’ quasi-ecphrastic description of love and his explanation of love’s power and effects. This description also conveys his loving concern for the young couple, expressed in his desire to help them make sense of their experience (2,4-7). The ornate style seems also to be used to underline links between this interpersonal mode and other connotations of this style. For instance, the sequence of music and dance (and the lovers’ oaths) which follows the story of Pan and Syrinx is a striking instance of the ‘life-to-art’ motif and also expresses a sense of timeless present, as the onward flow of the action is halted. But the passage also displays a sense of shared well-being among the rustic participants, including Philetas and Daphnis and Chloe. This note of mutual concern is continued in the subsequent account of the lover’s oaths, and both scenes ————— 43

44 45

See e.g. Morgan 2004, 145-150 (with references to previous scholarship), Herrmann 2007, 210-213. See above text to nn.13, 31-34. See above text to nn.22-28.

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stand in pointed contrast to Pan’s sexual violence, represented in the inset story.46 A comparable combination of shared well-being, ‘life to art’ and timeless present is found at the very end of the novel, in the celebrations marking the marriage of Daphnis and Chloe, which involve rustics and animals along with city-dwellers.47 It would not be right to say that there is a systematic correlation between the ornate style and the mode of loving concern. As noted earlier, Gnathon’s highly rhetorical – and exploitative – appeal to Astylus to help him satisfy his sexual desire for Daphnis is couched in a version of this style (4,16-17). However, there is a high degree of correlation between this style and interpersonal mode, and this seems designed to be a way of indicating the importance of this mode, alongside the other connotations of the ornate style, for the overall ethos of the novel. I conclude this discussion by considering the origins or informing influences of this distinctive ethos. Obviously, pastoral poetry is a crucial one, as it is for the type of ornate style, combined with simple diction and syntax, found in the novel, as illustrated earlier. The main connotations of this style within the novel have pastoral roots. The ‘life-to-art’ theme is especially inspired by the motif, central for pastoral poetry, of shepherds passing their time in music, dance and (amoebean) poetic competitions.48 Also, the theme of timeless present has its basis in the characteristic mood of pastoral poetry, that of pause and creative repose, for instance at midday, when the immobilising heat of the sun makes rest in the shade essential and creates the conditions for music-making.49 The expression of reflective but intense responses to love is also a feature of at least some pastoral poems, where we also find the combination of naïve attitudes and artistically shaped formulation.50 As for the interpersonal mode of mutual concern or loving attention, between people or between herdsmen and their flocks or the rustic gods, this can also be sometimes found in pastoral poetry, as in the extract from Theocritus 8, cited earlier. However, it should not be supposed that Longus has simply transplanted these features wholesale from pastoral. In Theocritus’ Idylls, alongside these features of pastoral poetry, there are other, competing or jarring elements, including crude humour and interpersonal coarseness or downright hostility, magic and spells, colloquial dialogues, and the presentation of gods at odds with herdsmen, as in Theocritus’ mysterious first Idyll (about the dying Daphnis).51 In ————— 46 47

48 49 50 51

2,34-39; see above text to n.18. 4,37-39, including characteristic features of the ornate style, especially repeated anaphora, in 38. See Dover 1971, lix-lxv. See e.g. Theoc. 1,15-23; 6,1-5; Verg. Ecl. 2,8-13. See e.g. Theoc. 2,6-54; 6,21-40; 11,19-79. See e.g. (crude humour and coarseness) Theoc. 4 (esp. 58-63) and 5 (esp. 41-42); (magic and spells) 2; (colloquial dialogues) 14-15; see also 1,65-145. Some of these elements have

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other words, in putting together a cluster of (positive) associations linked with the ornate style, Longus has made a selective distillation of pastoral motifs to make up the qualities and motifs that are central for his novel. It is also clear that, at least at the stylistic level, Longus has combined pastoral motifs with others to create the ornate style, including those of Greek lyric and Gorgianic epideictic rhetoric.52 What about the possible role of philosophical ideas in shaping these features of Daphnis and Chloe? Although the novel’s studied simplicity of idiom and milieu rules out explicit reference to philosophical theories, this does not mean that these theories play no role in informing the ethos of what is, in many ways, a subtle and highly contrived instance of Greek prose fiction. The most obvious possible influence is Plato (widely read in this period for style as well as content),53 especially the Symposium. Philetas’ description of the nature and power of Eros, in particular recalls Agathon’s prose-poetic eulogy to the god, which is itself strongly redolent of Gorgianic show-case rhetoric.54 More generally, the spirit of the Symposium seems to hover above the novel. Influential Platonic motifs include the competing conceptions of the nature and power of erōs (the theme of a series of speeches in the Symposium),55 and the idea of erōs as both a divinity and a certain mode or interpersonal behaviour. The kind of love associated with Daphnis and Chloe seems, on the face of it, to recall most closely the Aristophanic idea of love as a desire to be reunited for ever with one’s ‘other half’ (which can be taken as a romanticised version of the interpersonal ideal of the shared life).56 However, the scope of their love-relationship is broadened by the extension of their affectionate concern to include animals (especially their herd-animals) and the rustic gods, and by the fact that their influence has a kind of educative effect on other people.57 These features of their type of love recall aspects of the other ————— 52 53

54

55

56

57

been displaced by Longus from the charmed pastoral circle around Daphnis and Chloe to the coarser rustic life around them. See further Hunter 1983, 73-92, Laird 2008, 206-208. See e.g. D.H. Dem. 5-7; Longin. 13; Hermog. Id. 244, 247-8. On possible Platonic echoes in Leucippe and Clitophon by Achilles Tatius (usually dated, like DC, to the 2nd cent. AD), see Morales 2004, 50-60. Cf. DC 2.7 and Pl. Smp. 195a-e, also Gorg. Hel. 8-9; see also Laird 2008, 206-207. On other Platonic motifs linked with Longus’ Philetas, see Whitmarsh 2005a. The question of the nature of erōs is posed in particularly Platonic language in DC 2,7,1, as Herrmann notes (2007, 206-210), referring to Smp. 199c among other possible Platonic intertexts. Pl. Smp. 189c-197e, esp. 192b-e; for this way of understanding the significance of the speech, see Gill 1999, xxv. Laplace 2007, 417-462 sees this speech as an important influence on Achilles Tatius’ novel. See above text to nn.31-34, 40-41.

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speeches in the Symposium, especially those of the doctor Eryximachus and of Socrates’ alter ego, the prophetess Diotima.58 There are other well-marked Platonic ideas which may exercise a more generalised influence on Longus’ thoughtworld. For instance, Longus’ pastoral world, with its combination of strongly idealised nature and benevolent pastoral gods, evokes the Platonic idea, central to the Timaeus, of the natural universe as patterned on the ideal and as providentially shaped by divinity.59 This idea of a providentially shaped universe had a very wide currency in the Hellenistic and Roman period, as is brought out clearly by Galen, writing in the second century AD.60 Although it is not easy, given the non-theoretical character of the narrative and dialogue in Daphnis and Chloe, to substantiate firmly the relevance of these or other Platonic themes, their currency in the surrounding intellectual context makes it reasonable to see them as possible contributory influences on the distinctive ethos of the novel.61 Two other philosophical ideas are worth noting here. In both Stoicism and Epicureanism, joy (chara) is identified as a type of emotion which properly forms part of the best possible human life. Unlike most emotions, which are seen as misguided, joy is seen, in both theories, as an affective reaction which is based on sound beliefs about the best way to live and is combined with well-conducted interpersonal relationships and good character. In Stoic theory, joy is one of the three basic types of ‘good emotions’ (eupatheiai), and is contrasted with the bad emotion of ‘pleasure’ (hēdonē) that is seen as forming part of a misguided pattern of life.62 In Epicureanism, joy is cited as one of the ‘kinetic’ (or episodic) versions of the pleasurable states seem as making up the happy life, freedom from physical pain and mental disturbance.63 A second feature shared, from different standpoints by the two theories, is the presentation of the happy life as resting on what I have called a ‘time-independent’ perfection of character. It is stressed that length of life does not increase happiness, once attained, and that happiness reflects the quality of a life at any one time, rather than its length.64 The Epicureans also stress the idea that happiness can be attained at any stage of life, including youth (or old ————— 58

59 60 61

62 63

64

Erōs as shared by humans and animals (or gods), or as a characteristic of nature as a whole: Smp. 186c-e, 188a-e, 202c-203a, 207a-208b; erōs as motivating education of others, Smp. 209a-c, 210c, 212b. Pl. Ti. 28b-31a, also Lg. Bk 10. See further Hankinson 1989. See further, on possible Platonic echoes in DC, Hunter 1997, Herrmann 2007, and in other Greek novels, Repath 2007 and ní Mheallaigh 2007. See D.L. 7,115; see further Graver 2007, 51-59. See D.L. 10,136-137; Epicurean ‘pleasure’ is contrasted sharply with vulgar hedonism, e.g. Epicur. Ep. Men. 131-132. See e.g. Cic. Fin. 1,63 and 2,87-88 (Epicureanism); 3,46 and 3,76 (Stoicism). See further Gill 2006, 88-91, 106-107, 109-126.

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age); and they idealise in particular one young man (Pythocles) who was supposed to have reached Epicurean-style happiness at age eighteen.65 These ideas run counter to much conventional (and also some philosophical thought) that sees happiness as something that only develops over a lifetime and that is dependent on success and favourable external circumstances during the whole life.66 If one wanted to sum up the key value celebrated in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe, and underlined especially in the ornate passages, it might well be the idea of joy. In passages such as the description of spring (1,9) discussed earlier or the recreational story-telling and music that closes Book 2, or that marks the marriage of Daphnis and Chloe at the end of the novel, joy, both individual and collective, is what seems to be evoked. There is no special reason, as far as I can see, to see the novel as informed by specifically Stoic or Epicurean thinking. But the kind of joy celebrated in the novel is at least analogous to that valued by those theories. As experienced by Daphnis and Chloe, it rests on secure foundations, including a strong bond of mutual loving attention and concern and a shared understanding of what makes for a happy life, rather than on external success as conventionally understood.67 Although the young lovers represent the paradigm of this kind of joy, it has a broader, and in some sense religious or cosmic framework in that their way of life and feelings are framed in response to that of nature, the pastoral gods and figures such as Philetas who convey the power of this framework. Daphnis and Chloe seem to achieve this kind of joy very young – indeed even before the onset of sexual love, though sexual fulfilment eventually consolidates their joy – and they, rather than most of the adults around them, seem to have a better understanding of what this consists in or depends on. This feature of the story evokes the Stoic-Epicurean idea that happiness is, in a way, ‘time-independent’, and that it does not depend on the unfolding of a full and externally successful life.68 Even though these links with Stoic and Epicurean ethics are not overtly signalled by the text, they may have formed part of the thought-world of the sophisticated author ————— 65

66

67

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Epicur. Ep. Men. 122, Sent. Vat. 17; see further Warren 2004, 133-136, esp. n.50 on Pythocles. For these ideas, see e.g. Arist. EN 1,8-10: the merits of these competing conceptions of happiness (Stoic vs. Aristotelian) is debated at length in Cic. Fin. Bks. 4-5. Daphnis and Chloe do acquire wealth and high status (and are, it turns out, from the top urban class), a point sometimes cited in scholarly debate about whether the novel validates urban or pastoral values (see above n.2). But they also choose to resume the pastoral life (4,39), in which they have been consistently happy throughout the novel. See above text to nn.39-41. A further, possibly relevant, shared Stoic-Epicurean idea is that the capacity for development towards perfect happiness (which, in terms of this novel, Daphnis and Chloe enjoy) is innate (in all human beings), by contrast with the PlatonicAristotelian view that this depends on a specific kind of nature, habituative upbringing and capacity for rational or intellectual activity. See further Gill 2006, 132-138, 178-182.

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or some of his readers.69 In any case, citing these prominent themes in philosophical theories that were very important in the intellectual life of the period of composition can help us to pinpoint certain central and striking characteristics of the ethos the novel, which are underlined by distinctive features of its style.70

Bibliography Bakhtin. M. M. 1981. The Dialogic Imagination, trans. C. Emerson & M. Holquist, Austin: Texas University Press. Bowie, E. 2007. ‘Pulling the other: Longus on tragedy’, in C, Kraus et al. (eds.), Visualizing the Tragic: Drama, Myth. and Ritual in Greek Art and Literature: Essays in Honour of Froma Zeitlin, Oxford, 338-352. Bowie, E. 2013. ‘Caging grasshoppers: Longus’ materials for weaving “reality”’, in M. Paschalis and S. Panayotakis (eds.), The Construction of the Ideal and the Real in the Ancient Novel, Groningen, 179-197. Chalk, H. H. O. 1960. ‘Eros and the Lesbian Pastorals of Longos’, JHS 80, 32-51; reprinted in: H. Gärtner (ed.), 1984. Beiträge zum griechischen Liebesroman. Hildesheim: Olms, 388407. Cresci, L. 1999. ‘The novel of Longus the Sophist and the pastoral tradition’, in: Swain 1999, 210-242. Doulamis, K. 2007. ‘Stoic echoes and style in Xenophon of Ephesus’, in: Morgan & Jones 2007, 151-175. Dover, K.J. (ed.). Theocritus: Select Poems, with Commentary, London: Macmillan. Effe, B. 1999. ‘Longus: towards a history of bucolic and its function in the Roman Empire’, in: Swain 1999, 189-209. Gill, C. 1998. ‘Altruism or reciprocity in Greek ethical philosophy?’, in: C. Gill, N. Postlethwaite & R. Seaford (eds.), Reciprocity in Ancient Greece, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 303-328. Gill, C. 1999. Plato: The Symposium, translated with an introduction and notes, London: Penguin. Gill, C. 2006. The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gow, A. S. (ed.) 1950. Theocritus, edited with a Translation and Commentary, 2 vols., Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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For Stoic echoes in Xenophon’s Ephesiaca, see Doulamis 2007; and on philosophy and the Greek novel in general Morgan & Jones 2007 as a whole. It is a great pleasure to contribute this essay to a volume dedicated to the memory of Bryan Reardon. Bryan opened the eyes of an entire generation to the significance, richness and pleasures of the Greek novel; and his own work offers a paradigmatic combination of philological expertise and interpretative perception and finesse. Special thanks are due to him for inviting me to translate Daphnis and Chloe for the Collected Ancient Greek Novels, which in turn led me to write this contribution. I am also grateful to Tim Whitmarsh for his thoughtful and informed comments on this discussion, and to Karen ní Mheallaigh for her suggestive responses and for highlighting relevant scholarly work.

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Graver, M. R. 2007. Stoicism and Emotion, Chicago: Chicago University Press. Hankinson, R. J. 1989. ‘Galen and the best of all possible worlds’, CQ 39, 206-227. Herrmann, F.-G. 2007. ‘Longus’ imitation: Mimēsis in the education of Daphnis and Chloe’, in: Morgan & Jones 2007, 205-229. Hunter, R. 1983. A Study of Daphnis and Chloe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hunter, R. 1997. ‘Longus and Plato’, in: M. Picone & B. Zimmermann (eds.), Der antike Roman und seine mittelalterliche Rezeption, Basel: Birkhäuser, 15-28. Kim. L. 2008. ‘Time’, in: Whitmarsh 2008a, 145-161. Konstan, D. 1994. Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Laird, A. 2008. ‘Approaching style and rhetoric’, in: Whitmarsh 2008a, 201-217. Laplace, M. 2007. Le roman d’Achille Tatios, Bern: Peter Lang. ní Mheallaigh, K. 2007. ‘Philosophical framing: The Phaedran setting of Leucippe and Cleitophon’, in: Morgan & Jones, 231-244. Montiglio, S. 2012. ‘The (cultural) harmony of nature: music, love, and order in Daphnis and Chloe’, TAPA 142, 133-56. Morales, H. 1991. Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morgan, J. R. 1994. ‘Daphnis and Chloe: Love’s own sweet story’, in: J.R. Morgan and R. Stoneman (eds.), Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context, London & New York: Routledge, 64-79. Morgan, J. R. 2004. Longus: Daphnis and Chloe, with an Introduction, Translation, and Notes, Aris and Phillips Classical Texts, Oxford: Oxbow. Morgan, J. R. & Jones, M. (eds.). 2007. Philosophical Presences in the Ancient Novel, Ancient Narrative Supplement 10, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing and Groningen University Library. Reardon, B. P. (ed.) 1989 (2nd edn 2008). Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley: California University Press. Reeve, M. D. (ed.) 1986 (2nd edn., 1994 3rd edn.). Longus: Daphnis et Chloe, Stuttgart & Lepizig: Teubner. Repath, I. 2007. ‘Emotional conflict and Platonic psychology in the Greek novel’, in: Morgan & Jones 2007, 53-84. Saïd, S. 1999. ‘Rural society in the Greek novel, or the country seen from the town’, in: Swain 1999: 83-107. Swain, S. (ed.) 1999. Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Teske, D. 1991. Der Roman des Longos als Werk der Kunst. Münster: Aschendorff. Warren, J. 2004. Facing Death: Epicurus and his Critics, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Whitmarsh, T. 2005a. ‘The lexicon of Love: Longus and Philetas grammatikos’, JHS 125, 145148. Whitmarsh, T. 2005b. The Second Sophistic, Greece and Rome New Surveys in the Classics 35, Oxford: Classical Association and Oxford University Press. Whitmarsh, T. (ed.) 2008a. The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Whitmarsh, T. 2008b. ‘Class’, in: Whitmarsh 2008a, 72-86. Zeitlin, F. 1990. ‘The poetics of Eros: nature, art and imitation in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe’, in: D. M. Halperin, J. J. Winkler, F. I. Zeitlin (eds.), Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 417464.

Hunters’ dedications: Longus and Lesbos H UGH J. M ASON University of Toronto

In the preface of Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe, the hunter-narrator presents his work as a dedication (anathēma) to Eros, the Nymphs and Pan. I am very happy to offer this paper as an anathēma to the memory of Bryan Reardon, dear friend, and fellow-student of Longus for over forty years. In attempting to provide a context for the hunter’s dedication in the literal (‘real’) world of 2nd-century CE Lesbos, this study, like much of my work on Longus, responds to Bryan’s description of the Lesbos of Daphnis and Chloe as ‘un monde des plus irréels.’1 The first sentence after the prologue (1,11,1) describes Mytilene in the present tense: Mytilene is a great and beautiful city. Unlike the main narrative, which is set in a remote past that is impossible to define in even the broadest terms, the description of Mytilene, and the hunter’s dedication, belong to a knowable present.

Marble bridges Mytilene is called beautiful because of bridges of white marble that span the channel (euripos) between the island city and the main island of Lesbos. Remains of two bridges have been discovered in the modern town, one of them visible in the basement of a building opposite the Yeni Tzami (New Mosque).2 The scanty publication record does not provide a date for the bridges, but we do possess some relevant information. Aelius Aristides (49,38) reports that an earthquake almost completely levelled Mytilene during the Asian proconsulate of Antonius Albinus, ————— 1 2

Reardon 1971, 201; see Mason 1979, 1995, 2003. P. Paraskevaïdis 2002, 13, 48. Karydis & Kiel 2000, 41. n. 26; see now Acheilara 1999, especially 743 and note 5, and 2000. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 137–147

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most likely in 148 CE.3 Since marble bridges would not have survived an earthquake that virtually flattened the city, they were probably newly constructed after the earthquake, meaning that the dedication of Daphnis and Chloe can be placed after the middle of the 2nd century. This is a more likely hypothesis than that the bridges existed before the earthquake, and were destroyed or damaged in 148. Bridges over the euripos would prevent ships from passing between the city’s two harbours, and would not have been built while Mytilene still had a navy. The activities of Gnaeus and later Sextus Pompey in Mytilene during the Civil Wars suggest that the city retained naval capability well into the Roman period. Strabo (13,2) refers to Mytilene’s location on an island, but does not mention any bridges; since he does describe the bridges at Kyzikos (12,8,11), which was, like Mytilene, historically an island, we may conclude that there were no bridges at Mytilene when he wrote, early in the reign of Tiberius. The visible remains confirm Longus’ statement that the bridges were made of white marble rather than the blue-tinged stone from the village of Moria that was preferred for most buildings in Mytilene until the Roman period. The massive rebuilding of the city after the earthquake would be a plausible occasion for the innovative use of non-local material.

Hermogenes’ dedication to the Nymphs A marble bas-relief plaque (Figure 1) found in Akleidiοu, 2.5 km south of Mytilene, depicts three dancing Nymphs, and is inscribed Ἑρμογένης θέας Νύνφας, ‘Hermogenes [honours] the divine Nymphs’.4 The plaque was discovered during cleaning of the agiasma (source of holy water) of the church of Agios Spyridon, which suggests that the spring that supplies the modern church also served as a shrine in antiquity. Neither the archaeological context of the find, nor the naïve style of the relief, provides a solid basis for dating; but the letter-forms of the inscription are consistent with a 2nd -century date. The plaque proves that the Nymphs were worshipped near Mytilene close to the time of Longus’ novel, and ————— 3 4

Behr 1994, 1192, 1204. Photograph by Hugh Mason, Archaeologial Museum of Mytilene, 2012. Published by Charitonidis 1965, 492 and pinax 629γ; 1968, 29 and pinax 10a. Permission to publish photographs of the plaque was granted by the 20th Ephoreia, in a letter dated 14.10.1999, protocol no. 3617. I also wish to acknowledge the generous co-operation of the staff of the Archaeological Museum of Mytilene in giving me access to the plaque in 2007, and assisting me in photographing it, when it was not on public display.

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contradicts MacQueen’s claim (1990, 160) that ‘Lesbos ... was not a likely place to find oneself in an idyllic grove consecrated to the Nymphs’. The Nymphs are portrayed on the plaque very much as they are described by Longus in 1,4, with ‘their feet unshod, their arms uncovered to their shoulders, their hair loose down to their necks, a girdle around their waists, and a smile on their faces’. Schönberger (1998, 288) suggested that Longus was describing an actual work of art. If so, such a work, like Hermogenes’ plaque, would have been quite unusual in portraying the Nymphs on their own; all the examples of dancing Nymphs in the LIMC show them accompanied by Pan or Hermes or a fluteplayer.5 If the dedication by Longus’ hunter-narrator does not allude directly to the cult-site of the Nymphs where Hermogenes made his offering, it certainly finds in his plaque an extremely close parallel from the same period.

Figure 1: Hermogenes’ dedication to the Nymphs. Archaeological Museum of Mytilene

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LIMC 8.1, ‘Nymphai’ II.A.1, ‘Les Nymphes et la danse’, 899-902. Nymphs are portrayed without a male companion and a style like that of Hermogenes’ dedication at Burdapa in Thrace, IGBR 3, 1, 1339-1368, photos 168-173.

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Neos Theophanes Several inscriptions from Mytilene from the reign of Antoninus Pius (139-161) (Hodot 1979, 221-237; IG 12, 2, 237) honour M. Pompeius Macrinus Neos Theophanes, suffect consul in 115 (PIR2 P 628) as ktistēs kai euergetēs (founder and benefactor) of the city.6 Macrinus was a citizen of Mytilene from a distinguished family; his additional name, ‘The New Theophanes’, highlighted his descent from Pompey’s Mytilenean associate, the historian Theophanes, thanks to whom Mytilene regained the freedom that it had lost in 80 BCE. The younger Theophanes, who shared the titles of ‘founder’ and ‘benefactor’ of Mytilene with his ancestor, earned them by diplomatic missions on behalf of Mytilene to the court of Antoninus Pius that we can assume were undertaken to obtain imperial support for the reconstruction of the city after the earthquake of 148. He also contributed personally to the rebuilding, as did his family, including his daughter, Pompeia Agrippinilla, her husband Gallicanus, her daughter Cethegilla (IG 12, 2, 236, 237), and her brother-in-law, M. Gavius Orfitus (IG 12, 2, 129, as revised in IG 12, Supplementum). Figure 2 presents the family relationships.

M. Gavius Squilla Gallicanus M. Pompeius Macrinus M.f. “Neos Theophanes” | Consul 115 |____________________ |___________________ | | | | M. Gavius M. Gavius Squilla = Pompeia M. Pompeius Orfitus Gallicanus | Agripinilla Macrinus consul 165 consul 150 | consul 164 | _______|_____ | | | M. Gavius M. Gavius Gavia Orfitus Cornelius Cornelia Cethegus Cethegilla consul 170

Figure 2: The Family of Theophanes

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The inscriptions of Macrinus and his family are also published in Labarre 1996, 299-300.

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Orfitus is addressed in a poem recording the dedication of a ‘Spring of the Nymphs’, πηγὴ Νυμφάων, associated with a water-spirit called Platanais. Since construction took three years, the inscription probably records the dedication of a typical 2nd-century Nymphaeum, or elaborate Fountain-House, likely built after the earthquake, which would have caused extensive damage to Mytilene’s watersupply. Besides providing further evidence of the role of Theophanes’ family in making Mytilene once again ‘great and beautiful’, the Platanais inscription connects the family to the cult of the Nymphs to whom Longus’ narrator dedicated his work. An inscription from Torre Nova, near Tibur, (IGUR 1,160)7 records the initiates of a Bacchic thiasos (‘religious association’), who honour Pompeia Agripinilla as priestess. The list is headed by her father, called Makreinos herōs: the title ‘hero’ suggests that he received semi-divine honours after his death. He is followed in the list by Pompeia’s daughter Cethegilla, called dadouchos (‘torchbearer’), and by her husband Gallicanus, her brother Macrinus, her brother-in-law Orfitus, and Orfitus’ son (I, A, 4-12), all called ‘priests’. (The names under which her family members are recorded at Torre Nova are marked in bold in figure 2.) Other members of the thiasos have titles such as boukoloi (‘cowherds’) (I, B 29), archiboukoloi (‘chief cowherds’) (I, A 28), boukoloi hieroi (‘holy cowherds’) (I, A 32), and antrophylakes (‘cave-wardens’) (III, B 28), that recall the pastoral world described by Longus. The group was devoted to Dionysos, rather than to Eros, the Nymphs and Pan; but Dionysos also plays a large role in Longus’ novel. His shrine at the centre of the paradeisos (‘enclosed garden’) of Dionysophanes, in 4,2-3, is also at centre of his rural estate, which can be seen in some ways as a synecdoche for the whole island. The Torre Nova inscription prompts speculation about possible connections between Daphnis’ father, the Mytilenean magnate Dionysophanes, and the two ‘founders’ of Mytilene, both called Theophanes: the friend of Pompey, and his descendant, the father of Pompeia Agripinilla, the priestess of Dionysos. Even if we do not go so far as to connect an imagined Mytilenean in Longus’ novel with these two historically attested benefactors of Mytilene with a similar name, Pompeia Agripinilla’s family cult, and her brother-in-law’s association with a ‘Spring of the Nymphs’ in Mytilene, offer close contemporary parallels to the religious elements of Longus’ novel. Furthermore, the Mytilenean family of Macrinus Theophanes, many of whom were in the city after the earthquake, would have extensive awareness of Mytilene’s geography, history, and religious institutions that would enable them to appreciate fully as readers the novel’s significance as something more than ‘pastoral play’. ————— 7

Moretti 1968, 138-148; original publication, Vogliano & Cumont, 1933.

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Longus and Arrian In appreciating a story narrated by a hunter and written in the middle of the 2nd century, we have an excellent contemporary resource in the Kynēgētika of Arrian (PIR2 F 219), written in Athens, where Arrian served as eponymous archōn in 145/146 and prytanis in 166/167 and 169/170. Arrian’s work is a response to Xenophon’s treatise of the same name, which Arrian argued needed revision because of the new type of dogs now available to hunters (19): Celtic animals, introduced into the East after Rome’s western conquests, were so strong and fast that hunters had to follow them on horseback rather than on foot, and the dogs could chase and catch their prey rather than flush them out of the underbrush into nets and snares. Arrian denounced the old style of hunting described by Xenophon because its use of nets and snares was deceitful, resembling piracy or theft, while the pursuit of wild animals with horses and fast dogs could be compared to ‘noble’ warfare conducted in the manner of the Athenians at Marathon (24, 4-5). The same moral distinction is made by Longus’ narrator. The youths from Methymna hunt in the old Xenophontic style with nets and traps (2,12,3), while the troops from the city are compared to pirates (3,2,1). Astylos, the youth from Mytilene, hunts with a horse, and there is no mention of traps or nets (4,10,1), and the Mytilenean general deliberately avoids plundering Methymnean property. In other matters, Longus is sharply critical of the Methymneans’ behaviour, in contrast to that of the Mytileneans, reflecting his awareness of the two cities’ long-standing rivalry.8 Associating the two cities with Arrian’s moral interpretation of different styles of hunting enabled Longus to give their historical conflict a contemporary context. There may be another connection between Arrian and Longus. Longus states that Astylos was seeking ξένη ἡδονή, (xenē hēdonē) ‘pleasure that is xenos’, in his hunting expedition (4,11,1). What does xenos mean in this context? The property of his father is located in the territory of Mytilene, so the pleasure is hardly ‘foreign’. Nor is his pleasure particularly ‘strange’, another common meaning of xenos. The pleasure Astylos was seeking, I would argue, was ‘novel’, the new style of hunting introduced in the Roman period, praised by Arrian, but anachronistic for the (pre-Roman) setting of the main narrative.9 In chapter 35, Arrian names the gods to whom hunters should sacrifice: as in Longus, the Nymphs and Pan, along with Artemis and Hermes. Volume VI (anathēmatika, ‘dedications’) of the Palatine Anthology includes many examples of dedications to the Nymphs and Pan, although more are by shepherds than by ————— 8 9

For these conflicts, see Mason 1993. Christopher Gill translates it as ‘a new type of pleasure’, in Reardon (ed.) 1989, 337.

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hunters.10 By far the most striking example of a hunter’s dedication to the Nymphs and Pan is a fine poem by Krinagoras (AP 6,25 = Crinagoras XLIII in Gow & Page 1968):11

5

Σπήλυγγες Νυμφῶν εὐπίδακες, αἱ τόσον ὕδωρ εἴβουσαι σκολιοῦ τοῦδε κατὰ πρεόνος Πάνος τ’ ἠχήεσσα πιτυστέπτοιο καλιή τὴν ὑπὸ † κασσαίης ποσσὶ λέλογχε πέτρης ἱερά τ’ ἀγρευταῖσι γερανδρύου ἀρκεύθοιο πρέμνα, λιθηλογέες θ’ ῾Ερμέω ἰδρύσιες αὐταί θ’ ἱλήκοιτε, καὶ εὐθήροιο δέχεσθε Σωσάνδρου ταχινῆς σκῦλ’ ἐλαφροσσοίης.

Caves of the Nymphs with many springs, from which such abundance of water trickles down the winding headland; echoing hut of Pan crowned with pine-leaves, his home at the foot of the (? wooded) rock. Stumps of ancient juniper, holy to hunters, and stone-heap built for Hermes, be you gracious and accept from the good hunter Sosandros the spoils of his chase of the swift deer. The obelized word in line 4 appears to be κασσαίης (kassaiēs). Gow and Page read the first letter as beta and took βασσαίης (bassaiēs) to refer to Bassai in Arkadia, the site of the famous temple of Apollo, mistakenly in my opinion. There is no evidence that Krinagoras visited or had any special knowledge of Arkadia. Pausanias describes a spring on Mount Kotilion above Bassai (8,41,10), but makes no mention of any caves, crags, or cult of the Nymphs, at or near the famous shrine of Apollo. Since Pausanias rarely misses a chance to record a cult site, I think it unlikely that there was a cult of the Nymphs and Pan at Bassai.12 I would prefer to read βησσαίης (bēssaiēs) with eta, which might mean ‘wooded’. The poem by the Mytilenean Krinagoras, a dedication to the gods approved by Arrian, closely matches the pastoral world presented by Longus, and there is good reason to believe that the poem portrays a location on Lesbos.13 Almost ————— 10

11

12

13

The following are dedications by hunters: 36, 57, 106, 107, 109, 154, 158, 167, 168, 176, 188. Note the variations on the trope of dedications by three brothers, one a fisher, one a birder and one a land-hunter (11-16, 179-187). Crinagoras XLIII in Gow & Page 1968, 1: 224-25 and 2: 254-55: ‘we believe that he is describing an actual occurrence in a particular place’. Pan was closely associated with Arkadia, but his important shrines were elsewhere in the region: Borgeaud 1988, 50-51. As is claimed by the local author Panagiotis Paraskevaïdis 1978, 76

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everything that Krinagoras describes (caves, springs, pine-trees) can be found on Lesbos. Junipers, for example, are widespread on the island, and are mentioned as forming part of the undergrowth around a spring in Daphnis and Chloe 1,20. τόσον ὕδωρ, toson hydör, ‘abundance of water’, is perhaps the feature most characteristic of Lesbos.14 Water trickling down from a crag recalls the island’s remarkable number of (largely seasonal) waterfalls, including one called Man’ Katsa, in the north-east of the island where the novel may be set.15 When Daphnis takes a bath (1,13), it is more likely to have been in a waterfall like Man’ Katsa than in a spring bubbling up from the ground. While we cannot prove that Krinagoras expected his readers to recognize that his poem was set in Lesbos, or anywhere specific, it is significant that Longus’ hunter’s dedication finds its closest literary parallel in the work of a Mytilenean poet.

A dedication to Eros Longus’ hunter-narrator offered his story as a dedication not only to the Nymphs and Pan, but also to Eros. In chapter 35 of the Kynēgētika, Arrian lists the gods to whom it is appropriate for practitioners of different trades to sacrifice: sailors to Poseidon, farmers to Demeter, artists to Athena, and so on. Arrian’s vocabulary is noteworthy: it is ‘those who toil in the arts’, οἱ ἀμφὶ τὰς τέχνας πoνούμενοι (ponoumenoi), who sacrifice to Athena, while sacrifices are offered to Eros by ‘those [who toil] in erotic matters’, οἱ ἀμφὶ τὰ ἐρωτικά, with ponoumenoi understood from the previous phrase. Here Longus closely follows Arrian; the narrator declared in the prologue that ‘I toiled upon (ἐπονησάμην [eponēsamēn]) four volumes as my dedication to Love’. The verbal similarity provides another case where Longus may have been influenced by Arrian.

Hadrian at Thespiai There are fewer dedications to Eros than to the Nymphs and Pan. To the best of my knowledge, there is only one attested example of a dedication to Eros by a hunter: IG 7, 1828, Hadrian’s dedication of a bear-skin at Eros’ principal cultcentre of Thespiai. The dedication followed the Emperor’s spectacular hunt in ————— 14

15

For descriptions of springs and water on Lesbos, see Dennis 1977, 193, Gonzalez de Clavijo 1943, 26, and Stanford & Finopoulos 1984, 19. Anagnostis 1850, 182, n.31; Axiotis 2002, 38; Mason 1979.

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Mysia that led to the foundation in 125 CE of Hadrianouthērai, ‘Hadrian’s Huntings’, an event described in Cassius Dio 69,10 and in the Historia Augusta, Hadrian 20. Hadrian’s poem reads:

5

῏Ω παῖ τοξότα Κύπριδος λιγείης Θεσπιαῖς Ἑλικωνίαισι ναίων ναρκισσοῦ παρὰ κῆπον ἀνθέοντα, ἱλήκοις· τὸ δέ τοι δίδωσι δέξο ἀκροθείνιον Ἁδριανὸς ἄρκτου, ἣν αὐτὸς κάνεν ἱππόθεν τυχήσας. σὺ δ᾿ αὐτῷ χάριν ἀντὶ τοῦ σαόφρων πνέοις Οὐρανίας ἀπ’ Ἀφροδίτης.

Archer child of clear-toned Kypris, Dwelling in Helikonian Thespiai Beside the flourishing garden of narcissus, Be gracious, I pray, and receive this gift Which Hadrianos gives, the prize parts Of a she-bear which he slew himself on horseback. In exchange for which, may you in your sobriety Breathe on him grace, from Heavenly Aphrodite. The Emperor asked Eros to be σαόφρων (saophrōn) towards him and grant him grace; Longus’ hunter prayed that the same god would permit him to be σώφρων (sōphrōn) while writing about the love of others. Longus’ narrator’s prayer for moderation is thoroughly conventional, as is noted by Morgan (2004, 150); but dedications by hunters to Eros are so rare, and the shared use of sōphrōn so striking, that there must be some connection between Hadrian and Longus. The Emperor received many honours in Mytilene, but there is no definitive proof of his presence on the island. Possibly relevant, however, are two dedications in Mytilene to the (Latin) god Silvanus (IG 12.2, 122 and Suppl. 31), a Pan-like figure to whom Hadrian was exceptionally devoted (Dorcey 1992). Anything that an emperor did received massive publicity, and there is every reason to expect that an emperor’s poem about a famous deed that led to the foundation of a city would have been well-known in literary circles in the middle of the 2nd century. If Longus was associated with the family of Macrinus Theophanes, whose Roman political career, like that of Arrian, overlapped with the reign of Hadrian, it is even more likely that he knew about the emperor’s hunting, dedication, and poem.

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This is not to suggest that Longus expected his readers to equate his hunternarrator with the emperor Hadrian. But I do propose: (a) that Longus wished to emphasize the similarity of the hunter-narrator of the prologue to the class of persons for whom Arrian (a Roman governor favoured by Hadrian) wrote his Kynēgētika; (b) that Longus was familiar with a hunter’s dedication in a poem by the Mytilenean Krinagoras, a person closely associated with an earlier imperial court, and thought his readers might be also; and, (c) that in having his hunternarrator make a dedication to Eros, he did have in mind the example of Hadrian’s offering and poem at Thespiai. It is also very likely that the Lesbian family of Macrinus Neos Theophanes, close enough to the court at Rome to secure the favour of Hadrian’s successor for the reconstruction of their native city, would be especially likely to understand what Longus intended by his references to hunting and by having his hunter-narrator offer an anathēma to Eros. Longus’ main narrative appears to be set in an imagined remote past with minimal connections to the ‘real’ world, as Bryan Reardon recognised. But the dedication by the hunter who narrates the story finds several remarkably close parallels in second-century Greek culture and specifically in a Mytilene restored after 150 CE by the efforts of a powerful, generous, and deeply religious local family.

Bibliography Acheilara, L. 1999. ‘Χρονικά κ´ εφορείας προϊστορικών και κλασσικών αρχαιοτήτων’, ArchDelt 54, B2, 736-766 Acheilara, L. 2000. ‘Χρονικά κ´ εφορείας προϊστορικών και κλασσικών αρχαιοτήτων’, ArchDelt 55: B2, 916-942. Anagnostis, S. 1850. Ἡ Λεσβιὰς Ὠδή, Smyrna: Magnetos. Reissued 1972 Athens: Pigi, and 2000 Mytilene: Petra. Axiotis, M. 2002. ‘Κατάρρακτες. Μια σπάνια φυσική ομορφιά της Λέσβου’, Lesviaka 19, 3641. Behr, C.A. 1994. ‘Studies on the biography of Aelius Aristides’, ANRW II,34,2, 1187-1193. Borgeaud, P. 1988. The Cult of Pan in Ancient Greece, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Original publication 1979, Recherches sur le dieu Pan, Institut Suisse de Rome. Charitonidis, S. 1965. ‘Αρχαιότητες και μνημεία νήσων Αιγαίου’, ArchDelt 20, B, 488-495. Charitonidis, S. 1968. Αι Επιγραφαί της Λέσβου, Συμπλήρωμα, Athens: Archaiologiki Etairia. Dennis, G. T. 1977. The Letters of Manuel II Palaeologus, Washington: Dumbarton Oaks. Dorcey, P. F. 1992. The Cult of Silvanus. A Study in Roman Folk Religion, Leiden, New York & Cologne: Brill. Gonzáles de Clavijo, R. 1943. Embajada a Tamorlan, ed. Francisco Lopez Estrada, Madrid: Instituto Nicolás Antonio. Gow, A.S.F & D.L. Page, 1968. The Greek Anthology. The Garland of Philip and some contemporary epigrams. 2 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Hodot, René. 1979. ‘La grande inscription de M. Pompeius Macrinus à Mytilène’, ZPE 34, 221237. IGBR. 1956-1966. Inscriptiones Graecae in Bulgaria Repertae, G. Michailov (ed.), Serdica (Sofia): Bulgarian Academy. Karydis, D.N. & M. Kiel. 2000. Μυτιλήνης Αστυγραφία και Λέσβου Χωρογραφία, Athens: Olkos. Labarre, Guy. 1996. Les Cités de Lesbos aux Époques Hellénistique et Impériale, Collection de l’Institut d’Archéologie de l’Antiquité, Université de Lyon 2, volume 1. Lyon: de Boccard. LIMC. 1981-2009. Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, Zürich, München, Düsseldorf: Artemis & Winkler. Mason, H.J. 1979. ‘Longus and the Topography of Lesbos’, TAPA 109, 149-163. Mason, H.J. 1993. ‘Mytilene and Methymna: Quarrels, borders and topography’, EMC n.s. 12, 225-250. Mason, H.J. 1995. ‘Romance in a limestone landscape’, CP 90, 263-266. Mason, H.J. 2003. ‘Winter on Lesbos; imagination and reality’, Mouseion, ser. 3: 3, 285-294. MacQueen, B.D. 1990. Myth, Rhetoric, and Fiction. A Reading of Longus’s ‘Daphnis and Chloe’, Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press. Moretti, Luigi (ed.). 1968. Inscriptiones Graecae Urbis Romae (IGUR), I. Rome: Istituto Italiano per la storia antica. Morgan, J. R. 2004. Longus: Daphnis and Chloe, with introduction, translation and notes. Oxford: Aris and Phillips Classical Texts. Paraskevaïdis, P.S. 1978. Η Ρωμαϊκή Λέσβος, Athens: privately published. Paraskevaïdis, P. 2002. The Ancient Port of Mytilene, Mytilene: Port Authority. PIR2. 1933-2015. Prosopographia Imperii Romani, saec. I,II,III. Zweite Auflage. Berlin: Akademie der Wissenschaften. Reardon, B.P. 1971. Courants littéraires des IIe et IIIe siècles après J.-C., Paris: Les belles lettres. Reardon, B.P. (ed.). 1989. Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press. Schönberger, O. (tr. and ed). 1998. Longos. Hirtengeschichten von Daphnis und Chloe, Düsseldorf/Zurich: Artemis & Winkler. Stanford, W.B. & E.J. Finopoulos.1984. The Travels of Lord Charlemont in Greece and Turkey 1749, London: Trigraph for the A. G. Leventis Foundation. Vogliano, A. & F. Cumont. 1933. ‘The Bacchic inscription in the Metropolitan Museum’, AJA 33, 214-278.

The plot of Iamblichos’ Babyloniaka: sources and influence K EN D OWDEN The University of Birmingham

The date of the Babyloniaka of the sophist Iamblichos (around AD 170, see §1 below) is clearer than that of other ancient novels, but it remains a strange work whose relation to other texts is not easy to grasp. My concern is less with its style – ranging from the Heliodoran flamboyance of the ekphrasis describing the ‘Progress of the King of the Babylonians’ (F 1 Habrich) to the vivid but economical narrative (F 61 Habrich) – than with the plot, a rather detailed summary of which is provided by Photios in his Bibliotheke.1 Within classical literature, I seek to gauge his closeness to other authors before and after him and to understand his place in the intertextuality that is so constitutive of the genre. Beyond that, there is a very different intertextuality: the Babyloniaka in some way draws on Persian traditions which are visible to us through the Pahlavi sacred texts and through Firdawsī’s Shāhnāma (‘Book of Kings’). In so doing, I am mindful of Bryan Reardon’s promotion of contextual understanding of authors and their works, above all in the magisterial Courants littéraires, and of his readiness, for instance, to bring Egyptian native material to bear on questions about the Alexander Romance.2 There are indeed occasions when Greek literature does not operate in isolation from other cultures, particularly those of the Near East.

————— 1

2

The Babyloniaka was in 16 books according to Photios, Bibl. 94, but 39 (!) according to the Souda ι 26. Various solutions have been attempted, but the easiest is that the Souda’s figure is simply wrong. Photios’ summary of Iamblichos is, however, over twice the length of his summary of the 10 books of Heliodoros (Bibl. 73), though the pace of the narrative and six more books may be sufficient explanation of that. E.g., Reardon 1971, 329-333. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 149–172

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1. About Iamblichos himself Iamblichos, like his contemporary Lucian, and like Heliodoros, possibly 50, probably 150 years later, came from Syria. Lucian came from Samosata in north-eastern Syria, Heliodoros from Emesa in the south. We do not explicitly know Iamblichos’ place of origin, but his name is certainly Semitic and is attested in its original form on an Aramaic inscription of AD 150 from Palmyra, as Yamlik[u].3 It is also a prestigious name: the ruling house at Emesa in the first century had typically borne the names Sampsigeramos, Sohaimos, and Iamblichos.4 At least in origin, some of these names are more properly Arabic (Nabataian) than Aramaic, though the blending of cultures and the nature of the available writing systems make such distinctions between these related Semitic languages precarious. Yamlik (Iamblichos) is said by Retso to display a typically Arabic -aprefix vowel (to an mlk root); it is a variant of the name Malik (‘king/ruler’), indeed of Porphyry’s original name in Syrian, Malchos;5 thus Porphyry and his contemporary, the 3rd-century Neoplatonist Iamblichos (who also traced his descent to a Sampsigeramos),6 effectively had the same name as each other. Cicero referred to an ‘Iamblichus’, successor of a ‘Sampsiceramus’, in 51 BC in the buffer zone between Rome and Parthia, as a phylarchus Arabum (‘tribal leader of the Arabs’).7 The names Azīz (Azizus below) and Suhaym (Sohaimos) are also Arabic, and still in use today. Azīz is even the name of a major god (the ‘strong’), found, for instance, on inscriptions at Palmyra (as ‘zz).8 Retso considers the name Sampsiceramos/Sampsigeramos ‘more Aramaic’:9 it is, in any case, a name constituted from the roots Šmš-grm (‘Sun-strong’),10 of which the first refers to the Sun god, so much venerated at Emesa – for instance in the generation after the novelist Iamblichos by the emperor Elagabalus. This god is also referred to at the very end of Heliodoros’ Aithiopika,11 where the author-narrator describes himself ————— 3 4

5 6 7

8 9

10 11

PAT 0313. PIR I 541-542, Gaius IVLIVS Sampsigeramus, particularly associated with Emesa; I 7 IAMBLICHUS, Iamblichi reguli. Retso 2003, 316. Photios, Bibl. 181,126a (unless Photios has confused his Iamblichoi). Cicero, ad familiares, 15,1,2 (with Retso 2003, 409, cf. 396); Strabo too speaks of ‘phylarchs of the Arabs’, 16,1,28. There seems to be some sort of political organisation (it may not be rash to think of sheikhdom) that is being reflected by this term, compare Retso 2003, e.g. 584-585. Retso 2003, 605-606, under ‘The cult of the Saracens’. Also in Julian, To the Sun, 34. Retso 2003, 409. It is in any case a name with which Nabataians are happy, given its appearances on inscriptions, cf. de Vogüé (next footnote). See de Vogüé 1868, 67 (on no. 75). 10,41 4.

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as ‘a Phoenician man from Emesa, from those of the race of the Sun, the son of Theodosios, Heliodoros’. It is enough to raise the question, ‘What was Heliodoros’ real name?’ – perhaps ‘bd-Šmš (‘servant [Abīd] of Helios’), the name of another Heliodoros in a Phoenician inscription.12 We can see members of this Emesene house promoted by Roman authority. Nero, at the beginning of his reign in AD 54, had granted the kingship of Sophene, an autonomous region of SW Armenia, to a Sohaimos, evidently the new ruler of Emesa who had succeeded his brother Azizus in that year.13 Rather similarly we learn from Iamblichos himself, in the ‘autobiographical digression’ (see below), that another Sohaimos became a Senator at Rome, consul (in AD 164), and king of Armenia Maior.14 As Iamblichos goes to some lengths to underline the regal Persian/Parthian credentials of this Sohaimos (‘son of Achaimenides son of Arsakides, who was a king born of fathers who had been kings’), it looks very much as if Iamblichos himself, bearing the name he does and taking the attitude he does, is close to these royal circles and he is in any case not far from the date of this Sohaimos, whom later it would have served no purpose to praise.15 It is not at all unlikely that he too, like Heliodoros, came from Emesa. There are two sources of information about Iamblichos that must have formed part of his novel. The autobiographical digression (reported by Photios, Bibl. 94 §10) needs to be handled with some care, permeated as it is with sophistic bravado.16 Iamblichos-narrator runs through varieties of magic – those who specialise in grasshoppers, those who are expert on lions, and those whose specialism is mice. It is from these last that we get the word ‘mysteries’ (mice-teries), he would have us believe. And as if that were not enough, we go into the magic of hail, snakes, and raising the dead. From there it is a natural transition to prophesying from the belly: Greeks, we are learnedly informed, call a (prophesying) bellyspeaker a ‘Eurykles’,17 but Babylonians call him ‘Sakchouras’. It is only after this ————— 12

13

14 15 16 17

For a Heliodoros so called, see Millar 2006, 40. On Heliodoros and the Emesene cult, see Altheim 1948, 95-96. Tac. Ann. 13,17; Barrett 1977. Various Sohaemi: PIR S 761-765, but this one is C. IULIUS Sohaemus, PIR S 582. Restored as King of Armenia by Verus: Fronto, Ad Verum 2,1,15 Haines, p.127 Naber. So Morgan 1998, 3328. Holzberg 1995, 85-86. Plutarch, Proverbs used by the Alexandrians (von Leutsch & Scheidewin, Paroemiographi Graeci 1, Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1839, 340), Centuria 2, 22: ‘Eurykles: said of those who prophesy something for themselves – Eurykles was a belly-speaking prophet’; cf. Plutarch, de defectu 414e, where ‘Eurykleses’ is regarded as an obsolete term and the idea that god speaks through the body of men as ludicrous. The term is known in earlier times to Aristophanes, Wasps 1019, Plato, Sophist 252c, and Philochoros BNJ 328

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quirky review of magic that Iamblichos-narrator reveals that he is ‘a Babylonian himself and had studied magic’ (Photios §10). This is, admittedly, something we may not wish to take very literally: to have studied magic is in itself, maybe, to become a Babylonian (like being a Chaldaean); and, were it more than that, then perhaps we might view this narrator as spending time teaching at Seleukeia on the Tigris, the ‘Babylonian Seleukeia’, as is sometimes suggested for Agathokles of Cyzicus/Babylon.18 His praise of Sohaimos, however, suggests that Iamblichos identified with Parthian royal tradition, which had appropriated Babylon since the investiture there of the Parthian king Mithridates I in 141 BC.19 Babylon is around 900 km from Emesa; Rome is around 3000 km. The parade of magic refers to a Babylonian word, ‘Sakchouras’. This term was identified by Samuel Bochart three and a half centuries ago (Bochart 1663, 384). He pointed first to Arabic sahir (and cf. Modern Persian sahhār), meaning ‘magician’. Further back, as he saw, there is a form represented by the Syriac (an eastern Aramaic dialect) zkwrʿ, pronounced zakkūra, meaning ‘shade of the dead’, or, more pertinently to us, ‘necromancer/diviner’. And beyond Aramaic, the underlying word is Akkadian zakāru(m):20 that verb, fundamentally to ‘declare’, includes amongst its meanings ‘invoke (the name of a deity)’, and specifically invoking ‘the ghost of a deceased person’.21 The picture builds of Iamblichos the genuine Syrian, as well as of an Iamblichos with leanings towards Persian tradition. The second source is the marginal note in manuscript A at the beginning of Photios’ presentation of Iamblichos, which I present in full in translation here:22 This Iamblichos was a Syrian by birth both on his father’s side and his mother’s side. By ‘Syrian’ is meant not one of those Greeks who had settled in Syria, but someone who knew the Syrian language and lived according to their customs, until he got a Babylonian, as he himself says, trophos (male nanny/governess, ‘manny’) who taught him Babylonian language, customs, ————— 18

19 20

21 22

F 78 – see N.F. Jones ad loc., who observes that this is not a case of throwing the voice, as ‘ventriloquists’ (the usual translation) do. For meanings of ‘Babylonian’ see J. Engels on BNJ 472 T 1; and cf. M. Streck, ‘Seleukeia am Tigris’, RE 2A.1 (1921), 1148-1184, at 1149. Brosius 2006, 87. See The Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon, http://cal.huc.edu/oneentry.php?lemma= zkwr+N (November 2018) and Brockelmann 1895, col. 94b. I note also the remarks of Retso (2003, 592-593, referring to T. Fahd, La divination arabe, Leiden: Brill, 1966, 150) on the Arabic diviners/prophets called šāʿir, plural šuʿarāʾ. Chicago Assyriological Dictionary s.v. zakāru; the z- is orthographic, cf. CAD, vol. 21, v. Habrich 1960, 2; not fully translated in CAGN. All translations of Greek in this contribution are my own.

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and narratives. This story that he is now writing, he says, is one of those narratives. And (he says that) the Babylonian was taken prisoner on the occasion when Trajan invaded Babylonia and was sold to a Syrian by the spoils dealers; he had a good knowledge of barbarian lore, to the extent that he had been, when he lived in his homeland, one of the King’s scribes. So this Iamblichos, both knowing the Syrian language and acquiring the Babylonian, says that after this he trained in Greek and became fluent enough to be a good rhetor. Spoken in the voice of Iamblichos himself (‘This story that he is now writing, he says’), this is without doubt from the preface to the Babyloniaka. Evidently, it cannot be taken too literally: Iamblichos probably had as much difficulty learning Greek as his contemporary Apuleius did learning Latin (Metamorphoses, preface).23 The parallel is close: Apuleius’ Lucius learns Latin with ‘painstaking work’ (aerumnabili labore) and his goal in life too turns out to be becoming a public speaker (in the lawcourts: 11,28,6; 11,30,4), one meaning of the Greek word rhetor. The trophos, however, is more substantial. Capture and enslavement of literate persons in warfare was indeed a significant means of cultural transmission. And we should hesitate to be too cynical about the story, when we consider how discoveries at Ugarit effectively validated the story that Philo of Byblos had rendered a Phoenician original (of Sanchuniathon) into Greek. There is no reason why a scribe from Babylon should not have brought a story to the attention of Iamblichos – and some reason, as we shall see, to think that he did somehow have access to non-Greek and indeed non-Syrian traditions, by whatever means (and a trophos is as good a means as any other). The chronology would have to work as follows: the Babylonian would be captured in 115/116 AD; he would become trophos to young Iamblichos, say aged 10 at the youngest, by, say, 125 at the latest; Iamblichos then recalls this trophos, whether truly or fictionally, some time around 170, by when he is therefore upwards of 55 years old. This is an entirely possible chronology and I think that, despite critical doubt, we should regard it as a credible story and one that may well be true, however Iamblichos has dressed it up.24 Beyond the novel itself, there is only the somewhat incompetent entry in the Souda on Iamblichos (ι 26):

————— 23

24

Holzberg 1995, 86, though he is more pyrrhonic and I am more credulous; Holzberg of course has Kerényi (1927, 46) on his side. See Morgan 1998, 3328, for the preference for a ‘fictitious mise en scène’.

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This man, so they say, was of slave stock. He wrote the ‘Babyloniaka’. It tells the love of Rhodanes and Sinonis in 3925 books. He tells about the eunuch Zobaras, the lover of the most beautiful Mesopotamia. Iamblichos seems, on the contrary, to have been of a wealthy, and possibly royal, family. Perhaps the author of the Souda entry has confused Iamblichos with the trophos – unless we follow Rohde’s ingenious speculation, that this derives from a dubious claim made by Hermippos of Beirut, who, being himself of servile origin, wrote a book on those slaves who had achieved cultural distinction.26 Or it is simply as wrong as the number of books, an implausible 39 (against Photios’ 16). And it is a strange choice specially to highlight the subordinate story of Mesopotamia (Photios §8) and how, later (§20), Zobaras fails to follow Garmos’ instruction to execute her because of his love for her, as though this story were specially known.27 This is not Cupid and Psyche. And, to cap it all, Souda misspells Zobaras with a long o.

2. Persian Mythology Iamblichos, then, claimed that his story was of ‘Babylonian’ origin, and that, when Parthians were masters of Babylon, turns out to mean Persian mythology. As the data are quite intricate, I present a table of the main details on the next page. The hero Rhodanes goes back to the Avestan Thraētaona; other forms include the Pahlavi Freton and modern Persian Farīdūn (or Feraydun, in any case written ‫ = ﻓﺭﻳﺩﻭﻥ‬Frydwn), as well as an Armenian form Hrudēn,28 which causes Belardi to hypothesise an ‘Iranian variant’ *Θrautaina, recognising, as others do, the association with Tritá Āptya, hero of the waters in the (Sanskrit) Rig Veda.29 The oldest feat of this mutating figure, at the Indo-European level, is to slay a monster ————— 25

26

27

28 29

It is sometimes claimed that there is a variant reading of ‘35’, but Adler does not mention it in her apparatus. Cf. Souda s.v. Istros (ι 706) and see Rohde 1914, 361 n.1. Full discussion at di Gregorio 1964, 1-3, but I think that he and some of his predecessors try too hard to find a way of preserving the accuracy of Iamblichos’ alleged slave origin. Of course this story is not without interest, particularly from a gender perspective, cf. Morales 2006. In Moses of Chorene (Thompson 1978, 126). IPNB I, 1, entries 312, 315. Belardi 2002. Schneider-Menzel 1948, 78 observes that ‘Rhodanes’ is also the Parthian royal name Vardān, or ‘Vardanes’ (e.g., Vardanes I, AD 55-58, or the Οὐαρδάνης at Philostratos, Life of Apollonios 2,17); cf. Justi 1895, 351-352.

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or dragon, and recover cattle and the water-supply.30 In Iranian tradition, his job is to slay the monstrous ‘Aži Dahāka’, and he prays to the goddess Anāhīta (known to Greeks as Anaitis) as follows in the Ābān Yašt (‘Yašt of the Waters’: Yašt 5,34): Grant me this, O good, most beneficent Ardvi Sûra Anâhita! that I may overcome Azi Dahâka, the three-mouthed, the three-headed, the six-eyed, who has a thousand senses, that most powerful, fiendish Drug [‘lie’, i.e. embodiment of falsehood], that demon, baleful to the world, the strongest Drug that Angra Mainyu [Ahriman] created against the material world, to destroy the world of the good principle; and that I may deliver his two wives, Savanghavâk and Erenavâk, who are the fairest of body amongst women, and the most wonderful creatures in the world. tr. J. Darmesteter, SBE 23 Source

Date 31

Title

Villain

Hero

Female partner(s)

the Avesta

559–330 BC

Ābān Yašt

Aži Dahāka Thraētaona

Arәnauuāčī-32 Saŋhauuāčī-33

Firdawsī

born AD 940

Shāhnāma

Zahhāk

Feraydun

Arnavaz

Moses of Chorene Iamblichos

mid-5th/8th century AD34 AD 170s

History of the Biurasp Armenians Azhdahak Babyloniaka Garmos

Hrudēn

(Anoysh?)35

Rhodanes

Sinōnis

Shahrnavaz

Aži simply means ‘snake/dragon’ (in origin the same word as the Sanskrit áhi ‘snake/dragon’, and Greek ὄφις, ‘snake’). The meaning of Dahāka is unknown but, even if it had been some sort of epithet, it eventually becomes the monster’s proper name.36 This is a monster, cutting whom only releases evil creatures into the world; he must instead be bound, under the volcano Mt Demavend till the end of time.37 ————— 30 31

32 33 34

35 36 37

See, e.g., Bagheri 2001, 199-201; Lincoln 1976, 42-45; Merkelbach 1962, 179. The Yašts, part of the ‘younger Avesta’, are thought generally to date from the time of the Achaimenids (559–330 BC), cf. Boyce 1975, 20. IPNB I,1, entry 24. IPNB I,1, entry 275. On dating, see Thomson 1978, 1-61, though I doubt that 3,61 should be regarded as fictional. The solution is probably more complex than just choosing between the 5th and 8th centuries, particularly on the basis of the supposition that a (therefore late) Moses followed late authorities – they in turn may have been derivative from earlier works. 1,30. IPNB I, 1, entry 96, which connects the name with the Vedic dāsa (‘demon, enemy’). Dēnkart 9,21,8-10. 9,15,2. Great Bundahišn 9.34 (Indian Bundahishn 12.31).

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In Firdawsī’s Shāhnāma, he has become Zahhāk (or Zohak – there are various renderings of this, as of other names), the usurper-king, who kills his own father to take the throne of Arabia, and then takes the Persian throne from Jamshid (the Avestan Yima, maybe distantly related to the Roman Remus38). Finally, he captures Jamshid’s two sisters (or daughters in one recension), Shahrnavaz and Arnavaz (evidently the Savanghavâk and the Erenavâk of the Yašt). Their experience is perhaps best summed up by Arnavaz’s declaration to Feraydun in Shāhnāma: ‘My Lord, think what it has meant to be married to such a serpent!’.39 The sisters will now be married to Feraydun instead. The fate of Zahhāk then is to be brutally imprisoned in a cave of Mt Damāvand (50 km NE of Tehran), chained and nailed.40 This feat, of overcoming Zahhāk, is evidently the foundation myth for the key Iranian festival of Mehregān, which in Shāhnāma is instituted immediately afterwards as Feraydun assumes power.41 That obviously continues the role of the dragon-slaying story and indicates that this is not just any story, but a key story, the focus of the major yearly ritual, one so central that it is still practised today even though Iran has become an Islamic country. If Iamblichos were to learn any myth from Babylon, it would be this. The Armenian author Moses of Chorene, in an appendix at the end of Book 1 of his History of the Armenians, reports the ‘Persian myth’ very briefly:42 the evil king Biurasp (‘him of the myriad horses’)43 Azhdahāk, as a result of a kiss (from Ahriman, evidently), has snakes growing from his shoulders; then Hrudēn overthrows him and binds him eternally at Mt Dembavend. Moses was connected with the Persian material in 1773 by Anquetil du Perron.44 It is in a footnote to this that Anquetil du Perron raises the possibility that this mythology has given rise to the

————— 38 39 40 41 42

43

44

Yašt 5,25. Puhvel 1987, 287-289. Davis 2007, 23. Davis 2007, 27. Davis 2007, 28. For Moses see Thomson 1978; I have also consulted the Russian translation of Gagik Sarkisyan (1990). This is another area researched by Anquetil du Perron: see 1780a, 467 note u (with a reference to an earlier piece in Histoire d l'Académie des Inscriptions &c 35 (1775), 162-165), and 516-519. Hübschmann 1897, 32-33. Moses merges Astyages with Azhdahak (§§24-30), blackening Astyages and functionally producing a situation where Cyrus or Kambyses has to correspond to the national hero (Feridun &c). This could even have its origin in a Persian account of how they took power from the Medes. Cf. Rank 1914, 37-38. Anquetil du Perron 1780a, 516, cf. 464-465 for Avestan material; though published in 1780, this reports a lecture given on 11 June 1773.

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Babyloniaka,45 though it is of interest that Hrudēn had already been rendered ‘Rhodanes’ in the 1736 Latin translation of Moses.46 In novel scholarship, this connection has rarely been noted. The orientalist Alfred von Gutschmid in 1860 mentioned key details in the obscure context of a discussion of an 1859 book of Daniil Khvolson dealing with the Nabataean Agriculture (a 9th-century Arabic text reporting Babylonian lore), who had erroneously but influentially supposed the work to represent Babylonian material of the 16th century BC.47 There Gutschmid cited the case of Iamblichos, from Anquetil du Perron (for him a fellow orientalist less than 100 years earlier) as further evidence for the sort of Persian story that we find later in Firdawsī, clearly much moved on from the Avestan mythology, and clearly long after the 16th century BC. This mention was in turn picked up from Gutschmid by Schneider-Menzel almost a century later (1948, 77-78) and from there passed to Merkelbach in his Roman und Mysterium (1962).48 Since then, it has notably been incorporated in the ambitious design of Graham Anderson’s King Arthur in Antiquity (2004). Iamblichos’ Sinonis is threatened with marriage to the tyrant Garmos, whose name was held by Anquetil du Perron (this is repeated by later authorities) to refer to the snakes that grow from the shoulders of Zahhāk. Reference is made to the Indo-European root *kwrmi-, ‘worm’ (Latin vermis), and its reflex kerema- in Avestan, karm (closer to Garmos) in Pahlavi. As is well known, words for ‘worm’ can sometimes end up referring to snakes, as in Old English wyrm (‘snake/ dragon’) and modern Persian kirm (‘dragon’).49 ————— 45 46

47

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1780a, 465 n. s. G. & G. Whiston, Mosis Chorenensis: Historiae Armeniacae Libri III, London: J. Whiston, 1736. The difference between Hr- and Rh- is only orthographic. Gutschmid 1860, 55 Reprinted in the Kleine Schriften of 1890, 641 (see Bibliography); D.A. Chwolson (Khvolson), Über die Überreste der altbabylonischen Literature in arabischen Übersetzungen, St Petersburg: Buchdruckerei der kaiserlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1859 (repr. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2011). Merkelbach 1962, 179 n.2, with reference to Anquetil du Perron 1780a. More recently the same data has presented by Russell 2002, 4 n.16. He does, however, uncritically accept Merkelbach’s Mithraic reading, which most novel scholars would reject. Cf, e.g., Greenberg 2002, 188; Russell 2002, 4 n.16. ‘Zohâk, appelé Kerem, à cause des deux serpens qui sortoient de ses épaules’, Anquetil du Perron 1780a, 465 note s; Merkelbach 1962, 180; Anderson 2004, 210. In the light of the discussion of Perseus in Anquetil du Perron 1780a, 466 note u, one may speculate that Perseus-Andromeda-Sea monster also represents the Persian myth; an equivalence of Perseus with Feridun would go some way to redeem the apparently trivial claim that Perses son of Perseus was the ancestor of the Persian kings (Herodotos 7,61,3; 150,2). Another equivalence, according to Anquetil du Perron, is the Deiokes and Phraortes story of Herodotos (1,96-101), characters arising respectively from Zahhāk/Dahāk and Feridun (1780b, 514-521), though it is taken broadly historically today, given evidence for an actual historical name accounting for ‘Deiokes’.

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Iamblichos deviates substantially from the Persian myth in its various forms, but it is interesting that as early as the Ābān Yašt, a fairly strong focus falls on the women who must be rescued by Thraētaona. Thus there is something of a hero and girl story from an early stage. ‘Sinonis’ is thought by Anquetil du Perron and Merkelbach to be some version of Arnavaz, though the phonology is more distant than they think;50 in fact her name, if derived from either sister, is closer to Shahrnavaz (the Saŋhauuāčī- of the Yašt). We have looked so far largely at Persian origins. But already we have had several names to be explained from Semitic sources: the names of the Nabataian royal family, including ‘Iamblichos’, with Sampsigeramos perhaps on the Aramaic rather than Arabic side of that fence; and, clearly from Aramaic, the sakchouras belly-diviner. The name Sinonis appears to be another such case, as Schneider-Menzel discovered: in the background lies the the Akkadian for ‘swallow’ (the bird), namely sinūnu (or sinūntu); but it is not, of course, Akkadian through which this reaches Iamblichos but Aramaic sәnūnī(ta) (cf. Arabic sunūnuw-).51 Schneider-Menzel connects this, plausibly, with the omen of the swallow figuring Sinonis that appears at the end of Photios’ summary, though I wonder whether the Aramaic name was not an attempt by Iamblichos’ Aramaic source to make sense of the Persian Saŋhauuāčī-. Similarly, Soraichos who saves Rhodanes and Sinōnis and becomes their constant companion, bears a name found on a bilingual inscription at Palmyra, where in Aramaic it is Shuraiku and means something like ‘associate’ or ‘friend’, which he in fact is.52 Perhaps this too is making Aramaic sense of a Persian word: there is a friendly advisor in Shāhnāma, called Sorush. This ‘angel’ (Davis tr.) twice restrains Feraydun from killing Zahhāk (pp. 26, 27). Sorush is in origin the god Sraoša (Yašt 11 and Yasna 57) and is a sort of personification of listening and obedience (cf. Sanskrit śru-; from the same root as Greek klyein, ‘listen’). But he is also a great support: ‘The holy Sraosha, the best protector of the poor, is fiend—————

50

51

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Gutschmid (1860, 55 n.1, followed by Schneider-Menzel 1948, 77) considered Garmos ‘eine Personifikation des assyrischen Volkes der Garamäer’. Another possibility might be suggested on the basis of IPNB I,1, entry 162 Grә̄hma- ‘obviously a force hostile to Zarathustrian lore’. ‘Asnavas’, with an s, in Anquetil du Perron 1780a, 465, then Merkelbach 1962, 179 n.2, and from there in K. Dowden, CR 13 (1986), 61, is, I think, a mistake. Schneider-Menzel 1948, 79-80, regarding its origin as a surprise. Chicago Assyriological Dictionary s.v. sinuntu (vol. 15, 295). See The Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon: ‘snwny, snwnytˀ (snō/ūnī, snō/ūnīṯā) n.f. swallow’ http://cal.huc.edu/oneentry.php?lemma=snwny +N (November 2018); Brockelmann 1895, col. 230b. PAT 055; see Cussini 2003, 129 (and cf. the Shuraiku in an inscription of AD 179 at PAT 0300); G.P. Basello, http://www.elamit.net/corsi//testi_semitistica2006-07c.pdf (November 2018); and cf. Schneider-Menzel 1948, 80.

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smiting; he is the best smiter of the Drug’ (Yašt 11,3). And he is particularly efficacious at protecting those undergoing persecution as faced by Rhodanes and Sinonis: ‘Whether on the road or in the law he has to fear, not in that day nor in that night shall the tormenting fiend, who wants to torment him, prevail to throw upon him the look of his evil eye ...’ (Yašt 11,5). Indeed, in later Zoroastrianism he takes over the function of vice-regent of Ahura Mazdā on earth.53 It might make sense of the puzzling remark of Photios (§7) that Soraichos was called ‘the just’. To Soraichos maybe should be added another name with a triconsonantal root, Setapos, whose name seems to reflect the Aramaic root štp, meaning ‘partner’ (cf. Akkadian šutāpu).54 Regardless of whether this is the root in question, it is clearly a name of an appropriate shape for a near eastern story. Two final details send us to the Persian origin. First, as I have argued elsewhere,55 there appears to have been an element in the plot of the Babyloniaka, reflected in FF 90-91 in which the ‘children’ (apparently Rhodanes and Sinonis) are smuggled out by one of their fathers to a meadow to be looked after by shepherds. A similar dynamic is possessed by the scene in the Shāhnāma (Davis 2007, 16-17), where Feraydun is smuggled away by his mother to a meadow to be reared by a herdsman and miraculously nurtured by the cow Barmayeh. If this is connected, and it must be confessed that there are problems even fitting the fragments into the plot as known from Photios,56 then the origin would appear to be a folksier telling of the story than we find in Persian mythology, closer to the Shāhnāma. Secondly, the world-view of the Babyloniaka is distinctive. Apart from the evil priest Paapis in Antonius Diogenes (who may indeed be a significant predecessor, not least, given his 24 books, for the long novel),57 or Homer’s Poseidon in the Odyssey (not as committed to evil as either Garmos or Paapis), enmity and persecution are quite localised in Greek fiction. Indeed, the loving couple of the novel tend to suffer harassment rather than persecution. Thus the consistent persecution by Garmos and his agents, particularly Damas, reflects a different mindset, one which is indeed much more attuned to a dualist world of gods (ahuras) ————— 53 54 55 56

57

Boyce 1975, 271. Chicago Assyriological Dictionary s.v. šutāpu (vol. 17, 3, p. 397). Dowden, forthcoming, §4. The tradition of discussion of this issue, including Bruhn 1890, 280 (who states the difficulties particularly clearly), and Rohde (366 n.1), is resumed and added to by Habrich on FF 90-92. See further Borgogno 1975, 114-115. See also the crisp summary of views presented by Morgan 1998, 3323. Borgogno 1979, 139 underlines the importance of the role of Paapis as antagonist in the economy of Antonius Diogenes. A Greek predecessor of the Satyricon comes into play too, given, at least in Petronius, the length of the work (perhaps 24 books) and the persecution of the heroes, whether by Priapus or Lichas.

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and demons (daēvas).58 Thus the Persian content of Iamblichos is in a sense more than skin-deep, even if it is disappointing that in Photios’ summary we do not learn the end of Garmos. All we have is: Ῥοδάνης δὲ καὶ νικᾷ καὶ τὴν Σινωνίδα ἀπολαμβάνει, καὶ βασιλεύει Βαβυλωνίων (‘But Rhodanes is victorious and gets Sinonis back and becomes king of the Babylonians,’ §22). It cries out for an appearance of Mt Damāvand! It is at least remarkable that the emergent set of novels is enriched, however lightly, with material ultimately deriving from a Persian mythological source. Yet, that mythic material has already been transmuted as the popular tradition leading in the end to Firdawsī developed; and as it develops, it has undergone some Aramaic colouring. It is misleading that the novel at first sight looks quite like other surviving novels – for instance, Chariton or Heliodoros. This is, then, of a different order from the observation that the Alexander Romance may be based partly on native Egyptian materials such as Sesonchosis’ dream or that Barlaam and Joasaph began life as a Manichean text.59 Closer would be Graham Anderson’s view (Anderson 1984) that the novels typically emerge from near-eastern (typically oral) narratives or that the tale of Iamblichos is to be genetically connected not only with Persian material but also with medieval romance (Anderson 2004). Equally there have been, and are, views that the ideal novel is conditioned by other texts – Merkelbach’s theory that they are intertextually driven by key points in mystery ritual and are mystery texts, James O’Sullivan’s that Xenophon of Ephesos exhibits identifiable oral characteristics, and Jan Bremmer’s (2001) that the emergence of the novels in both pagan and Christian circles at similar times and places is non-coincidental.

3. The novel: predecessors of Iamblichos Whatever the Persian impact on the plot and characters of the Babyloniaka, its closest family is overwhelmingly to be found in the Greek novel. As its plot looks backwards to earlier novelists, this section examines some elements that Iamblichos may have drawn from them as he defined his own contribution to the genre.

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Much the same view at Merkelbach 1962, 180. Pervo 2003, 708.

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3.1 Chariton Iamblichos had evidently read, and was inspired by, Chariton's pioneering novel, as Borgogno demonstrated (1979, 147-150), offering examples over and above those I present below. From the account of Photios (§2), provided it does not mislead us,60 it appears that the Babyloniaka got going very fast and very directly. Hero and heroine, both wholly attractive, love each other, and are married from the outset. Immediately, the king Garmos loses his wife, and Sinonis precipitates crisis by refusing to take her place. There is none of the slow, ekphrastic, build-up of Achilles or Longos, none of the structural deftness of Heliodoros; it is much closer to the model of Chariton and Xenophon, except for, it seems, a prologue very similar to Apuleius’ (see below). Presently, the pursuers reach a tomb (§6) where hero and heroine are sleeping off the effects of food and drink. Thwarted by the assumption that these are just dead bodies, the pursuers leave. The themes send us back to the scene in Chariton (1,9) in which Kallirhoe, supposed dead but in fact alive, is actually abducted from her tomb. Similar comparison is possible at §7, where Sinonis is apprehended and brought before a significant local figure (Soraichos), who is minded to send her to the King of Babylon: significant elements in the plot structure of Chariton are replicated, namely the bringing of Kallirhoe to Dionysios and her eventual sending (though for different reasons) to the Great King, who resides at Babylon (5,3,6) as Great Kings do. Turning from heroine to hero, if Rhodanes becomes a general in the forces of Garmos and evidently overthrows him (§22), that replicates Chaereas’s experience as general of the Egyptian forces against the Great King (eg, 7,3, esp. 7,3,11).61 This parallel becomes close when one realises that the heroine is also loosely following the role of Kallirhoe in Chariton: after a somewhat surprising marriage to the King of Syria (§20), she is recovered by Rhodanes as a result of this military exploit (§22) – mirroring Kallirhoe’s marriage to Dionysios62 and her recovery by Chaereas (7,6; 8,1). There are religious echoes too. The temple of Aphrodite in Babyloniaka §§78 is a particular fixture in Chariton at 2,2 (on Dionysios’ estate, near Miletos, also 3,6; 4,1), 7,5 (Paphos) and 8,8,15 (Syracuse, also 5,5); indeed, if Chariton really ————— 60

61

62

See Borgogno 1975, 103-105, for the detection of plot at the beginning which is skimmed over by Photios, and the balanced response of Morgan 1998, 3325. The beauty of the hero and heroine, their love and their marriage may well have taken up some pages. ‘Tout comme Chéréas’, Reardon 1971, 368. Military exploits of the hero also conjure up the Ninos novel, but not so exactly. As observed by Schneider-Menzel 1948, 79.

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came from Aphrodisias, he would be familiar with its own temple of Aphrodite. And the ‘royal gods’, by whom Soraichos appears to have sworn to help the young couple (F 33), only appear elsewhere in the novel at Chariton 6,2,2.63 3.2 Xenophon The case for knowledge of Xenophon is not quite as strong as the case for knowledge of Chariton, but there are some indicators. Immediately, at §2, the crucifixion of Rhodanes recalls the only other crucified hero in a novel, Habrokomes (Eph. 4,2),64 and pushes us towards the view that Iamblichos had that scene in mind. In this instance, however, the hero is rescued ‘by the efforts of Sinonis’ (σπουδῇ Σινωνίδος) rather than by Xenophon’s idiosyncratic apparatus of miracles. It is this that leads to the flight of the lovers, a familiar motif, but absent from Chariton – one must turn to Xenophon and Achilles, unless you count the siblings Derkyllis and Mantineas in Antonius Diogenes. Then, in §3, we are by a meadow, where we encounter a fisherman. Iamblichos is entitled to deploy a fisherman on his own account, but a fisherman did gain a lot of attention in Xenophon 5 (having mummified his wife). And it is not often that heroines kill their predators. Anthia does so at Ephesiaka 4,5, in selfdefence.65 Sinonis’ killing is comparable, even if somewhat more premeditated in the case of Setapos (§15). The companion of the hero and heroine, once a threat, now a friend, is Soraichos. This seems to pick up the dynamics of the relationship between Xenophon’s Hippothoös and the loving couple (as observed by Schneider-Menzel 1948, 81). Heliodoros will take this motif further in the case of Thyamis, but perhaps in this case directly from Xenophon, given his role as robber-chief, which is to some extent different from that of a taxman. More broadly, the motif of apparent deaths, as Bryan Reardon observed, is found specially useful by both authors.66 And these factors together indicate some knowledge of Xenophon on the part of Iamblichos, though he cannot be said to be a major influence. For that, amongst the early novels, we must turn to Chariton. It remains nonetheless true that if we look for a moment at taste rather than plot elements, as Bryan Reardon did (1971, 368), one will see Iamblichos as extending the melodramatic take of Xenophon on the Charitonian novel and his production ————— 63 64

65 66

Schneider-Menzel 1948, 86-87. Borgogno 1975, 109, who, however, speaks of ‘il τόπος’. More sensitive response to shared crucifixion, if for ulterior motives, in Kerényi 1927, 110-111. A point made by Schneider-Menzel 1948, 79, and Merkelbach 1962, 186. Reardon 1971, 307.

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will seem to make a certain evolutionary sense. Iamblichos has perhaps addressed the issue of what it is to write novel in the wake of Xenophon.67 3.3 Achilles The echoes of Achilles are fainter than those of Xenophon, assuming that Achilles does antedate Iamblichos, as seems likely.68 We have already seen that Iamblichos retains the simple narrative opening of Chariton and Xenophon. Iamblichos either does not know Achilles or learns no lessons from Achilles’ innovative ekphrastic opening. And other connections are too frail: the elopement of hero and heroine in Achilles is perhaps the closest to the flight of hero and heroine in Iamblichos, but it is not strikingly identical. Shepherds, a feature of the meadow narrative, are present in Achilles, but only in mythical tales (2,2 and 2,11). The meadow itself could be held to recall the opening of Achilles Tatius where the play of Europa on the meadow leads to danger and dénouement. This meadow, though, like so much in Iamblichos, is quirky, with its hoard of gold indicated by ‘the inscription on the stele of the lion’ and, oddest of all, a phantom goat that falls in love with Sinonis, perhaps in a dream.69 The remaining candidate for a connection with Achilles is F 101 – where a military victory is won by flooding the enemy, as at Achilles 4,14 (and of course later in Heliodoros 9,3-5) – but the fragment is nowadays usually thought not to be from the Babyloniaka.70 There is a certain sharing of interest in human behaviour and in the love of miscellaneous knowledge (Reardon 1971, 368-369), but that is a general characteristic of the sophistic métier. Unless we are prepared to weigh the theme of ‘apparent death’ heavily in the scales, then Iamblichos shows little sign of knowing Achilles (or vice versa).71

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68 69

70

71

Holzberg (1995, 86) sees the narrative structure as comparable to that of Xenophon, though for questions of taste he turns rather to Lollianos’ Phoinikika. See Bowie 2002, 60; Dowden 2007, 143. Dream, Schneider-Menzel 1948, 57-58, on the basis of FF 9-10. More generally, on the ‘drastic’ inventions of Iamblichos see Kuch 2003, 215. Herodotos and Strabo (and apparently Pindar) speak of sexual congress between a male goat and women at Mendes in Egypt: Herodotos 2,46,4; Strabo 17,1,19, including Pindar F 201 Maehler. There are phantom goats at Plut., Sulla 27,4. See Hercher 1866, 363; Rohde 1914, 482 n.2; Schneider-Menzel 1948, 68-69; Habrich on F 101. Apparent death: Kerényi 1927, 32-33. Borgogno 1979, 151-152, finds little scope to draw Achilles into the discussion of Antonius Diogenes and Iamblichos.

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3.4 Apuleius Unexpectedly, however, there is indeed common ground between Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Iamblichos, starting with topics in the preface, as we saw above (p. 153). The premeditated killing by Sinonis of Setapos, which we have referred to in connection with Xenophon’s Anthia (p. 162), is closer situationally to the furious assault of Charite on Thrasyllus in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (8,10-13). Moreover, this incident is not present in the Onos where the equivalents of Charite and Tlepolemus are lost in what looks like a tsunami (§34). Earlier, the old woman who dies of fright (§4) when being interrogated about the hero and heroine lives by a cave. So does the old woman of the robbers in the Metamorphoses who later commits suicide through fear that the robbers will feel she has failed to discharge her duty in keeping guard over the ass and Charite. It is worth noting that there is a corresponding old woman in the Onos but no cave.72 It is also suggestive that the hero and heroine of Iamblichos find themselves travelling on ass-back a little later (§4 fin.) like Charite on Lucius. Sleep like death, due to doing knowingly what you should not, comes to Psyche when she opens the box of Proserpina (Met. 6,21). Likewise Iamblichos’ hero and heroine eat honey they know is not safe and then fall down as though dead (§3 fin.).73 Presently (§5) they are fleeing from an inn, a situation otherwise only known from the tale of Aristomenes in Apuleius (Met. 1,14-15). Then, escaping from the house of the cannibal robber, they claim to be ghosts of his victims (§5). A similar collection of motifs, if differently agglutinated, is found at Metamorphoses 4,22,5, where some of Apuleius’ robbers masquerade as Lemures (ghosts), evidently in order to deter attention.74 A Chaldaean (astrologer) appears at §6, and having observed that a girl ready for burial is still alive, proceeds (unexpectedly?) to predict that Rhodanes will become king. The obvious comparand is Apuleius 2,12, where a Chaldaean tells Lucius that he will become historiam magnam et incredundam fabulam et libros.75 But the tangential nature of the prophecy, to a surprised recipient, also suggests the surprise at Metamorphoses 2,30 when the corpse draws Thelyphron, a mere observer, into the plot. Then in §7, the substitution of a sleeping potion for poison to prevent suicide has its nearest comparand in the similar substitution by ————— 72 73

74 75

Cave, Met. 4,6; old woman Met. 4,24. Onos 20; suicide Met. 6,30. Onos 24. This is more specific than the false deaths in other novels considered by Borgogno 1975, 122. Something similar seems intended in Lollianos, Phoinikika, F B1 verso. Cf Schneider-Menzel 1948, 88.

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the worthy doctor at Metamorphoses 10,12 to prevent murder. And if the heroine inflicts a sword-wound on herself, that too is rather reminiscent of the Metamorphoses, where Charite uses a sword to commit suicide at 8,13-14. In addition, there is the structural feature of a central section, almost a mise en abyme:76 it is not Cupid and Psyche, but the whole story of the girl Mesopotamia and the temple of Aphrodite (§§8-9) forms a contrasting section with a shift of focus. Its originality is that it is then (§11) drawn into the main plot (rather like, later, Heliodoros’ inserted narrative of Knemon and Thisbe). There is much in common between the Babyloniaka and the Metamorphoses and it is difficult to know exactly how to account for it. In my view (Dowden 1994), the Metamorphoses dates from the mid 150s; but the commonest view is that it comes late in Apuleius’ career (170s). On this depends whether the Metamorphoses was written before or after Iamblichos; it was clearly nearly contemporary. It does seem very unlikely that our Syrian apprentice in Greek would have been able to read the Latin of Apuleius. And it is perhaps likelier in any case that a common source is to be envisaged. That common source is not the Onos as most of the overlap is in stories which have been ‘inserted’ into the frame story told by the Onos. The original story of Lucius of Patrai in his Metamorphoses, if it was much fuller than the Onos, might have been a key pre-Iamblichan text. If it was not, then some Greek source or sources of Apuleius were. Given the volume of possible overlap, it looks as there is a single source at issue, perhaps the Milesiaka of Aristides, or perhaps another collection of short stories.

4. The novel: successors of Iamblichos 4.1 Longos Turning now to influence on later authors, I am not sure there is much influence on Longos, whatever his date (probably 190s or so),77 though it is perhaps interesting that this is the only novel other than Longos in which shepherds figure other than trivially,78 in the scene at ‘the meadow’, a rather curious and haunting choice ————— 76 77

78

Ὡς ἐν παρεκβολῇ, Photios §8; ‘Mittelstück’, Schneider-Menzel 1948, 77. Dowden 2007, 143; Morgan 2004, 1-2. Borgogno 1979, 151, sets Longus apart from Antonius and Iamblichos. Cf Morgan 2004, 7. The only real shepherds in the plot other than those in Iamblichos and Longos are briefly intervening local plunderers at Xenophon 3,12,2. Achilles 2,2 and 2,11 present two instances of a shepherd in myth (discovering wine and purple respectively); Chariton 5,2,8 refers to Paris in myth; the adjective poimenikon at Heliodoros 5,14,3 refers to an ekphrasis on the gem that Kalasiris gives Nausikles; at Chariton 2,3,2 Leonas

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of setting. And it is just possible that Longos’ swimming cows (1,30) are inspired by Iamblichos’ idiomatically Arabic swimming camel (§11). 4.2 Heliodoros It is, however, much more compelling that Heliodoros had read Iamblichos and it is of interest (as we saw above) that both can be associated with Emesa.79 It is a further curious fact that Emesa is not far from Arados (off the Syrian coast directly west of Emesa), the island given its moment of fame in Chariton (7,5-8,5 passim), thus uniting three authors who fit so well together. Almost at the start of the novel (Eth. 1,3), Charikleia oddly and melodramatically entertains the idea that the Egyptian brigands are the ghosts of the slain. This must surely derive from the passage in Iamblichos (§5) where, escaping from the blazing house, the hero and heroine actually claim to be the ghosts of those slain by the cannibal bandit. Heliodoros must surely also have got his cave in Bks 1-2 from Iamblichos, with its dangers and yet its role as an escape-route.80 And it is just possible that the nexus of old woman, sword and her death, though quite differently played in Heliodoros 6, in some sense results from his reading of Iamblichos §3. Likewise, it is curious that issues of death and failure to recognise, prominent in the confusion between Thisbe and Charikleia in Heliodoros’ cave, emerge in the immediate sequel to the cave incident in Iamblichos (§4), where the hero and heroine appear to be dead (because of eating the poison honey) and are not recognised by the agents of Garmos. Further, in §18, as Rohde observed (1914, 458 n.4), Rhodanes’ confusion of the dead Trophime (murdered by a slave) with Sinonis must in some way be a predecessor of the point in the cave-scene where Theagenes confuses Thisbe with Charikleia (Eth. 2,4). Confusions of identity reach wider, of course, and the mother mistaking Rhodanes for her own son Tigris (§11) again recalls Theagenes’ mistaking of Charikleia for Thisbe, and later Knemon’s (5.2-3). Indeed the whole question of the reflection of hero and heroine by a lesser couple, Theagenes and Charikleia by Knemon and Thisbe, may have its roots in the facility with which Euphrates and Mesopotamia are taken for Rhodanes and Sinonis (§§12-13, 17, 20). And it is also possible that the fisherman who reveals the whereabouts of the shepherds to Damas and Sakas underlies the

————— 79 80

envisages the enslaved Kallirhoe being given to some ‘cowherd or shepherd’, rather like Electra in the play of Euripides. Heliodoros 10,41,4.; Iamblichos is so reported, in effect, in the marginal note to Photios. Cf Borgogno 1975, 117, and, rather embedded in his Mithraic theory, Merkelbach 1962, 182.

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deaf fisherman Tyrrhenos81 who both acts as host to Kalasiris and Charikleia and (Eth. 5,20) relays information to the pirates. In §11 the mother of Tigris thinks she has transformed her dead son into a hero by magic. Women employing magic is a motif known well enough from Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (esp. Bk. 2), but the particular situation is closer to the necromancy scene in Heliodoros 6,14 where again a mother practises magic on her son.82 And the surprise prophecy of the corpse to Kalasiris and Charikleia (6,15) may build on the surprise prophecy of the Chaldaean to Rhodanes if that is what it was (§6, cf p.164 on Apuleius). If Charikleia and Theagenes are cast into golden chains on the order of Hydaspes at 9,1,5, this immediately draws on Herodotos (3,23), as a particularity of imprisonment in Ethiopian culture. But it is also true that Garmos casts Sinonis into golden chains at §2.83 And this leads to a larger issue for the reader of Heliodoros who is aware of the intertextuality with Iamblichos: can Hydaspes, through his moral qualities, be detached from the Garmos model? This is a dialectic on the nature of kingship and absolute power. Iamblichos had a penchant for learned digression (§§8, 10), a trait of sophistic novelists, particularly Achilles. But the insistence that ‘mystery’ derives from ‘mouse’ and the expertise in the varieties of magic make one wonder whether Heliodoros’ Kalasiris, with his expert knowledge of Homer (3,14), the Nile (2,28) and of course magic and religion, is in fact a sort of projection, not only of Philostratos’ Apollonios of Tyana,84 but also of Iamblichos’ persona into his compatriot’s novel. It is also interesting to set side by side Iamblichos’ magnification of Sohaimos as ‘son of Achaimenides son of Arsakides, who was a king born of fathers who had been kings’, with Heliodoros’ choice of personal names in his Persian section, where we have not only the queen Arsake but her servant’s son Achaimenes (7,1415). Heliodoros is working with Iamblichos’ imaginaire and vocabulary, which is less commonplace than might be thought: a TLG search for Achaimen- and Arsakwords in reasonable proximity to each other produces in addition to Heliodoros and Iamblichos practically nothing of substance.85 .

————— 81 82 83 84 85

Fleetingly, Borgogno 1975, 114. Cf Schneider-Menzel 1948, 87-88. Merkelbach 1962, 181 (also citing Heliodoros 7,27,1); Borgogno 1975, 109. Dowden 2015, 9-11; Morgan 2009. Anth.Pal. 6,332; Theodoret, Interpretation of Daniel, PG 81,1504; Thomas Magister, Selection of Attic nouns and verbs, π, p. 287. Borgogno 1979, 155-156, with some justification sees Arsake as replicating the functions of Paapis and Garmos: with gender reversal, Theagenes is effectively threatened by Arsake with Sinonis’ marriage to Garmos.

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5. Other novels I have focused on the novels that survive. There will have been other debts too and one seems to be constituted by something with epistolary characteristics, maybe the Alexander Romance. In Iamblichos’ plot, letters are repeatedly sent by, to, or on behalf of, the monarch: at §11 Damas sends a letter to have the priest of Aphrodite arrest Sinonis, a letter intercepted by Rhodanes; at §13 the goldsmith sends a letter to Garmos. By §16 Garmos is wielding not only this letter but another, from Sakas; at §17 another letter from the goldsmith reaches Garmos; and at §22 Sakas writes to Garmos that Sinonis is marrying the king of Syria. There are enough letters here to raise the suspicion that fictional letters may have been embedded in the novel. This suspicion is reinforced by the one letter in the Letters of Apollonios of Tyana (no. 59) that is neither from, to, nor about, Apollonios. It is addressed to an otherwise unknown ‘Neogyndes King of the Indians’ by ‘the King of the Babylonians Garmos’, who has no existence otherwise outside the Babyloniaka. This can only, therefore, be an extract from an otherwise unknown episode in the Babyloniaka, rather reminiscent of Alexander’s correspondence (Alexander Romance, 3,2) with the Indian king Poros.86 To this we may perhaps also add a sense that its near-eastern régime interests bring it close to the Ninos novel.87 We have incidentally referred to Diogenes and Lollianos above.88 And Borgogno too has made a substantial case for specific influence of Antonius Diogenes on Iamblichos, focusing on the role of Garmos (from Paapis) and the role of magic.89

Conclusion Iamblichos’ novel is indeed a ‘Babyloniaka’ in the approximate sense that it shows a faint imprint of Persian mythology. Somewhere between the mythology of the Avesta and the legends of Firdawsī there must have lain a form of the story that was capable of being adapted as the Greek novel of Rhodanes and Sinonis, much as the ‘novel’ of Joseph and Aseneth drew on and amplified the account of Genesis 41. ————— 86

87 88 89

Penella 1979, 121, draws no conclusion; Jones 2006, 57, recognises the Iamblichan connection, but draws rather a vague conclusion. Cf. n. 61 above. Antonius: pp. 159, 162 above. Lollianos: n. 74 above. Borgogno 1979, 144-147, and cf. 150.

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Within the different perspective of the canon of Greek literature as we perceive it, it can be seen that Iamblichos drew on Chariton and possibly Xenophon, and that he drew on a repertoire of stories no longer accessible to us except indirectly through the ‘inserted’ stories of Apuleius in his Metamorphoses. Surprisingly, given his date and style, the links to the sophistic novels of Achilles and Longus are rather weak, if indeed they exist at all. His work also displays a characteristically wild imagination, what with cannibal bandit and poisonous honey and many other highly coloured inventions that serve to separate him from the mainstream and provoked Bryan Reardon’s elegant reference to ‘Grand Guignol’.90 Nor is he as meticulous as other novelists to maintain a distance from current times. A clear instance of this is his mention of the Alans (§21).91 These Alans appear to be descendants of the Iranian tribes north of the Black Sea and do not appear in Greek literature until imperial times. They are unknown to Strabo, and first appear for certain in Josephus (e.g., 7,244, where he knows they are Scythians) a mere century before Iamblichos. The next striking cluster of references is rather later, in Lucian, Toxaris (§51, 54). So the word would have a modern ring to a more sensitive ear or to one that cared more about consistent classical chronology. But with Heliodoros, another Syrian, he comes back into the fold and Heliodoros’ creativity owes something to his Syrian predecessor. Did he perhaps find a copy of Iamblichos’ book in an Emesene library and, through the influence and companionship of his own work, bring it back into circulation and allow it now to reach the Byzantine tradition and, through Photios, us?

Abbreviations BNJ = I. Worthington (ed.), Brill’s New Jacoby, 2007-, online: Brill (http://www.brilllonline. nl). IPNB = M. Mayrhofer and others, Iranisches Personennamenbuch, 8 vols (fascicles in progress), Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1979-date. PAT = D.R. Hillers & E. Cussini, Palmyrene Aramaic Texts [Publications of the Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon Project, 3], Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1996. SBE = F. Max Müller (ed.), Sacred Books of the East, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 18791910.

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Reardon 1989, 8. For further discussion of the significance of the mention by Iamblichos of the Alans , unpaid by Garmos, and their attempt (with other tribes) to invade the Roman Empire across the Danube in AD 166, see Ramelli 2001, 451-453.

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Bibliography Altheim, F. 1948. Literatur und Gesellschaft im ausgehenden Altertum, 1, Halle/Saale: Max Niemeyer. Anderson, G. 1984. Ancient Fiction. The Novel in the Graeco-Roman World, London & Sydney: Croom Helm. Anderson, G. 2004. King Arthur in Antiquity, London & New York: Routledge. Anquetil92 du Perron, A.H. 1780a. ‘Mémoire dans lequel on essaie de concilier les auteurs grecs, & principalement Hérodote & Ctésias, sur le commencement & la durée de l'empire assyrien, & ces écrivains avec les Perses, sur les règnes qui forment ce que les orientaux appellent la dynastie des Peschadiens’, Histoire de l'Académie Royale des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, avec les mémoires &c 40, 356-476. Anquetil du Perron, A.H. 1780b. ‘Mémoire sur l'Empire des Mèdes & celui des Perses comparés avec la Dynastie connue dans les Ouvrages des Orientaux, sous le nom de Kéaniens’, Histoire de l'Académie Royale des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, avec les mémoires &c 40, 477-525. Bagheri, M. 2001. ‘Prince Mohammad, Fereydun, Thraētaona, and Trita Āptya: themes and connections in Persian narratives’, Folklore 112, 199-201. Barrett, A.A. 1977. ‘Sohaemus, King of Emesa and Sophene’, AJP 98, 153-159. Belardi, W. 2002. ‘Dalla fonologia di un nome armeno a un particolare di un mito indoiranico’, RAL 13, 317-321. Bochart, S. 1663. Hierozoici, sive bipartiti operis de animalibus Scripturae, pars posterior, London: Tho. Roycroft. Borgogno, A. 1975. ‘Sui Babyloniaca di Giamblico’, Hermes 103, 101-126. Borgogno, A. 1979. ‘Antonio Diogene e le trame dei romanzi greci’, Prometheus 5, 137-156. Bowie, E. 2002. ‘The chronology of the earlier Greek Novels since B.E. Perry: revisions and precisions’, Ancient Narrative 2, 47- 63. Boyce, M. 1975. A History of Zoroastrianism 1, Leiden & Köln: Brill. Bremmer, J.N. 2001. ‘The Apocryphal Acts: authors, place, time and readership’, in J.N. Bremmer (ed.), The Apocryphal Acts of Thomas, Leuven: Peeters, 149-170. Brockelmann, C. 1895. Lexicon Syriacum, Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, Berlin: Reuter & Reichard. Brosius, M. 2006. The Persians: an Introduction, London: Routledge. Bruhn, E. 1890. 'Suidea', RhM 45, 273-283. Cussini, E. 2003. ‘Ebrei a Palmira: un riesame delle fonti epigrafiche’, Materia giudaica, Rivista dell’associazione italiana per lo studio del giudaismo, 8, 123-138. Davis, Dick (tr.) 2007. Shahnameh: The Persian Book of Kings, London: Penguin. Dowden, K. 1994. ‘Apuleius’ Roman audience’, in: J.A. Tatum (ed.), The Search for the Ancient Novel, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 419-434. Dowden, K. 2007. ‘A lengthy sentence: judging the prolixity of novels’, in: M. Paschalis, S. Frangoulidis, S. Harrison, M. Zimmerman (eds.), The Greek and the Roman Novel: Parallel Readings, Groningen: Barkhuis, 133-150. Dowden, K. 2015. ‘Kalasiris, Apollonios of Tyana, and the lies of Teiresias’, in S. Panyotakis, G. Schmeling, M. Paschalis (eds.), Holy men and charlatans in the Ancient Novel, Eelde: Barkhuis, 1-16.

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There is no acute accent on ‘Anquetil’, contrary to several non-French sources.

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Dowden, K. forthcoming ‘Slavery and despotism in Iamblichos’ Babyloniaka’, in S. Panayiotakis (ed.), Slaves and Masters in the Ancient Novel, AN Supplement, Groningen: Barkhuis. di Gregorio, L. 1964. ‘Sulla biografia de Giamblico e la fortuna del suo romanzo attraverso i secoli’, Aevum 38, 1-13. Greenberg, J.H. 2002. Indo-European and its Closest Relatives: the Eurasiatic Language Family, 2, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Gutschmid, A. von 1860. ‘Die Nabatäische Landwirtschaft und ihre Geschwister’, ZDMG 15 (1860), 1-110 (= Kleine Schriften, 2 (1890), Leipzig: Teubner, 568-716). Habrich, E. (ed.) 1960. Iamblichi Babyloniacorum Reliquiae, Leipzig: Teubner. Hercher, R. 1866. ‘Zu Jamblichus’ Babyloniaca’, Hermes 1, 360-366. Holzberg, N. 1995. The Ancient Novel: An Introduction, Eng. tr. C. Jackson-Holzberg, London: Routledge. Hübschmann, H. 1897. Armenische Grammatik, 1 Armenische Etymologie, Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel. Jones, C.P. 2006. Philostratus: Apollonius of Tyana, 3 Letters of Apollonius &c [Loeb Classical Library], Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP. Justi, F.W.J. 1895. Iranisches Namenbuch, Marburg: N.G. Elwert’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung. Kerényi, K. 1927. Die griechisch-orientalische Romanliteratur in Religionsgeschichtlicher Beleuchtung, Tübingen: Mohr (2 Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft 1962). Kuch, H. 2003. ‘The margin of the ancient novel: “barbarians” and others’, in Schmeling 2003, 209-220. Lincoln, B. 1976. ‘The Indo-European cattle-raiding myth’, History of Religions, 16, 42-65. Merkelbach, R. 1962. Roman und Mysterium in der Antike, Munich: Beck. Millar, F. 2006. Rome, the Greek World, and the East, 3 ‘The Greek World, the Jews, and the East’, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Morales, H. 2006. ‘Marrying Mesopotamia: female sexuality and cultural resistance in Iamblichus' Babylonian Tales’, Ramus 35, 78-101. Morgan, J.R. 1998. ‘On the fringes of the canon: work on the fragments of Ancient Greek Fiction 1936-1994’, ANRW, 2.34.4, Berlin & New York: de Gruyter, 3293-3390. Morgan, J.R. 2004. Longus: Daphnis and Chloe, Oxford: Oxbow. Morgan, J.R. 2009. ‘The Emesan connection: Heliodorus and Philostratus’, in K. Demoen, D. Praet, Theios Sophistes: Essays on Flavius Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii [Mnemosyne, Suppl. 305], Leiden: Brill, 263-282. Penella, R.J. 1979. The Letters of Apollonius of Tyana, Mnem. Suppl. 56, Leiden: Brill. Pervo, R. 2003. ‘The Ancient Novel becomes Christian’, in Schmeling 2003, 685-709. Puhvel, J. 1987. Comparative Mythology, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins. Ramelli, Ilaria 2001. ‘I Babyloniakà di Giamblico e la cultura plurietnica dell' impero fra II e III secolo', Athenaeum ns 89, 447-458. Rank, O. 1914. The Myth of the Birth of the Hero. New York: Nervous and Mental Disease Publishing Co. Reardon, B.P. 1971. Courants littéraires grecs des IIe et IIIe siècles après J.-C., Paris: Belles Lettres. Reardon, B.P. 1989. Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press (22008). Retso, J. 2003. The Arabs in Antiquity: Their History from the Assyrians to the Umayyads, London: Routledge.

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Rohde, E. 1914. Der griechische Roman und seine Vorläufer3, Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, cited by the pagination of the first edition. Russell, J. 2002. ‘Zoroastrian notes’, Iran & the Caucasus 6, 1-10. Sarkisyan, G. 1990. Mовсес Xоренаци «История Армении», Erevan, available at http://www.vehi.net/istoriya/armenia/khorenaci/index.html (November 2018). Schmeling, G. 2003. The Novel in the Ancient World2, Leiden: Brill. Schneider-Menzel, U. 1948. ‘Jamblichos’ Babylonische Geschichten’, in Altheim 1948, 48-92. Shaked, S. 2005. ‘Aramaic loan-words in Middle Persian’, Bulletin of the Asia Institute n.s. 19, ‘Iranian and Zoroastrian Studies in Honor of Prods Oktor Skjærvø’, 159-168. Thomson, R.W. 1978. Moses Khorenatsʿi: translation and commentary on the literary sources, Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP. Vogüé, le Comte Melchior de 1868. Syrie centrale: inscriptions sèmitiques, Paris: J. Baudry.

Love on the waves: the reversal of a topos in Achilles Tatius G IUSEPPE Z ANETTO Università degli Studi di Milano

In the famous episode of the Dios apate in Iliad book 14, after arousing her husband’s desire, Hera tries to repel his assault by telling him that it would be a scandal for her to be seen making love with him in an open space like the top of Mount Ida. But Zeus has a ready solution: ‘Hera, you need not be afraid that either god or man will see you, for I will enshroud both of us in such a dense golden cloud, that the very sun for all his bright piercing beams shall not see through it’. With this the son of Kronos caught his wife in his embrace; whereon the earth sprouted them a cushion of young grass, with dew-bespangled lotus, crocus, and hyacinth, so soft and thick that it raised them well above the ground. Here they laid themselves down, and overhead they were covered by a fair cloud of gold, from which there fell glittering dew-drops. (Hom. Il. 14,342-351; transl. S. Butler) These lines are the earliest instance of a topos that can be called eros en anthesin (‘love among flowers’) and is widespread in all extant Greek literature, of every period and genre. A space covered with grass and flowers is the most obvious setting for sexual encounters or erotic conversations. Claude Calame has dealt with the topic extensively in chapter 8 (The Spaces of Eros) of his book on Eros in Greek literature.1 To reconstruct the story of this motif would go far beyond the scope of this contribution: suffice it to say that it is very common in the extant Greek novels.2 ————— 1 2

Calame 1999, 153-164. Compare, for instance, the role played by the paradeisos of Hippias’ house in the first two books of Achilles Tatius’ novel, discussed by Whitmarsh 2010, 339-343. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 173–183

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Let us for a moment consider the romance of Longus. As many scholars have pointed out, the story of Daphnis and Chloe is the account of a physical and sentimental growth: love is the educational force that allows the lovers to combine nature and learning, so that at the end of their training they come back from the natural domain of the country to the educated world of the city, ready to be integrated into adult society.3 Froma Zeitlin has shown that an important role in this growth process is played by two gardens, which symbolise love (as a combination of instinctive force and cultivated gentleness) and are clearly connected with the progression of the story.4 The first garden is that of Philetas, which is described in book 2. It is a real kēpos, carefully tended by its owner, so that it grows every kind of flower and fruit. The garden is the theatre of the encounter between Philetas and Eros, and it thus becomes the location of a lesson on love (on its nature and its power), which is taught by the old herdsman to the young boy and the young girl. It is the first time that the two lovers have a revelation of what is happening to them. Thus, Philetas’ garden can be considered the starting point of the educational process: it is like a miniature of the countryside of Lesbos, a microcosm from which a first element of self-consciousness begins to spread to the macrocosm where Daphnis and Chloe live their still unconscious love. The second garden is that of Dionysophanes, in book 4: this is a paradeisos, an enclosed space which reveals at first sight the careful work of an experienced gardener. Its beauty lies not only in the rich variety of trees and flowers, but also in its splendid position: it dominates the surrounding plain, so that it has a view looking out to the countryside, to the city and to the sea shore. This garden is the setting of the most significant events in the last section of the story: it is there that Daphnis and Chloe arouse the desire of Gnathon and Lampis, and it is there that Daphnis is recognised by his real parents (and Dryas reveals that he is not the real father of Chloe). So the beautiful garden represents the physical beauty of the couple and also their sexual maturity; Daphnis and Chloe, after escaping the assaults of Gnathon and Lampis, are ready to marry and bring their love to a final consummation. The erotic symbolism of the paradeisos is well known to Achilles Tatius. In book 1 of his novel, he tells us how Kleitophon meets Leukippe and falls in love with her and how the boy, who has no experience in sexual matters (except with prostitutes), tries to get some clues from his friend Kleinias. As he comes back home, he sees Leukippe, who is taking a stroll in the paradeisos of their house ————— 3 4

Morgan 1994, 72; Graverini 2006, 112-115. Zeitlin 1990, 444-448.

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with her servant Kleio.5 The novelist does not miss the opportunity to describe the site: so we have a sophisticated ekphrasis of a garden, which is perceived as an ideal space devoted to love. The trees, for example, are so close to each other that their branches interlace, imitating the intimacies of lovers. […] I hurried back to the girl. She was in a formal garden adjoining the house. It was in fact a grove of very pleasant aspect, encloistered by a sufficiently high wall and a chorus line of columns that together formed a covered portico on all four sides of the garden. Protected within the columns stood a populous assembly of trees. A network of sturdy branches interlaced to form an intricate pattern wherein petals gently embraced their neighbors, leaves wound round other leaves, and fruits rubbed softly on other fruits. Thus far the world of plants knows intercourse.6 (1,15,1-2) Even in the English translation it is clear enough that the passage abounds with erotic terms; if we look at the Greek text, the interplay is astonishing: we have petalōn periplokai (‘embraces of leaves’) and homilia phytōn (‘intercourse of plants’).7 Inspired by the erotic atmosphere of this locus amoenus, Kleitophon launches out into a long speech on the universal power of Eros, who dominates not only human beings and animals but also plants and stones.8 Kleitophon’s discourse is a kind of erotic lesson taught to Leukippe and designed to elicit reactions from her: it is the first time that the boy dares talk to her and reveal his feelings, albeit in a covert way. Thus the locus amoenus, with its wealth of symbols and allusions, is again the beginning of a crescendo, culminating in marriage. The other natural element that dominates the landscape of the Greek novels, namely the sea and the seaside, brings to mind an altogether different set of associations. From the very beginning of Greek literature, sea and land are opposite polarities. The opinion of the farmer Hesiod (who claims he has boarded a ship only once in his life and regards sea travel as the worst of evils)9 is shared by ————— 5

6 7

8 9

The words used by the novelist to define the garden are paradeisos and alsos; the structure which the novelist describes refers, however, to an architectural type which we know very well from the villas of the Greco-Roman period and which is called a peristylium-garden: see Zarmakoupi 2010, 621-622. For Achilles Tatius I use the translation of J.J. Winkler in Reardon 1989. This passage has been discussed by Martin 2002, 149-151. Martin argues that in Achilles Tatius’ book 1 we can trace a progression of three loca amoena, the first (the landscape in Europa’s painting) being the space of love, the second (the grove where Kleitophon tells his story) the space for erotic narration, the third (the garden adjoining Kleitophon’s house) representing the metamorphosis of a landscape into a lover. Zanetto 2012, 115-117. Hes. Op. 650-655, 683-688.

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many poets and intellectuals of later ages.10 In the Greek novel, the semantic field of sea and sailing has similar negative connotations. The characters of these stories are often at sea, because the sea journey is a standard situation designed to steer the story in the required direction. For instance, in Xenophon’s novel the departure of the couple after their marriage is the easiest means to trigger an endless series of misfortunes: a band of Phoenicians capture the ship, and Habrokomes and Anthia are brought as slaves to Apsyrtos’ house in Tyre, where they are at the mercy of tychē.11 To be sure, a ship sailing in the Mediterranean is likely to be attacked by pirates or swept away by a storm, not to mention the risk of shipwreck: any of these events can start up a new story-line. The separation of the lovers is integral to the Greek novel, and in fact it is very often brought about by the sea.12 The sea as an obstacle to eros and as a cause for separation: once again, Homeric poetry is the first source of an idea which is systematically adopted by the Greek novelists. In Odyssey book 5, we are told that Odysseus, prisoner of Kalypso for seven years, spends his days lying on the shore of the island with his eyes staring out at the endless extension of the sea: So saying, the strong Argeiphontes departed, and the queenly nymph went to the great-hearted Odysseus, when she had heard the message of Zeus. Him she found sitting on the shore, and his eyes were never dry of tears, and his sweet life was ebbing away, as he longed mournfully for his return, for the nymph was no longer pleasing in his sight. By night indeed he would sleep by her side perforce in the hollow caves, unwilling beside the willing nymph, but by day he would sit on the rocks and the sands, racking his soul with tears and groans and griefs, and he would look over the unresting sea, shedding tears. (Hom. Od. 5,148-158; transl. S. Butler) Being centre of the sea (omphalos thalassēs), Ogygia is a kind of nowhere land. Odysseus is kept in a prison made of water, because it is almost impossible for anyone who is not a god to cross the liquid desert surrounding the island. Nevertheless, his only desire is to leave Ogygia and go back to Ithaca. The Odyssey is the earliest romance, and as such it functions as a narratological model for later writers: it is hardly surprising, then, that the negative function ————— 10 11 12

Cf. e.g. Sol. fr. 13,43-48; Diog. Laert. 1,77,104. Xen. Ephes. 1,13-14. Létoublon 1993, 65: ‘Car le navire dans le roman ne va jamais sans tempêtes et sans pirates’.

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of the sea resurfaces in the novels.13 However, the sea is negative in itself, inasmuch as its nature is perceived as hostile and destructive. Whereas cultivated land symbolises eros as a positive energy, the surface of the sea, in its liquid inconsistency, brings to mind the idea of eros as savage assault upon human mind and soul. This view is no less traditional.14 In a well-known fragment Ibykos describes love as a Thracian north-wind aroused by Aphrodite and utterly shaking his mind.15 Thus, the lover is implicitly assimilated to a ship swept away by a storm. Kerkidas says that there are two distinct winds of Eros: the first comes from his right cheek and steers the boat of love with gentle rudder; the other, blowing from his left cheek, arouses fierce typhoons of passions.16 Achilles Tatius is very ambiguous in his treatment of this motif, which is far from surprising if we consider his very free attitude towards novelistic conventions. In his romance, pirates are often introduced, and whenever they appear the reader would expect them to abduct the heroine and separate her from the male hero. However, Achilles’ pirates often fail. The first attempt is that of ‘the amateur pirate’ Kallisthenes, who has fallen in love with Leukippe and, after following her to Tyre, recruits a commando of fishermen and organises an attack on the occasion of a sacrifice which will take place on the seaside. Unfortunately, he does not really know Leukippe, so he chooses the wrong target, and when his men rush upon the company, they end up kidnapping Kleitophon’s sister instead. The terrible storm described at the beginning of book 3 is just as ineffective in separating the couple; the ship of Kleitophon and Leukippe is swept away by the violence of the waves, crashes into a submerged rock and breaks into pieces, but the lovers are lucky enough to cling to a section of the hull and float ashore at Pelousion. So they are still together after the shipwreck, which is surely against the reader’s expectations. On top of that, the novelist cannot resist the temptation of playing with generic conventions, and has Kleitophon protest twice against the cruelty of the sea: We confessed our gratitude too soon, O sea. I reject your philanthropy: you were more humane to your dead victims than to us whom you saved only for a worse death. (3,10,6) O senseless sea (o thalassa agnōmōn), out of pure jealousy you refused to let your drama of human kindness reach a perfectly happy ending! (3,23,4) ————— 13 14 15 16

A very useful overview of the sea-topics in the Greek novel is offered by Scarcella 1988. Thornton 1997, 35-37. Ibyk. fr. 286,6-13 PMG. Kerkid. fr. 2,1-10 Lomiento.

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In both cases, the hero is in sorrow, because he fears that his and Leukippe’s salvation might not last long or be real. He is wrong, however, and the topos of the mare crudele is thus referred to in a situation where the cruelty of the sea will soon prove to be pure rhetoric. The pirates’ second assault is that of the so-called ‘Boukoloi’, who capture Kleitophon and Leukippe while they are sailing along the Nile to Alexandria. The territory of the ‘Boukoloi’ is the sea coast of Egypt and the Nile Delta, a kind of no man’s land, which is described at length. The focus of the description is the blurring of the boundaries between land and sea; the landscape is a strange and unusual mixture of opposite elements that are elsewhere strictly separated: The mighty Nile is everything to them: a river, a land, a sea, a lake – affording to the eye novel conjunctions of ships and spades, paddles and plows, rudders and sickles, where sailors consort with farmers and cattle are neighbors to fish. You sow where once you sailed, and the field you sow is a sea brought under cultivation. (4,12,1) No wonder, then, that in this confused setting things are turned upside down and rules are broken. The ‘Boukoloi’ – that is to say pirates coming from a sea that is not a sea – eventually capture the lovers but do not immediately separate them. Their separation takes place the day after, when the robbers get hold of the girl in order to sacrifice her, and it becomes more effective as the Egyptian soldiers attack the robbers’ camp and free many prisoners. So it is Kleitophon who is abducted from Leukippe, not Leukippe from Kleitophon. In such an environment, where nothing is really what it seems to be, it is hardly surprising that Leukippe’s sacrifice proves to be a farcical one. So the lovers leave the Delta in good health and reach Alexandria. Here we are told that an Egyptian named Chaireas, who has fallen in love with Leukippe, plots to kidnap the girl. His plan parallels very closely the attempt made by Kallisthenes in book 1:17 he too gathers a band of robbers and gives them instructions on how to act. He lives on the island of Pharos, in a house which is built right on the sea: he invites Leukippe and Kleitophon on the pretext of celebrating his birthday and, when the party is at its climax, he calls his men. The pirates, who are waiting in ambush in their vessel, rush on to land, pick Leukippe up and abduct her; Kleitophon tries to follow them in another boat but he can only retrieve from the waves what he believes to be the body of his beloved. So the third attempt is successful: after two failures the pirates finally manage to carry the girl off. Tim Whitmarsh has shown that in Achilles Tatius’ novel the ————— 17

Repath 2007, 104-105.

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choice of an ego-narrative produces an ongoing tension between the retrospective narrator (Kleitophon telling his story in Sidon) and the agent of the story (Kleitophon as the main character of the narration).18 This tension is a potential source of ironies, because the agent Kleitophon – who does not know how things will eventually turn out – learns step by step what the narrator Kleitophon knows very well from the very beginning. Not unlike Kleitophon, the novelist himself – who combines in himself the roles of both Kleitophons – learns in agendo how to write a novel: the rough material of the novelistic repertoire emerges progressively, as the story is still in the making. Thus, his pirates need some time to become real pirates and perform their duty.19 The same tension between (real) sophisticated mastery and (apparent) naivety can help explain the ambiguous treatment of the motif of the ‘cruel sea’. We have seen that the ‘typical scene’ of the sea storm in book 3 does not produce any serious damage: Poseidon proves to be much more benevolent than the readers would expect. Already at the end of book 2 a marine setting is selected as the theatre of a conversation on love, something that would be unthinkable in an ‘orthodox’ romance. Leukippe and Kleitophon have just embarked and are sailing from Beirut to Alexandria; during the voyage, Kleitophon and his friend Kleinias get into conversation with another passenger, the Egyptian Menelaos: their talks develop into a real debate on the two forms of eros, namely homosexual and heterosexual love. It is the same debate as that in Plutarch’s Amatorius, with the difference that Plutarch’s dialogue is set in the sweet countryside of Thespiai, a locus amoenus that the literary tradition – think of Plato’s Phaidros – recommends as particularly suitable for such conversations. Even more surprising, however, is a passage from book 5, where a love scene takes place on board. Melite and Kleitophon are sailing from Alexandria to Ephesos. Once again, the young woman asks her beloved to yield to her desire and make love with her. Kleitophon refuses, on the ground that sea and love are incompatible, but Melite insists, by arguing that, on the contrary, a ship is an ideal setting for love: her arguments are both mythological (Aphrodite was born from the sea) and psychological (the ship hints at sexual intercourse, because every part of it is an erotic symbol).20 ————— 18 19

20

Whitmarsh 2003, 193-196. Reardon 1994, 86-91, points out that in Achilles Tatius’ story novel conventions are – at least partially – distorted, and notes that a major factor contributing to that distortion is the use of an ego-narrative. On the other hand the connection of sea and love is by no means unknown in Greek poetry. A long poetic tradition shows that love can be perceived and narrated as a sea voyage and the lover as a mariner. Love is a sea, because its waves and storms are comparable to the troubles of lovers and its shipwrecks to the sad conclusions of love stories. The core idea

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Melite and I had our own private cabin on the ship. She held me in her arms, kissed me, and asked again that we consummate our union. ‘Now at last we have gone beyond Leukippe’s boundaries and entered the territory of our promises. The day we contracted for is here. Why should I wait until Ephesos? The moods of the sea are fickle; the winds cannot be trusted. Trust me, Kleitophon; I am on fire. […]’ And I said: ‘Do not pressure me to break my solemn undertaking to the dead. We have not left her region until we reach another shore. Have you not heard that she died at sea? Then I am still sailing over Leukippe’s grave. Perhaps her ghost is circling about the ship even now. They say that souls who die in the sea never descend to Hades but wander over the water. And is this an appropriate place to consummate any marriage? Our wedding night on choppy waves? Our first time on a rocking boat? Surely you want our bridal bed to stay in one place?’ ‘Darling,’ she replied, ‘you’re splitting hairs. For lovers every location is a bedroom. No place is inaccessible to that god. The sea in fact is quite appropriate for Eros and his mother’s mysteries – Aphrodite is a daughter of the sea. Let us gratify the goddess of unions and please the sea her mother by our marriage. The ship itself is hinting at our matrimony: above our heads swings the crossyoke, and ropes are knotted on the yardarm. O my master, good omens! We will be yoked in holy wedlock and linked by bonds of love. The helmsman’s rudder is hard by our bed: Fortune is steering us to our union. Poseidon and his chorus of Nereids will be our entourage, remembering his own marriage to Amphitrite. And the wind, as it whistles through the rigging, sounds to my ears like a flute picking out the notes of the wedding melody. And how I laugh to see the sail conceive and grow big-bellied – prophesying here and now a blessed eventuality. Soon you will be a father too’. Seeing how insistent she was, I said: ‘I vote for the ascetic life until we land. I promise you, in the name of the sea itself and our safe passage, that my eagerness is a match for yours. But the sea too has its mores, and often have I heard old salts agree that ships and sex should never mix, whether in reverence for the ships’ own holiness or to keep the tars taut for danger. The sea itself, my darling, might grow angry at our insolence: desire and apprehension are uneasy bedfellows. Let us keep our pleasure unadulterated by other feelings’. I sweetened my argument with kisses, and she let herself be convinced. We slept that night in innocence. (5,15,3 – 5,16,7) ————— is the nature itself of Aphrodite, who was born from the waves and is at the same time the goddess of love and the goddess able to grant smooth and safe sailing. See Murgatroyd 1995 and Ieranò 2003; see also Zanetto 2017.

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This scene is not unparalleled in late Greek literature. Among the epistulae piscatoriae of Alkiphron, there is a letter written by the fisherman Thalasseros to his friend Euploos (1,22): the writer, who has fallen in love with a musician, asks Euploos to have patience with him, because – he says – seamen are particularly exposed to the action of Aphrodite, who is a daughter of the sea.21 What is peculiar to Achilles Tatius, however, is that this episode follows the pattern of archaic oarismos (‘intimate conversation’). An oarismos (like the Dios apatē or the Cologne epode) is structured as follows: to begin with, a male character talks to his female partner expressing his desire and asking for love; secondly, the female character tries to refuse by pointing to obstacles: love is possible – she admits – but not here and now; thirdly, the man replies that her objections are futile and insists on making love immediately; finally, he takes her in his arms and fulfils his desire.22 In constructing his episode, the novelist adopts exactly the same model. However, two fundamental rules are violated: first, gender roles are reversed, because it is the woman who asks for love and it is the man who refuses; second, the scene is not set in a garden or in a meadow, but on board a ship. Once again the narrator (the first-time narrator, who learns to ‘novelise’ in scribendo) is not enough of a novelist to use his material in the right way: of course an oarismos set on the deck of a sailing ship is bound to be a failure. In other words, Achilles Tatius is always willing to give traditional motives a new twist. Such a free attitude explains why he is so ambiguous in his treatment of the sea and of the marine landscape. The description of the painting featuring Europa, which opens the novel as a kind of literary manifesto, is especially telling: I saw a votive painting whose scene was set on land and sea alike: the picture was of Europa; the sea was Phoenicia’s; the land was Sidon. On the land were represented a meadow and a chorus of maidens, on the sea swam a bull, and on his back was seated a beautiful maiden, sailing on the bull towards Crete. […] And Eros was leading the bull: Eros, a tiny child, with wings spread, quiver dangling, torch in hand. He had turned to look at Zeus with a sly smile, as if in mockery that he had, for Love’s sake, become a bull. Though the entire painting was worthy of admiration, I devoted my special attention to this figure of Eros leading the bull, for I have long been fascinated by passion, and I exclaimed, ‘To think that a child can have such power over heaven and earth and sea’. (1,1,2 – 1,2,1)

————— 21 22

Zanetto 2003, 841; Vox 2013, 225-229. Zanetto 2006, 46-50.

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Insofar as it represents a girl being seduced by her lover, the scene has an obvious erotic feel to it. The setting – a group of maidens in a meadow – seems at first sight a traditional one. To the reader’s surprise, however, the lover is Zeus transformed into a bull, and the bull is swimming in the sea with Europa on his back. Thus, the setting combines land and sea, and the meaning of the picture is not difficult to decode: the sea is dangerous for a girl, but it may also reveal the most charming of lovers. Water and love are not, after all, incompatible.23

Bibliography Calame, C. 1999. The Poetics of Eros in Ancient Greece, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Graverini, L. 2006. ‘Il romanzo greco’, in: L. Graverini, W. Keulen and A. Barchiesi, Il romanzo antico. Forme, testi, problemi, Roma: Carocci, 75-130. Ieranò, G. 2003. ‘Il mare d’amore: elementi per la storia di un topos letterario’, in: L. Belloni, L. de Finis, and G. Moretti (eds.), L’Officina Ellenistica. Poesia dotta e popolare in Grecia e a Roma, Trento: Università degli Studi di Trento, 199-238. Létoublon, F. 1993. Les lieux communs du roman, Leiden, New York & Cologne: Brill. Martin, R.P. 2002. ‘A good place to talk: discourse and topos in Achilles Tatius and Philostratus’, in: M. Paschalis & S. Frangoulidis (eds.), Space in the Ancient Novel (Ancient Narrative Supplementum 1), Groningen: Barkhuis, 143-160. Morgan, J.R. 1994. ‘Daphnis and Chloe: Love’s own sweet story’, in: J.R. Morgan & R. Stoneman (eds.), Greek Fiction. The Greek Novel in Context, London & New York: Routledge, 64-79. Murgatroyd, P. 1995. ‘The sea of Love’, CQ 45, 9-25. Reardon, B.P. (ed.). 1989. Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley, Los Angeles &London: University of California Press. Reardon, B.P. 1994. ‘Achilles Tatius and ego-narrative’, in: J.R. Morgan & R. Stoneman (eds.), Greek Fiction. The Greek Novel in Context, London & New York: Routledge, 80-96. Repath, I. 2007. ‘Callisthenes in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Cleitophon: double jeopardy?’, Ancient Narrative 6, 101-129. Scarcella, A.M. 1988. ‘Il mare (le fonti, i fiumi): l’altra faccia della geografia ideale dei romanzi erotici greci’, Euphrosyne 16, 237-246. Thornton, B.S. 1997. Eros. The Myth of Ancient Greek Sexuality, Boulder: Westview Press. Vox, O. 2013. ‘Paideia ed esercizi retorici in Alcifrone’, in: O. Vox (ed.), Lettere, mimesi, retorica. Studi sull’epistolografia letteraria greca di età imperiale e tardo antica, Lecce: Pensa Multimedia, 203-250. Whitmarsh, T. 2003. ‘Reading for pleasure: narrative, irony, and erotics in Achilles Tatius’, in: S. Panayotakis, M. Zimmerman & W. Keulen (eds.), The Ancient Novel and Beyond, Leiden & Boston: Brill, 191-205. Whitmarsh, T. 2010. ‘Domestic poetics: Hippias’ house in Achilles Tatius’, ClAnt, 29, 327348.

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This contribution is an enlarged and revised version of a paper that I read in Lisbon at ICAN 2008. I would like to thank Ewen Bowie and Andrea Capra for reading it and giving me useful suggestions.

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Zanetto, G. 2003. ‘Aristeneto e il “pescatore innamorato” (Ep. 1,7)’, in F. Benedetti and S. Grandolini (eds.), Studi di Filologia e tradizione greca in memoria di Aristide Colonna, Napoli: E.S.I., 837-845. Zanetto, G. 2006. Inni Omerici, a cura di G. Zanetto [3rd edition; 1st edition 1996], Milano: RCS Libri. Zanetto, G. 2012. ‘I “discorsi sull’amore” nel romanzo di Achille Tazio’, in: U. Criscuolo (ed.), La retorica greca fra tardo antico ed età bizantina: idee e forme, Napoli: D’Auria, 113122. Zanetto, G. 2017, ‘The sea of Alciphron’, in: M. Biraud and A. Zucker (eds.), The Letters of Alciphron: a Unified Literary Work?, Leiden, New York & Cologne: Brill [forthcoming]. Zarmakoupi, M. 2010. ‘The architectural design of the Peristylium-garden in Early Roman luxury villas’, in: S. Ladstätter & V. Scheibelreiter (eds.), Städtisches Wohnen im östlichen Mittelmeerraum: 4. Jh. v. Chr. – 1. Jh. n. Chr., Wien: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 621-631. Zeitlin, F.I. 1990. ‘The poetics of Erōs: nature, art, and imitation in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe’, in D.M. Halperin, J.J. Winkler & F.I. Zeitlin (eds.), Before Sexuality. The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 417-464.

Furit aestus:1 Il meriggio in Filostrato e nei romanzi greci d’amore P ATRIZIA L IVIABELLA F URIANI Università degli Studi di Perugia

0.1 Introduzione Nella ‘gloria del disteso mezzogiorno’,2 quando il sole è allo zenit e massima è la riduzione dell’ombra, i ‘demoni meridiani’3 si presentano agli uomini in sogni incubatici e visioni allucinatorie, in stati di coscienza alterati dal fervido sole incombente e dal torpore del meriggio affebbrato. A mezzogiorno, quando maggiore è la riduzione dell’ombra, l’uomo incontra il numinoso e insieme l’altra parte di sé, quella su cui s’addensano ombra e mistero. L’ora meridiana concentra in se stessa la razionalità e gli enigmi della natura e del cosmo. Il cuore del giorno obbliga l’uomo al rispetto delle regole e dei tabù ad esso connessi, la cui trasgressione non è certo indolore. Il tema del mezzogiorno e il potere allucinatorio dell’ora meridiana hanno goduto di notevole fortuna nella tradizione occidentale ispirando numerosi autori greci e latini (in particolare Virgilio e Stazio) fino a diventare, oltre che oggetto del vaglio speculativo di Giacomo Leopardi, uno dei temi più suggestivi della poesia del Novecento, francese (con Mallarmé e Valéry) e italiana (con D’Annunzio, Ungaretti e Montale). Tutti questi poeti, sulle orme dei Greci e dei Romani, del mezzogiorno hanno colto e cantato l’inquietante bellezza e rapinosità.4 ————— 1

2 3

4

‘Furit aestus’ è il titolo di una poesia di Gabriele D’Annunzio, tratto da un noto verso di Virgilio (A. 1,107 furit aestus harenis). Così Eugenio Montale in Ossi di seppia (1920-1927). Come sottolinea Rohde 1970, II, 412-420, 748-752, Ecate (identificata spesso con Empusa) è la signora dei ‘demoni meridiani’. Cf. Lucian. Philops. 22. L’espressione daimonion mesēmbrinon non è attestata peraltro prima della traduzione dei Settanta del Salmo 91, come rileva Caillois 1988, 5, sottolineando le valenze simboliche, anche transculturali, del mezzogiorno in un saggio prezioso e insostituibile. Cf. Ossola, in Caillois 1988, XII. Leopardi 2007 ne fece l’oggetto del dottissimo capo VII (Del meriggio) del Saggio sopra gli errori popolari degli antichi, 889-891 (ma si veda anche il capo VIII Dei terrori Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 185–211

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Il presente saggio intende evidenziare la convergenza su tale tema di ascendenza classica sia di Filostrato, uno dei più autorevoli rappresentanti della Seconda Sofistica ed autore di opere per certi aspetti vicine alla fiction, sia di due grandi romanzieri erotici, Longo e Eliodoro, entrambi operanti nell’ambito e nel solco della Seconda Sofistica.5 La fitta rete di connessioni intertestuali rilevabile nei loro scritti è senza dubbio il risultato di una politica dell’imitazione che genera inedite variazioni su topoi consolidati, ma è anche, a nostro avviso, il prodotto oltremodo sofisticato di una intenzionale competizione tra scrittori della tarda grecità di cui, a causa della incerta cronologia, non sempre è facile riconoscere la priorità e la posterità nella relazione mimetica. Per quanto riguarda l’Heroikos, se è del tutto plausibile una datazione tra il 220 (o il 222: cioè nei primi anni dell’impero di Alessandro Severo che governò dal 222 al 235) e il 230 d.C. (data quest’ultima usualmente accettata per le Vite dei Sofisti),6 l’incerta datazione di Longo rende problematico stabilire se fu Filostrato ad essere influenzato da Longo o piuttosto Longo a riecheggiare Filostrato. Per la collocazione cronologica di Longo possiamo in effetti invocare soltanto argomenti relativi allo stile linguistico e alla atmosfera del romanzo che lo collocherebbero tra la metà del II e la metà del sec. III d.C.7 Quanto ai rapporti tra la Vita di Apollonio di Tiana (completata e comunque pubblicata solo dopo la morte di Giulia Domna (VA 1,3) avvenuta nel 217, ma sicuramente prima delle Vite dei Sofisti (VS 569), collocate generalmente nel ————— 5

6

7

notturni, 892-894), cui molto deve lo stesso Caillois 1988. Sul «complexe de midi» nella tradizione occidentale, Ossola, in Caillois 1988, IX-XXXIII. Sui rapporti tra Seconda Sofistica e romanzo greco si vedano Reardon 1971, 185-198; 307403; Reardon 1974, 23-29; Anderson 1993, 155-170; Anderson 1994, 185-187; Bowie 1994, 181-199; Billault 1991, 267-274; Billault 2000, 105-126; Whitmarsh 2001, 86-89. Per quanto riguarda Filostrato, facciamo riferimento soltanto all’Heroikos, (traduzione di Rossi 1997), e alla Vita di Apollonio di Tiana (traduzione di Del Corno 1978). Whitmarsh 2001, 78-87, evidenzia la novità dei romanzi sofistici esplorando ‘their mimetic relationship with the canonical past’ per quanto riguarda la costruzione dell’identità e di una ricostruzione della tradizione. La traduzione italiana di Longo è quella di Pattoni 2005. Per quanto concerne Eliodoro, la traduzione italiana è quella di Bevilacqua in Colonna 1987. Jones 2001, 143; Bowie 1978, 1669, considerando che la ‘preparation of both works could have been proceeding concurrently for some time’, ritiene che ‘a date before 238 A.D. seems mandatory for the Lives’ e, tenendo conto dell’ammirazione di Alessandro Severo per Apollonio, suggerisce per l’Heroikos una data tra il 222 e il 235. Il consenso generale accademico è per una data severiana; vedi de Lannoy 1997, 2387-2388, Aitken & Maclean 2004, xxiii-xxv e Shayegan 2004, 304. Hunter 1996, 369. Per una discussione degli argomenti addotti a sostegno delle diverse ipotesi, Hunter 1983, 3 ss.; Pattoni 2005, 23 s.; Morgan 2004, 1 s. (che propendono per la seconda metà del sec. II d.C.). Nel saggio incluso nel presente volume, Bowie ritorna sulla datazione di Longo (già discussa in Bowie 1989 e 2008) proponendo il 220-230 d.C., invece del 190-220 d.C., basandosi su lessico e linguaggio; l’autore non ha potuto disporre queste informazioni in tempo utile per inserirle nel proprio saggio.

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230 o tra il 231 e il 238) e le Etiopiche di Eliodoro, essi sono relativamente più semplici da definire, in quanto il romanzo di Eliodoro, sia che abbia visto la luce nel sec. III d.C. (o intorno al 240 o negli anni dal 270 al 275 durante il regno di Aureliano) sia che sia stato composto nel IV d.C.,8 presenta con la Vita di Apollonio di Tiana affinità tematiche tanto evidenti e un uso così personale di topoi cristallizzati cari a Filostrato (non ultimo il forte rilievo dato all’ora meridiana) che siamo indotti a pensare a una dipendenza diretta delle Etiopiche dalla Vita di Apollonio di Tiana. Nel caso in cui Eliodoro sia stato pressoché contemporaneo a Filostrato potremmo difatti immaginare una reazione immediata di Eliodoro alla moda letteraria del tempo, nel caso invece in cui egli abbia scritto all’incirca un secolo dopo Filostrato, potremmo avanzare l’ipotesi che Eliodoro abbia trattato la sua fonte quasi alla stregua di un classico.

1.1 Mezzogiorno, ora dei fantasmi nell’Heroikos Per una buona comprensione dell’Heroikos di Filostrato, opera di accesso tutt’altro che facile, è indispensabile tener conto, oltre che della materia del dialogo drammatico, anche della cornice narrativa che informa gradualmente il lettore sull’identità dei dialoganti e sulle loro attività. La conversazione, che si svolge a Eleunte, nel Chersoneso Tracico, ha come collocutori un modesto anonimo vignaiolo e un Fenicio, altrettanto anonimo, che il vignaiolo ospita almeno per un giorno nel suo poderetto di emarginato sociale.9 L’ospite inatteso è approdato a Eleunte dopo trentaquattro giorni di viaggio per mare e lì si è fermato perché spinto da un sogno premonitore (Her. 1,2; 6,2 ss.). Il lungo racconto del vignaiolo ha inizio proprio a mezzogiorno (kata mesēmbrian) di una radiosa giornata autunnale, il cui calore ormai temperato non richiede più da parte del contadino alcun intervento irrigatorio meridiano sulle piante (3,2). L’ora si presta pertanto alla straripante (e in apparenza delirante) narrazione della vita del vignaiolo insieme con il fantasma dell’eroe Protesilao, il quale, benché ombra, possiede tutte le caratteristiche della corporeità.10 In effetti, ————— 8

9

10

Per una sintesi degli argomenti addotti a favore e contro la datazione alta e bassa delle Etiopiche, vedi Bowie 2008; la tendenza fra gli studiosi è di preferire la data del IV secolo, vedi Reardon 1971, 334-336, Reardon 1974, 24, Colonna 1987, 9-25, Morgan 1996, 418 e Morgan 2005, 312-318. Della xynousia tra il vignaiolo e Protesilao e della progressiva ‘iniziazione’ dello straniero da parte del vignaiolo (58,6) presenta un quadro acuto e sensibile Mantero 1966, 64-68. 2,8; 3,6; 9,7: emana un gradevole profumo; 10,3: ha voce chiara e squillante; 13,2: ha ombra propria.

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il ‘bel Protesilao’ insieme al quale il vignaiolo fa filosofia e coltiva la terra vive davvero, dopo essere tornato misteriosamente in vita per la seconda volta. Il primo attributo con cui egli viene connotato dal vignaiolo è quello della bellezza fisica, particolarmente accentuata quando l’eroe è nudo (2,6; 10,4), la quale ha come caratteristica eminente la visibilità. Il rapporto del vignaiolo con l’eroe, il quale gradisce molto, oltre alla conversazione, anche l’intensa affettuosità che il suo protetto gli dimostra (11,2) è dunque non solo filosofico e spirituale ma anzitutto fisico. Il verbo horan (‘vedere’) è un importante termine chiave per l’interpretazione del testo filostrateo che fa del metodo autoptico il principale strumento per spazzar via l’incredulità e lo scetticismo programmatici che inizialmente il Fenicio riserva ai miti: ‘dichiaro di essere diffidente verso i miti’ (7,9). Il vignaiolo, ʻcontadino e giardiniere’ come egli stesso desidera essere chiamato dal Fenicio (4,12), rivela dunque al suo ospite un fatto straordinario (almeno quanto la presenza di Protesilao nel suo giardino) in cui la vista gioca un ruolo essenziale. Nella pianura di Eleunte, situata proprio di fronte a Troia, appaiono infatti ‘in veste di guerrieri, scuotendo il cimiero’ anche gli eroi greci che a Troia furono commilitoni di Protesilao (2,11). Ma poiché il Fenicio, per andarsene via ‘convinto’,11 reclama dal vignaiolo un racconto completo su Protesilao e gli altri eroi, il vignaiolo guida lo straniero verso la vigna affinché egli sieda in un ‘angolo bello’ del podere, ivi ospitato dallo stesso Protesilao (3,2). Anche il Fenicio concorda sul fascino straordinario del luogo che il vignaiolo ritiene essere ‘la parte più soave e divina del podere’ e che non a caso è quella in cui il vignaiolo e l’eroe si incontrano e si intrattengono a parlare e lavorare (5,1). Il luogo, quello stesso in cui Protesilao è apparso la prima volta al vignaiolo, è un locus amoenus commisto di natura e cultura per molti aspetti debitore del Fedro platonico (Pl. Phdr. 230bc)12 e dell’omerico giardino di Alcinoo (Od. 7,113 ss.), assai vicino, come si vedrà in seguito, al paradeisos di Dionisofane nel romanzo di Longo (4,2-3). ————— 11

12

3,1 pisteuōn. Secondo Dué & Nagy 2004, 61, nell’Heroikos i termini apistō e pisteuōn (3,1) si applicano rispettivamente all’iniziando e all’iniziato. Sul tema della pistis (e.g. 3,1; 8,18; 17,1; 18,1), si vedano anche Mantero 1966, 63; Maclean 2004, 255-257. Il locus amoenus del Fedro sarà tanto imitato nel corso dei secoli che Plutarco rivolgerà i suoi ironici strali proprio contro questo inveterata abitudine (Am. 749a). Sul topos del giardino nei romanzi greci, si veda Létoublon 1993, 65-70. Billault 2000, 33 e 135 s. volge l’attenzione, oltre che al Fedro platonico, anche all’Ippolito di Euripide (vv. 17, 85), nel convincimento che Filostrato, scegliendo di riecheggiare questi due testi, ‘revendique pour le sien un statut analogue au leur’ (136). Martin 2002, confrontando alcuni loca amoena del romanzo di Achille Tazio con analoghi loca amoena in Platone, Longo e Filostrato, ne sottolinea l’aspetto numinoso, particolarmente evidente nell’Heroikos di Filostrato (‘beautiful places are good for talk because divine events are traditionally localized within such places’) (159). Whitmarsh 2004, 239-241, mette in evidenza il fatto che ‘the cult site of Protesilaos is strategically marked as a hyperhellenic space’ e che al tempo stesso ‘it is

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L’ora del mezzogiorno è per Filostrato l’ora sacra per eccellenza, poiché è proprio a mezzogiorno che l’eroe Protesilao, giovane sposo cui piace ancora divertirsi, appare al vignaiolo, conversa e si dedica con lui ai lavori agricoli più volte in un mese con sollecita continuità (11,3) aiutando il vignaiolo con generosità e competenza (11,4). Il resto del tempo lo trascorre ora nell’Ade, ora a Ftia, ora di nuovo a Troia, da cui torna per riposare nell’ora meridiana (kata mesēmbrian; 11,7).13 Il vignaiolo ignora se all’eroe sia lecito o no mangiare insieme alla moglie Laodamia e, ammettendo un’autopsia imperfetta, dichiara al Fenicio di non aver mai avuto l’occasione di vederlo mangiare o bere. Tuttavia le offerte alimentari incruente consistenti in libagioni serali da viti tasie piantate dall’eroe stesso, in offerte di frutta di stagione a mezzogiorno (kata mesēmbrian) sia d’estate sia d’autunno e di latte nelle notti primaverili di luna piena, offerte sempre accompagnate dall’invito a bere, vengono consumate in un batter d’occhio. Ma poiché il pasto ha luogo solo dopo che il vignaiolo si è allontanato, siamo in presenza di uno dei numerosi tabù, anche pitagorici, che regolano i rapporti dell’uomo con quegli eroi che, tornando dopo la morte sulla terra, appaiono agli uomini (11,9).14 Quanto alle altre attività praticate da Protesilao, si tratta essenzialmente di allenamenti militari solitari e di pratiche ginniche cui l’eroe si dedica nei sacri viali lasciati incolti dal vignaiolo, nei quali l’eroe, ombra vivente, gareggia con la propria ombra nel pancrazio e nel pugilato (3,6; 13, 2-3), lancia il disco oltre ogni umana possibilità, ma evita di allenarsi nella lotta che ritiene ‘un esercizio da inetti’ e nel tiro con l’arco che considera (come in effetti era valutato in età classica) ‘una pratica da vili’ (13,3). Quando corre, poi, è velocissimo e non lascia orme a terra. All’obiezione dell’ospite fenicio che sul terreno vede le enormi impronte di Protesilao, che è alto circa dieci cubiti, e cioè oltre quattro metri (10,4), il vignaiolo dichiara che si tratta delle orme che l’eroe lascia quando cammina o compie un altro esercizio, mentre quando corre non lascia traccia alcuna: ‘infatti è come sospeso in aria e si solleva come se fosse tra le onde’ (13,3). Per dare maggiore credibilità al proprio racconto il vignaiolo usa dunque armi sofisticatissime, lasciando che sia proprio il Fenicio a rilevare l’apparente incoerenza della sua affermazione grazie al ragionamento induttivo che la vista di orme —————

13 14

also a boundary, a site of negotiation and problematization’, che ci ricorda come ‘identity is most insistently defined where it is most at risk’. Sul tema dei rapporti tra natura e arte in Longo, cf. Zeitlin 1990. Pan si comporta allo stesso modo anche in Philostr. Im. 2,11. Sugli elementi neopitagorici presenti nell’Heroikos, in particolare sulla dieta del vignaiolo e sulle offerte a Protesilao, soprattutto su quella del vino, insiste Mantero 1966, 48-60 e 103-106. Sulle pratiche rituali del culto eroico, cf. Aitken 2004, xxvii; Betz 2004, 34 s. Formule simili all’invito a bere rivolto dal vignaiolo a Protesilao sono pure in Achille Tazio. Cf. Bowersock 1994, 125-128.

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di inusuale grandezza gli ispira. Questo rilievo autoptico del Fenicio è in verità l’unica, fra tutte le prove fornite dal vignaiolo, a garantire l’esistenza di eroi giganteschi come Protesilao e a testimoniarne la corporeità. Tutte le altre prove si fondano infatti, come vedremo, sulla pistis del Fenicio, non più incredulo (8,18). Protesilao appare proprio lì, in quell’angolo ameno del giardino, perché è lì, e non a Troia, che giacciono, ricoperte da un grande tumulo circondato da olmi magici piantati dalle ninfe, le sue spoglie mortali (9,3).15 Lì sorge anche un grande tempio, bello un tempo ma ormai quasi diruto a causa dell’hybris persiana, il quale ospita una statua di Protesilao, anch’essa consunta dal tempo e dalla devozione dei fedeli, che si erge su una base a forma di prora (9,5 s.). La descrizione che il vignaiolo fa dell’eroe greco non si fonda peraltro su questa statua ma è dovuta a una vera e propria autopsia, in quanto egli vede Protesilao di persona e in persona (9,7). Come s’è detto, insieme a Protesilao appaiono ancora nella piana di Troia e sempre a mezzogiorno, in veste di guerrieri e ‘scuotendo il cimiero’ (2,11), quelli che furono suoi commilitoni a Troia. Di essi il vignaiolo offre alcuni suggestivi ritratti, talora eccentrici rispetto alla tradizione omerica.16 Poiché la pistis del Fenicio, benché ormai rinsaldata dai racconti del vignaiolo,17 necessita di una conferma definitiva che distrugga ogni residua empia incredulità dello straniero il quale vuole sapere quando queste visioni ebbero luogo, il vignaiolo precisa che la visione di tali prodigi perdura fino al tempo presente e che a veder apparire gli eroi, grandi e divini, sono anche i mandriani e i pastori della pianura di Ilio (18,2). Essi si presentano talvolta in occasione di qualche calamità naturale in un’ora che Filostrato non precisa e, secondo il loro aspetto, preannunciano cattive o buone stagioni ricevendo dai pastori vittime animali (!) solo in caso di una previsione positiva (18,3).18 Le reazioni degli eroi, greci (Aiace) e troiani (Ettore), agli insulti ————— 15

16

17 18

In Teocrito (1,21) Tirsi, seduto proprio sotto un olmo, deve limitarsi a cantare perché il suono della syrinx disturberebbe Pan, che a mezzogiorno riposa. Greci, 26,1-36,1; Troiani, 36,2-42,4. Si tratta di una correzione (epanorthōsis) di Omero, non certo di un rifiuto dei poemi nella loro totalità. Vedi Billault 2000, 127. Mestre 2004, dopo aver sottolineato come le pratiche revisioniste di Omero fossero consuete e quasi obbligate durante l’età imperiale (130-133), analizza in modo dettagliato i ‘rifiuti’, le ‘correzioni’ e le ‘rettifiche’ di Omero operate da Filostrato, che rispondono sia al bisogno di definire l’identità greca sia all’esigenza di novità e di sorpresa della sua epoca (138 s.). Zeitlin 2001, 255-266, collega ‘the ubiquity of visual culture throughout the post-classical world to the significant position of Homer as an endlessly recurrent motif in literary texts, cultural artefacts,’ (262-263). 16,6 peithomai; 18,1 oudeis eti tois toioutois apistēsei. Mantero 1966, 91, attribuisce a superstiziose credenze popolari l’apparizione di questi anonimi e talora malefici fantasmi, cui, diversamente che a Protesilao, vengono offerte vittime animali. Speyer 1984, 341, ritiene che le apparizioni meridiane siano più spesso benigne

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dei pastori sono sempre, se non letali, spaventose (18,5-19,8). Peraltro riconoscere a quali eroi appartengono gli eidōla che appaiono a Troia non è sempre facile perché essi sono numerosi, hanno età e aspetto diversi e si mostrano chi in un luogo chi in un altro (21,1). Su Palamede, intorno al quale lo straniero desidera essere informato, il vignaiolo fornisce invece un racconto appreso da fonti non ben identificate. Palamede era apparso un tempo a un contadino di Ilio e, per ricompensarlo delle pietose offerte che quello gli portava, gli aveva rivelato un rimedio magico che impedisse alle sue viti di essere colpite dalla grandine (22,8). Poiché il comportamento del contadino (21,2, libagioni di succo d’uva; 21,6, abbracci e sorrisi al fantasma di Palamede con relativa dichiarazione d’amore) e la presenza di un cane di nome Odisseo, maltrattato dal padrone in nome di Palamede (21,3), ci inducono a considerare il contadino di Ilio un vero e proprio alter ego del vignaiolo di Eleunte (21,2), possiamo ipotizzare che anche la prima visita di Protesilao al vignaiolo abbia avuto luogo dopo molteplici prove di devozione da parte del suo futuro protetto. Il racconto del vignaiolo al Fenicio non chiarisce infatti i veri motivi del benevolo interesse di Protesilao nei suoi confronti e dell’accanimento nei confronti del suo antagonista, il quale, come si conviene, a causa dell’apparizione del phasma perde la vista (4,2). Come dire che, se gli uomini ricevono benefici dagli eroi è perché gli eroi hanno bisogno dell’amore degli uomini allo stesso modo in cui agli uomini è necessario il caloroso interesse degli eroi.

1.2 Il catalogo delle ossa degli eroi e dei giganti nell’Heroikos La rassegna degli eroi greci e troiani conosciuti da Protesilao, che descrive al vignaiolo il loro imponente aspetto fisico e ne tratteggia le caratteristiche temperamentali e morali raccontandone le gesta, è preceduta e preparata da un lungo e appassionato racconto del vignaiolo in merito al ritrovamento di ossa umane e corpi giganteschi riportati alla luce da frane, piogge e terremoti (8,12 e 16), alcuni dei quali ancora presenti in situ e tali da poter essere visti nel momento in cui il vignaiolo racconta. Poiché il Fenicio nega credibilità19 alle storie più antiche raccontate dal nonno del vignaiolo in merito alle ossa di un Aiace gigantesco alto undici cubiti rinvenute a Troia nel sepolcro dell’eroe distrutto dal mare e ivi ricomposte ————— 19

che maligne, al contrario di quelle notturne. Ma, almeno per i fantasmi dei morti, Caillois 1988, 19 ss. offre una casistica diversa. 7,9 mythologein; 8,3 mythologikos.

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dall’imperatore Adriano (8,1),20 o a quelle narrate dalla madre e dalla nutrice del vignaiolo stesso, chiedendo piuttosto racconti di eventi vissuti in prima persona dal narratore, questo, respingendo anche la favola del corpo di Oreste alto sette cubiti, affronta il racconto degli avvenimenti più recenti e di quelli pressoché contemporanei (8,4). La veridicità di tale racconto è confermata dall’esame autoptico del vignaiolo in tre casi su otto, in quanto egli dichiara di aver visto personalmente le seguenti meraviglie: 1. il gigante di ben ventidue cubiti affiorato sul promontorio del Sigeo meno di cinquanta anni prima e rimasto in situ per due mesi in una enorme cavità rocciosa, visitato anche da molti abitanti dell’Ellesponto e della Ionia, da tutti gli isolani e dagli Eoli al completo (8,6-8); 2. il corpo gigantesco ‘di grandezza spaventosa e difficilmente immaginabile’ ritrovato a Lemno da Menecrate di Stiria, visto dal vignaiolo solo un anno prima del racconto (8,11); 3. il corpo di un gigante immenso trascinato da una frana sul vicino promontorio di Nauloco a Imbro, visto dal vignaiolo in occasione del medesimo viaggio a Lemno, in una località poco distante da Imbro, che il Fenicio stesso, se la sua attività di mercante non glielo impedisse, potrebbe ancora vedere con la guida del vignaiolo (8,12-13). Inoltre, solo quattro anni prima, nell’isola di Ico, un amico del vignaiolo, Imneo di Pepareto, unico proprietario dell’isola, aveva parzialmente disseppellito un cadavere di dodici cubiti nel cui teschio era alloggiato un serpente (si trattava dunque di un eroe), ma lo aveva ricoperto subito perché Protesilao, consultato dal figlio dell’amico, aveva ordinato di non scoprire il cadavere, che apparteneva a uno dei giganti fulminati da Zeus (8,9-10). Testimoni non meglio noti, invece, hanno informato il vignaiolo della presenza nell’isola di Cos delle ossa dei nati dalla terra che, a quanto dicono, furono i primi Meropi, di quella delle ossa di Illo, figlio di Eracle, in Frigia e di quella dei resti degli Aloadi, alti addirittura nove orgìe, in Tessaglia. Secondo quanto affermano i napoletani, poi, le ossa di Alcione si trovano nel loro territorio e molti corpi dei giganti scaraventati da Zeus in quel luogo sono ricoperti dal Vesuvio (8,14-15).21 ————— 20

21

Alcock 2004, 161: ‘Archaeological evidence does nothing to dispute this claim’. Se connesso alla successiva indicazione di 8,4 (il vignaiolo ha visto personalmente il gigante affiorato al Sigeo meno di cinquanta anni prima) il riferimento a Adriano potrebbe consentire il calcolo dell’età del vignaiolo. Sull’importanza della autopsia (spesso invero di secondo grado) e della scientificità delle prove addotte dal vignaiolo, si veda Mantero 1966, 71-74. Per la realtà dei ritrovamenti di ossa gigantesche, Rusten 2004, 147-158, afferma che la tecnica usata da Filostrato, la quale poggia su testimonianze di vario tipo, ‘reinforces the timeless world of the dialogue … to persuade us of the survival of the classical Greek past into the present of the Troad under Roman rule’ (157-158). Sui realien dell’Heroikos e sul setting geografico scelto da

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1.3 Mezzogiorno a Pallene nell’Heroikos Il luogo più inquietante descritto dal vignaiolo, che peraltro non sembrerebbe averlo personalmente visitato, è quello situato nella penisola Calcidica e chiamato Pallene, o anche Flegra dai poeti (8,16). Proprio mentre ha luogo la conversazione tra il vignaiolo e il Fenicio, piogge e terremoti stanno infatti riportando alla luce, a detta del vignaiolo, molti corpi dei giganti che un tempo si erano lì accampati. Verso mezzogiorno (8,16 peri mesēmbrian), come in una sarabanda infernale, sotto la terra strepitano22 impazziti i loro fantasmi (eidōlōn) terrorizzando coloro che si trovano a passare di lì e la potenza di questo spettacolo visivo e sonoro è tale che neppure i pastori a quell’ora affrontano con coraggio il luogo infestato dagli spettri: proprio loro, i pastori, che dovrebbero essere i più avvezzi alle visioni e ai clamori inquietanti che turbano il fiero silenzio del mezzogiorno campestre. Se difatti l’ora meridiana è quella prediletta da Pan per il riposo e pertanto più temibile per i mortali che osano disturbarlo violando uno dei principali tabù connessi al suo culto,23 per gli uomini è altrettanto terribile cedere all’afa e alla sonnolenza meridiana24 rischiando di essere turbati da sogni e immagini allucinatorie, anche gulliveriane,25 e da inquietanti prodigi sonori. —————

22

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24

25

Filostrato, cf. Jones 2001, 144-146, e, soprattutto, Follet 2004, la quale dimostra come ‘for the regions of the northern Aegean, Philostratus is an eyewitness and can usually be trusted’ (235). Mantero 1966, 86-87. Le voci dei fantasmi nelle opere degli scrittori greci e latini sono oggetto di un felice studio di Stramaglia 1995, che si sofferma anche sulle possenti voci degli eroi filostratei (211-213); sull’argomento si veda ancora Stramaglia 1999, 44 s. La gamma delle voci dei fantasmi è comunque varia: fievole e stridula o potente. Philostr. Im. 2,11 ‘le ninfe gli sono balzate addosso verso mezzogiorno -kata mesēmbriannell’ora in cui si dice che Pan, dopo aver lasciato la caccia, si abbandona al sonno. Lui di solito dormiva in un atteggiamento indolente, con il naso che esprimeva mitezza e lenendo il suo temperamento collerico con il sonno’ (trad. it. Schilardi); Theocr. 1,15 ss. ‘Non si può, pastore, non si può suonare / a mezzogiorno. Io temo Pan: perché questa è l’ora in cui stanco della caccia si riposa. È collerico, /e l’aspra bile è sempre pronta per montargli al naso. Ma tu, Tirsi, i dolori di Dafni sai cantare / e nella musa bucolica sei grande. / Dunque sediamo sotto quest’olmo’ (trad. it. Cavalli). Cf. Callois 1988, 98 n. 167. Il divieto di dormire a mezzogiorno, ora degli spiriti, è pitagorico. Nel Fedro platonico (259d) Fedro osserva: ‘così per molte ragioni a mezzogiorno (en tēi mesēmbriai) dobbiamo discorrere anziché dormicchiare’ (trad. it. Pucci). Caillois 1988, 46, a proposito delle apparizioni fantasmatiche, cita opportunamente Macrobio (In Somn. Scip. 1,3,7) φάντασμα vero, hoc est visum, cum inter vigiliam et adultam quietem in quadam, ut aiunt, prima somni nebula adhuc se vigilare aestimans, qui dormire vix coepit, aspicere videtur irruentes in se vel passim vagantes formas a natura seu magnitudine seu specie discrepantes variasque tempestates rerum vel laetas vel turbulentas. Sulle immagini lillipuziane e gulliveriane negli stati allucinatori, cf. Galimberti 1992, s.v. Allucinazione, 33-35.

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1.4 Mezzogiorno, ora di apparizioni e di insidie nell’Heroikos Se addormentarsi nel calore meridiano (mesēmbrias) può essere molto pericoloso per i mariti troppo ingenui e distratti, l’ora del mezzogiorno è ancora più rischiosa e minacciosa per gli adulteri che offendono l’amore (16,2-3). Per Protesilao, in effetti, l’ora meridiana non è soltanto il tempo deputato alle apparizioni nel podere del vignaiolo, all’accettazione e al consumo delle offerte alimentari e al meritato riposo dopo una caccia estenuante in territori lontani. Quest’ora prodigiosa potenzia addirittura le giuste reazioni dell’eroe a fatti che egli ritiene ingiuriosi nei confronti dell’amore coniugale che rispetta ed esalta in virtù del suo tenero rapporto con la sposa Laodamia sia in vita sia dopo la sua morte prematura (2,9-10, 11,8-9). La giusta vendetta dell’eroe greco si realizza anche nel podere del vignaiolo in cui un adultero e la donna amata, giunti insieme all’ignaro e fiducioso marito di lei, congiurano ai danni dello sposo proprio accanto all’altare di Protesilao mentre il marito, candido e improvvido, si lascia sedurre dal sonno meridiano (16,3). Lo strumento prescelto è il cane del vignaiolo, mansueto e affettuoso con gli amici del padrone ai quali non osa neppure abbaiare (2,1 s.), ma infido e crudele nei confronti dei due amanti. L’animale, istigato da Protesilao, attacca alle spalle e morde i due amanti intenti al giuramento infliggendo loro una ferita che lo stesso Protesilao, apparendo al marito cui rivela il grado di conoscenza degli eroi – un po’ meno degli dei ma più degli uomini –, dichiara insanabile (16,4). L’episodio, più inquietante che boccaccesco, sembrerebbe influenzato dalla credenza magico-religiosa che il mezzogiorno è una delle ore preferite da Ecate, la dea triforme cui sono sacri i cani, che si manifesta di notte e di giorno in compagnia di una muta di esseri demoniaci dall’aspetto di cani famelici (Lucian. Philops. 22), anche lei, come il cane del vignaiolo, essere ambiguo, ora benevolo e benefico ora malevolo e malefico. D’altra parte proprio il mugolio festoso del cane che aveva tanto meravigliato il Fenicio (2,1), giunto a mezzogiorno nel fondo rustico del vignaiolo, da un lato prefigura l’episodio degli adulteri puniti dallo stesso cane inferocito vindice dell’amore e dell’ospitalità traditi, dall’altro indica la presenza di Ecate (2,2).26 L’assistenza di Protesilao, giovane eroe dedito alla ginnastica e all’atletica, si rivela decisiva anche per il pugile Plutarco nel mezzogiorno incombente di una giornata estiva (15,6 akmazousa mesēmbria) della seconda Olimpiade. Questo, mentre lottava, sfinito dalla sete, con l’egiziano Ermia spossato dalle ferite, riuscì a dissetarsi e a riprendere coraggio grazie alla pioggia caduta d’improvviso sullo ————— 26

Cf. Lyc. 1174-1180. Sull’argomento è ancora fondamentale Rohde 1970, II, 415 s., n. 4. Sulla figura di Ecate quale divinità della fecondità e della morte, cf. Nilsson 1941, 684687 (con Index sv. Hekate).

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stadio e, ricordando che l’oracolo di Protesilao gli ordinava di prendere Acheloo come giudice di gara, poté ottenere la vittoria. Il mezzogiorno acquista così nuove valenze simboliche esaltando anche la potenza divinatoria e taumaturgica dell’eroe, attraverso la risentita reazione di Protesilao alle empietà commesse durante l’ora meridiana.

2.1 Le Pastorali di Longo e l’Heroikos di Filostrato Le Pastorali di Longo evidenziano palesi omologie con le opere di Filostrato più vicine alla fiction e in particolare con l’Heroikos (Bowie 1994, 186-187). Fino a che punto tali omologie siano ascrivibili a un generico milieu culturale comune ai due autori e quanto invece dipendano da intenzionali rapporti di intertestualità proveremo a congetturare nel prosieguo del lavoro, avanzando l’ipotesi che Longo abbia ben conosciuto e consciamente riecheggiato l’Heroikos di Filostrato.27 Le due opere, entrambe ambientate in campagna risentono del dibattito, topico e un po’ logoro, città/campagna, pervenendo a un’analoga conclusione: la preminenza della campagna sulla città.28 Il protagonista dell’Heroikos è stato infatti proprietario di un grande fondo agricolo che gli schiavi infingardi e intriganti, cui esso è stato affidato durante la sua permanenza in città per motivi di studio, hanno trascurato e snervato a tal punto da ridurre il proprietario in miseria e costringerlo a ipotecare le sue terre (4,6). Il ritiro del proprietario in campagna ha luogo solo dopo che egli ha deciso di cambiare vita, affidandosi alla sapienza di Protesilao sia per la progettazione e l’esecuzione dei lavori agricoli sia per la formazione personale (6,9). Nelle Pastorali, invece, il protagonista Dafni è schiavo e il padrone del fondo, curato dal padre putativo Lamone, sebbene risieda in città, amministra saggiamente le sue proprietà controllando il lavoro degli schiavi solerti. La condanna della città è evidenziata dalla fatale avventura in cui incorre il padre ————— 27

28

Bowie 2008, 28-32, ritiene che l’Heroikos di Filostrato, in particolare nell’episodio dell’amore imperituro e romanzesco di Achille ed Elena nell’isola di Leuke, possa ‘have been influenced by the novels’ (29), anche se ‘it is very difficult to pin down elements in Longus that can be confidently explained as reactions to contemporary literary trends’ (32). Il dibattito coinvolge anche l’Euboico di Dione Crisostomo. Daude 2005, 147-152, evidenzia le affinità paesaggistiche e ideologiche tra l’Euboico e le Pastorali di Longo e ritiene che Longo abbia trovato in Dione il punto di partenza del suo romanzo pastorale, pur avendo ‘la tête politique et philosophique, et non pas la tête romanesque’ (151). Morgan 2004, 16, mette in particolare rilievo il rapporto tra città e campagna nel romanzo di Longo: ‘Longus evokes the facile antithesis of town and country only to deconstruct it behind his narrator’s back. … So the city is not all bad nor the country all good. Neither is sufficient without the other. … For Longus town and country are special instances of the wider synthesis of art and nature.’

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di Cloe, cittadino ben nummato che le difficoltà economiche causate da eccessive elargizioni ai concittadini hanno costretto a esporre la propria figlia in campagna affidandola alla generosità delle Ninfe. Quanto a Dafni e Cloe, essi, intolleranti della vita in città, dopo il matrimonio tornano ben presto a vivere in campagna, sia pur da padroni, passando la maggior parte del tempo in occupazioni pastorali. Entrambi gli autori utilizzano inoltre alcuni temi minori e topoi consolidati, che il romanziere sfrutta indirizzandoli verso esiti narrativi. In particolare Longo accentua la funzione narrativa dello scenario in cui Filostrato colloca la conversazione tra il vignaiolo e il Fenicio, locus amoenus di ascendenza omerica e platonica, facendo del paradeisos di Dionisofane il fulcro degli eventi narrati nel quarto libro e uno dei luoghi più importanti per il consolidamento del rapporto erotico tra Dafni e Cloe. Il giardino di Dionisofane si rivela inoltre luogo deputato allo scioglimento della storia, in quanto proprio lo scempio dei fiori in esso coltivati, messo in atto dal gelosissimo Lampide, rende possibile l’anagnōrisis dei due fanciulli e avvia il racconto verso la riconciliazione finale di protagonisti e antagonisti.29 Sia Filostrato che Longo assegnano un forte rilievo alla stagione autunnale operando innovazioni significative rispetto al Fedro di Platone, che ambienta il dialogo tra Socrate e Fedro nel calore meridiano di una giornata estiva decretandone la conclusione non appena la calura è diventata più mite (Pl. Phdr. 279b). Filostrato, dal canto suo, privilegia, come ora e stagione ideale perché il dialogo tra il vignaiolo e il Fenicio possa aver luogo senza nuocere al lavoro dei campi, il mezzogiorno di un autunno appena agli inizi in cui la vendemmia non è ancora stata effettuata (3,5). Longo invece, oltre a considerare la vendemmia come l’attività agricola più importante della stagione autunnale, proprio in autunno situa il ————— 29

Come afferma Pattoni 2005, 434, è solo quando la coppia dei protagonisti si è ricongiunta che ‘il giardino esaurisce la sua funzione’. A proposito dell’ekphrasis del paradeisos di Dionisofane, Morgan 2004, 224, afferma: ‘Within the novel, the park’s importance is both mechanical and structural … the ekphrasis makes uncomfortably clear some of the dynamics governing both the conventional reading of L’s text and the relations between town and country in the real world, lifting the corner of the pastoral screen to remind us of the harsher reality it cloaks’. Sul topos retorico del giardino, cf. Haß 1998. Un’ottima sintesi sulla ricezione e sulle variazioni longhiane del topos si trova in Pattoni 2005, 434-438 nn. 4-15, la quale così conclude: ‘Il giardino è insomma un microcosmo in cui si riflettono le caratteristiche della vita sociale della comunità che lo ha creato’, la cui ‘organizzazione spaziale … ricalca la pianta di una città’ (436-437 n. 9). Sulla connotazione di Lampide come Doppelgänger di Eros, cf. Morgan 2004, 224-225; sulla riconciliazione finale, Liviabella Furiani 1995 (in particolare 19; 35-36). Che Longo sia sofista abilissimo nel recuperare, rivitalizzare e riproporre per fini narrativi e romanzeschi alcuni motivi bucolici ellenistici è stato recentemente confermato da Pattoni 2004 e Liviabella Furiani 2006.

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felice compimento di una vicenda erotica che ha avuto il suo apice nella stagione a mezzo tra la primavera e l’estate (1,23,1).

2.2 Mezzogiorno, ora magica dell’amore, nelle Pastorali di Longo Il mezzogiorno è uno dei temi privilegiati in cui Filostrato e Longo si esercitano a riecheggiare e diversamente modulare i motivi topici omerici, platonici e teocritei. Il modello filostrateo è peraltro, a nostro avviso, ulteriormente variato e complicato da Longo, il quale carica l’ora divina per eccellenza di valori simbolici diversi rispetto a quelli rilevabili nell’Heroikos di Filostrato, affidandole tra l’altro una valenza erotica marginale, se non estranea all’Heroikos. Il romanziere da un lato sottrae all’ora meridiana l’atmosfera di gusto noir che avvolge le misteriose apparizioni degli eidōla eroici, dall’altra fa del mezzogiorno il motore segreto degli eventi narrati e il cardine attorno a cui ruotano le avventure erotiche di Dafni e Cloe. Non a caso Dafni nasce alla storia al colmo di un meriggio estivo (1,2,2: mesēmbrias akmazousēs) in cui la provvidenziale intuizione di una capra trasgressiva, che nella calura meridiana30 si stacca dal suo capretto non tanto per godersi l’ombra delle querce quanto per nutrire un bimbo abbandonato, consente al pastore Lamone il prodigioso ritrovamento di Dafni. Proprio nella vampa meridiana di una stagione estiva appena iniziata (1,24,1: tēs de mesēmbrias epelthousēs), quando la natura in pieno rigoglio favorisce lo sbocciare dell’amore, lo sguardo di Cloe è rapito dalla vista di Dafni che, completamente nudo, si lava e pesca con le mani nei fiumi o beve avidamente, quasi nel tentativo di spegnere il suo fuoco interiore. In quest’ora estiva meridiana (1,25,1: to mesēmbrinon), magica per l’amore, mentre le greggi riposano all’ombra cullate dal suono della syrinx di Dafni, il giovinetto, vibrante di amoroso desiderio per Cloe, con l’alibi di liberare la bella addormentata da una garrula cicala caduta dentro la sua veste (1,26,1),31 riesce a infilarle le mani in seno. A mezzogiorno, ————— 30

31

La pausa di mezzogiorno interrompe la prima pastura di pecore e capre, che tornano a pascolare una seconda volta al cessare della calura (1,8,2; 2,30,1). A redazione quasi ultimata del presente lavoro notiamo che già Morgan 2004, 152, 170 e ad loc. ha individuato nel mezzogiorno un tema significativo delle Pastorali. Il richiamo è qui, più che a Esiodo, Op. 582-583, e Alceo, fr. 347a L.-P., al Fedro platonico (230c: il coro delle cicale nel meriggio estivo; 238e-239a: nel locus amoenus, al colmo dell’afa estiva meridiana, le cicale cantano e conversano fra loro e, se Socrate e Fedro sonnecchiassero, potrebbero perfino deriderli scambiandoli per schiavi) e a Teocrito (7,138-139: le cicale bruciate dal sole del mezzogiorno estivo stridono forte sui rami ombrosi; 16,94-96: stridono in mezzo al verde spiando i pastori che a mezzogiorno riposano,

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dunque, se non è lecito suonare la syrinx perché Pan riposa, non è prudente neppure addormentarsi (Theocr. 1,15-17).32 Ma in questo caso il turbamento indotto dal sonno trasgressivo è ben più leggero perché imputabile esclusivamente a giovani e furtive mani maschili. Longo dunque, senza banalizzare le profonde valenze simboliche del mezzogiorno, che saranno evidenti nel corso del racconto, adatta un tema tradizionalmente inquietante alla favola bella dei due giovanissimi innamorati. Dafni e Cloe, d’altra parte, sono già venuti a conoscenza dell’esistenza di Eros dal racconto del pastore Fileta, il quale, in un mezzogiorno autunnale (2,4,1: amphi mesēn hēmeran) di poco successivo alla vendemmia, ha miracolosamente visto il piccolo Eros nudo tra i melograni e i mirti del suo giardino e ha goduto dell’esclusivo privilegio di abbracciare e baciare da vecchio il divino e impertinente fanciullo che, neppure quando era giovane e innamorato di Amarillide, era mai riuscito a vedere e ha potuto godere della sua voce singolare e del suo squillante riso divino (2,5,1).33 Ben più tremenda e minacciosa è la visione onirica di Pan, il quale, ancora in autunno e all’incirca a mezzogiorno (2,26,4: amphi mesēn hēmeran), appare in sogno a Briassi, comandante della flotta dei Metimnesi, razziatori e rapitori sacrileghi di Cloe, dopo una notte e una mattinata turbate da sconvolgenti prodigi visivi e acustici (2,26,5: phantasma kai akousmata), che ora simulano una battaglia notturna tra lampi di fuoco e fragoroso strepito di remi, ora procurano visioni allucinatorie diurne in cui Cloe appare coronata di rami di pino e le sue pecore ululano come lupi, mentre il cupo rimbombo di uno strumento musicale, più simile a una salpinx bellica che a una syrinx, invita alla battaglia contro nemici invisibili e inesistenti (2,25,3-26,4). Tali fenomeni che, propagandosi attraverso l’immobilità e il silenzio notturni, generano il panico e sovvertono l’ordine della natura, —————

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mentre i maggesi sono pronti per la semina). Bowie 2005, 79 ss., evidenzia nel romanzo di Longo l’antropomorfizzazione degli animali e, in particolare, il ruolo attivo che il romanziere affida proprio alla cicala. Come, in parte, si è già visto, in Teocrito i riferimenti al mezzogiorno sono numerosi: a quest’ora anche la lucertola dorme e l’allodola epitymbidios smette di volare (7,23), forse perché appaiono i morti (Caillois 1988, 85 n. 128); i mietitori riposano, a differenza dei trebbiatori che continuano a lavorare perché a mezzogiorno la pula si stacca meglio dallo stelo (10,48-51); il viandante riposa all’ombra della quercia (12,8 s.) e riposano i pastori spiati dalla cicala che stride in mezzo al verde, mentre i maggesi sono pronti per la semina (16,94-97). Il privilegio delle manifestazioni fisiche d’affetto tra Fileta è Eros è analogo a quello del vignaiolo, la cui xynousia con Protesilao, corporeo revenant, è cementata, come s’è detto, da baci e abbracci reiterati. Sulla voce perturbante e sul riso inquietante di Eros, che avvicinano il divino fanciullo a un trickster seducente e ingannatore, cf. Liviabella Furiani 1999, 79-83; Liviabella Furiani 2000, 90.

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lasciano solo intuire, senza spiegarla a sufficienza dal momento che i santuari del dio non sono stati danneggiati, la presenza di un Pan terribilmente sdegnato con l’equipaggio della nave (2,26,5). Sarà però sufficiente, e tuttavia indispensabile, che Briassi esegua immediatamente gli ordini perentori di Pan, autoidentificatosi come tale durante l’epiphania meridiana, perché Cloe venga ben presto liberata e accompagnata a terra dal comandante stesso (2,28,1).34 Immediatamente, e dunque ancora una volta intorno all’ora meridiana, si verificano i rassicuranti prodigi sonori e visivi a opera di un Pan ambiguo, ma ormai pacificato, che, disperdendo lo sconcertante disordine visivo e smorzando la straripante confusione acustica, ripristina l’ordine naturale. Un misterioso suono di syrinx dall’intonazione pastorale attira le pecore e le capre di Cloe, che corrono da lei e la attorniano per festeggiarla. In terra e in mare si manifestano fenomeni ancor più meravigliosi: mentre le navi metimnesi si muovono guidate da un guizzante delfino senza che le ancore siano mai state alzate, le greggi procedono e pascolano al suono (ēchos) malioso della syrinx di un ignoto esecutore (2,29,2-3). Il promontorio in cui si verificano i prodigi (come è noto, i promontori sono sotto il controllo di Pan) è verisimilmente lo stesso in cui più tardi Cloe sperimenterà per la prima volta l’effetto dell’eco, voce mascherata e ombra sonora di Pan per lui inaccessibile e inconoscibile, prodotta dall’acustica deformata di un luogo e dunque strumento inadeguato di comunicazione, di contro alla vera voce di Pan, syrinx-salpinx ambigua ma efficace (3,23,5, cf. 2,25,2). Alcuni particolari e soprattutto l’atmosfera di questo episodio romanzesco ci sembrano ispirati a un passo dell’Heroikos che, pur affrontando un tema assai diverso con un linguaggio anch’esso diverso, presenta non poche analogie con i passi di Longo sopra citati. Scrive Filostrato: I canti nell’isola (scil. di Leuke) sono dunque di questo tipo e la loro voce risuona divina e chiara e penetra a tal punto nel mare da mettere i brividi ai naviganti per lo spavento. Quelli che sono approdati lì raccontano di aver ————— 34

L’episodio, palesemente ispirato a Erodoto 6,105, è analizzato da Caillois 1988, 44-47, come esempio della pratica dell’incubatio. Meillier 1975, 121-132, ne evidenzia le valenze religiose; Borgeaud 1979, 115-175, ne offre una interpretazione complessa e preziosa. Si veda anche, si licet, Liviabella Furiani 1999, 89-95. Pan si lascia aiutare, nei suoi interventi a favore degli esseri umani che gli sono cari, dalle Ninfe e, grazie alla loro intercessione si muove in aiuto di Cloe (2,23,1 ss.). Come esiste la possessione panica o panolessia, che è sempre conseguenza di una colpa rituale (in Longo anche Dafni e Cloe, che non hanno mai onorato Pan nemmeno con un fiore, sono puniti dal dio, seppure in modo diverso: 2,23,4), esiste anche la ninfolessia, e cioè la possessione meridiana da parte delle Ninfe, cui rimanda Platone nel Fedro (238cd). Su questi fenomeni, spesso accoppiati, insistono Caillois 1988, 34-44; Borgeaud 1979, 156 ss.; Larson 2001, 11-20. Sulla violenza di Pan, cf. Cheins 2001.

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sentito uno strepito di cavalli e il suono (ēchou) delle armi e urla, come se ne emettono in combattimento (56,1-2). I canti in questione sono quelli intonati nell’isola da Achille ed Elena su argomenti vari (il loro reciproco amore, i poemi omerici e Omero, il dono dell’arte poetica che Achille ha ricevuto da Calliope), il più recente dei quali, con ogni probabilità composto da Achille l’anno precedente all’incontro del vignaiolo col Fenicio (54,12-55,1), è una sensibile e profonda ode a Eco, che risuona anche nelle orecchie di coloro che navigano nei pressi dell’isola (56,1). In Filostrato come in Longo gli avvenimenti descritti hanno luogo in un’isola a mezzo tra la fantasia e la realtà geografica e si espandono misteriosamente, forse ingigantiti dall’eco, dalla terra al mare: essi sono tanto inquietanti da far venire i brividi e spaventare coloro che, mentre navigano, ascoltano rumori simili a quelli provenienti da un combattimento fantasma. Anche in questo caso il romanziere recupera la suggestione dell’episodio filostrateo assegnandogli, oltre a una funzione decorativa, una cruciale funzione narrativa: quella di riconsegnare al racconto Cloe, della quale Eros vuole fare la protagonista di un mythos (2,27,2).35 La pesante atmosfera mistica che nell’Heroikos grava sulle visioni degli eroi omerici ‘grandi e divini’, i quali appaiono ripetutamente ai soli mandriani e pastori della piana di Ilio (18,2), si scioglie così in un misticismo vago e edulcorato, ricco di espedienti e vezzi narrativi squisitamente romanzeschi, che conduce al trionfo dell’amore e dell’armonia universale. L’opera di Longo non si limita dunque a riecheggiare liberamente motivi topici tra i più raffinati e preziosi della letteratura greca, ma intrattiene anche un dialogo intertestuale sapido e sofisticato con uno dei rappresentanti più significativi della Seconda Sofistica, a lui pressoché contemporaneo.

3.1 Mirabilia meridiani nella Vita di Apollonio di Tiana e nelle Etiopiche Gli studiosi hanno più volte evidenziato le numerose affinità, soprattutto di carattere contenutistico, tra le opere di Filostrato e i romanzi greci, in particolare Le

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Sul mythos di Cloe si vedano MacQueen 1985 (che sottolinea il ruolo mitopoietico del romanzo); MacQueen 1990, 98-113; Morgan 1994, 75 (‘The story that Love will make out of Chloe is nothing other than the text of Daphnis and Chloe, the novel we are reading’); Morgan 2004, 193 (‘C’s story is the essence of the book, its paradigm of general relevance’).

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Etiopiche di Eliodoro.36 È stato anche notato che Filostrato nell’Heroikos e nella Vita di Apollonio di Tiana ha fatto sì che il lettore percepisse come estremamente ridotto ‘the gap that separates his literary activity from that of the novelists’. A nostro avviso, è difficile dubitare che Eliodoro abbia conosciuto la Vita di Apollonio di Tiana e che nel suo romanzo ne abbia ripreso alcuni temi e motivi topici, ora arricchendoli artisticamente, ora approfondendoli da un punto di visto scientifico, e comunque adattandoli al nuovo contesto romanzesco.37 Per quanto riguarda il tema del mezzogiorno in particolare, non può affatto stupire che tanto Filostrato quanto Eliodoro gli abbiano dedicato un’attenzione così sollecita e accorta. In effetti, il Sole, sia nelle implicazioni filosofiche, religiose e cultuali sia negli aspetti astronomici che si riflettono, condizionandola, sulla vita vegetale, animale e umana, occupa nella Vita di Apollonio e nelle Etiopiche un posto di eccezionale rilievo. Alle evidenti affinità e omologie che il mezzogiorno presenta nei due autori si accompagnano, peraltro, molteplici e notevoli discrasie, che anche in questo caso ci sembra possibile attribuire al gusto eliodoreo per la variazione, la valorizzazione e la funzionalizzazione di temi e motivi, anche topici, già utilizzati o rivisitati da Filostrato. Nella Vita di Apollonio il mezzodì perde la connotazione di ora canonica per l’apparizione dei fantasmi degli eroi posseduta nell’Heroikos, mentre il tema del rinvenimento di ossa umane gigantesche che pervade l’Heroikos diventa nella Vita di Apollonio un motivo solitario, appena accennato per confutare la credenza nella contesa dei giganti con gli dei, che esclude ogni riferimento all’ora del mezzogiorno (5,16,1-2). Quando poi, ancora nella Vita di Apollonio, il fantasma di Achille, che è alto ben cinque cubiti, si manifesta, lo fa solo di notte (4,16,6). Quanto all’apparizione di demoni e spettri, di empuse e di streghe, esorcizzati da Apollonio con spietata determinazione, essa ha luogo prevalentemente di giorno (4,10,1 4,25,2) e, comunque, in un’ora indefinita sia diurna che notturna.38 ————— 36

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Colonna 1987, 13; Rossi 1997, 232-233. In particolare ha destato l’attenzione degli studiosi l’Inno a Teti, a proposito del quale ci piace notare che nelle Etiopiche Calasiris cita l’inno a memoria (3,2,3, 3,3,1). La qual cosa potrebbe significare un appello di Eliodoro al lettore ideale perché attribuisca le differenze testuali, metriche e linguistiche riscontrabili nei due inni a volontarie variazioni di Eliodoro al testo di Filostrato (Her. 53,10). Per quanto riguarda ‘details, motifs and themes that are shared by the Aethiopica and Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius’, Morgan 2009, 270 ss., ritiene che essi facciano pensare a ‘some sort of intertextual relationship between the two works’ (270), anche se non è assolutamente necessario che ‘one author knew the work of the other’ (281). Tuttavia, singolari omologie tra le due opere, tuttavia, come la descrizione del palazzo reale di Babilonia in VA 1,25,2 e quello di Meroe (4,8,3 s.), suggeriscono all’ autore che Eliodoro conoscesse bene la VA di Filostrato. VA 2,4,1: l’empusa che al chiarore della luna stride come i fantasmi; 6,27,1: il fantasma di un satiro che smania per le donne e di alcune fa le sue vittime; 4,25,2 ss. e 8,7,29: lo spettro

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Talvolta tuttavia gli eidōla malefici sembrano giungere dal regno di Persefone proprio intorno al mezzodì) (8,12,1 s.). Sia l’ora di mezzogiorno (mesēmbrias) che l’ora di mezzanotte (nyx mesē) sono entrambe deputate alle visite solitarie che Apollonio riserva ai magi di Babilonia (1,26) e, soprattutto, sia a mezzogiorno che a mezzanotte si verifica il prodigioso fenomeno della levitazione a mezz’aria dei sapienti indiani (3,33,1).39 Se si escludono gli avvenimenti relativamente poco significativi che hanno luogo, regolarmente o in circostanze particolari, a mezzogiorno,40 l’ora meridiana conserva ed esalta i suoi peculiari valori simbolici soprattutto in alcuni eventi di carattere religioso.41 Ma l’evento forse più inquietante tra quelli situati nell’ora meridiana è la visione e, per così dire, la partecipazione di Apollonio all’omicidio di Domiziano, avvenuto a Roma mentre il divino sapiente si trovava a Efeso (8,25). Grazie ai suoi prodigiosi poteri, Apollonio poté difatti annunciare ‘in diretta’ la morte del famigerato imperatore alla folla di cittadini che verso mezzogiorno (8,26,1 kata mesēmbrian) ascoltavano il suo discorso nei boschetti del ginnasio di Efeso ‘non come se traesse da uno specchio un simulacro della realtà, ma vedendo gli avvenimenti stessi e dando l’impressione di prendervi parte’ (8,26,1). L’esattezza dei particolari riferiti dal sapiente, che includono l’ora meridiana dell’avvenimento (8,27,1 hē mesēmbria), ben presto confermata dai corrieri giunti ad annunciare la cruenta fine del tiranno, fa pensare, più che a un fenomeno di chiaroveggenza, precognizione o premonizione, a una sorta di trance medianica spontanea con bilocazione.42 ————— 39

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del vampiro di Corinto, che, essendo un’empusa, dovrebbe in ogni caso apparire a mezzogiorno. Sull’inferiorità dei Ginni etiopi rispetto ai Bramani dell’India, cf. Billault 2000, 122 s.; Morgan 2009, 272 ss. VA 2,36,3: chi beve acqua, anziché vino, è sempre sobrio sia di sera sia nell’ora del mercato (cioè a mezzodì); 6,6,1: a Olimpia gli atleti attendono to mesēmbrinon kērygma (in questo caso si tratta sicuramente di un mezzogiorno estivo). VA 3,14,3: a mezzodì i sapienti indiani cantano l’Inno al Sole; 5,30,2: a Roma, nell’ora di mezzogiorno, Apollonio dichiara a Vespasiano di voler compiere i sacri riti così come fanno gli Indiani; 6,6,1: prima di mezzogiorno si reca nel luogo di meditazione dei Ginni etiopi e risponde alle domande dei compagni, interrompendo la conversazione a mezzogiorno perché a quest’ora anche i Ginni attendono ai sacri riti: 6,14,1, 7,10,1: a mezzogiorno Apollonio, sbarcato a Corinto, compie i consueti riti in onore del Sole; 7,38,1: mezzogiorno è ora di preghiere e sacrifici. Sui fenomeni paranormali, spontanei e indotti, è ancora illuminante Dodds 1991, il quale ritiene l’evento descritto da Filostrato e da Cassio Dione (67,18) una ‘assai dubbia visione’ (91). Lo Cascio 1974, 76-78, mentre evidenzia l’ubiquità di Apollonio e il suo superamento delle leggi spazio-temporali, ritiene che sia stato Dione a utilizzare il racconto di Filostrato. Quanto alla personalità storica di Apollonio, Hägg 2004, 401, afferma che il theios aner

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Nella Vita di Apollonio di Tiana Filostrato insiste sugli aspetti più straordinari e meravigliosi pertinenti all’ora del mezzogiorno. Suggestiva è la sua fiabesca descrizione di un colle anonimo situato in India e abitato dai Gimnosofisti, che Apollonio poté visitare nel corso di un viaggio. Nella parte di esso volta a meridione si trovava ‘un pozzo di quattro orgìe, dalla cui bocca emanava il riflesso di un’intensa luce azzurra: e quando a mezzogiorno (hē mesēmbria) il sole sta sopra il pozzo, il riflesso viene tratto verso l’alto dai raggi e si leva offrendo l’immagine di un arcobaleno ardente’ (3,14,1). Sul colle sono visibili statue di divinità greche venerate secondo i riti greci e proprio sulla sommità di questa altura, che essi considerano l’ombelico (omphalon) del paese, gli Indiani ‘celebrano misteri in onore di un fuoco, che sostengono di trarre essi stessi dai raggi del sole: e a questo ogni giorno cantano un inno a mezzodì (es mesēmbrian)’ (3,14,3), in quanto il mezzodì è l’ora dedicata ai sacri riti (3,16,4). Sia Filostrato che Eliodoro si cimentano con un fenomeno, l’assenza di ombra a mezzogiorno del solstizio estivo,43 di cui evidenziano lo spessore scientifico senza negarne l’inquietante dimensione psicologica. Filostrato fa convergere due fonti veritiere (Ortagora e Damis) a garanzia di quanto avviene a Patala, in India, ove nel Mar Rosso a mezzogiorno ‘non appare la costellazione dell’Orsa e i naviganti non lasciano ombra e le altre stelle visibili mutano il loro posto’, dichiarando di avere fiducia in tali notizie perché esse sono ‘corrispondenti alla situazione del cielo in quei luoghi’ (3,53).44 Eliodoro si sofferma sull’assenza di ombra allo zenit nelle zone di Siene e Meroe con lo scopo palese di togliere ogni numinosità al fenomeno, che è constatato sia dagli abitanti di Siene in Egitto sia da quelli di Meroe in Etiopia, e, in particolare, dal re Idaspe. Gli abitanti di Siene mostrano —————

43

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‘seems to have been both a respected holy man and a religious philosopher. But he was not the Dion-style sophist and the international traveller that Philostratus made of him, nor the potential founder of a religion that Hierocles implied by elevating him to a counter-Christ’. Strabone, descrivendo il ‘nilometro’ evidenzia il fenomeno dell’assenza di ombra a mezzogiorno che ha luogo a Siene durante il solstizio estivo, fenomeno confermato dalla luce che rischiara completamente anche le acque molto profonde (17,1,48). Plinio cita i luoghi in cui l’assenza di ombra a mezzogiorno è totale, in particolare Siene, in cui il fenomeno è confermato dal fatto che ‘un pozzo, creato a scopo di verifica, viene totalmente rischiarato’ (N.H. 2,183), la zona dell’India sopra il fiume Ipasi e Meroe, ove ‘due volte l’anno le ombre sono eliminate’ (N.H. 2,184). La riduzione dell’ombra a mezzogiorno è prevista anche da Arist. Pr. 15. La convergenza di Eliodoro con Strabone non implica tuttavia, di per sé, una dipendenza diretta del romanziere da Strabone. Sulla questione delle fonti della VA è fondamentale Bowie 1978, 1663 ss.; Plinio (N.H. 2,184 s.) conferma che a Patala l’Orsa maggiore è visibile solo durante la prima parte della notte e a testimonianza di ciò porta gli scritti di Onesicrito, comandante e storico di Alessandro, secondo il quale nei luoghi dell’India dove manca l’ombra non si scorge l’Orsa maggiore.

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infatti al sovrano etiope, che non appare affatto meravigliato poiché lo stesso fenomeno ha luogo anche a Meroe: le loro meridiane, il cui asse a mezzogiorno non fa alcuna ombra, perché nella zona di Siene il sole, durante il solstizio d’estate, si trova proprio allo zenit e la sua luce, diffondendosi da tutte le parti, fa sì che sulla meridiana non si proietti ombra. Per questa stessa ragione è illuminata anche l’acqua che sta in fondo ai pozzi. (9,22,4). Il mezzogiorno, come d’altronde la mezzanotte, è un momento di passaggio, è l’ora immota (Pl. Phdr. 242a stathera) in cui il tempo si arresta e l’uomo misteriosamente è tutt’uno con la sua ombra. L’assottigliamento dell’ombra, totale solo in alcune zone geografiche, è in realtà, come evidenzia Eliodoro, il quale interpreta vari eventi ‘in terms of physical law or naturalistic psychology’ (Winkler 1982, 128), tutt’altro che misterioso, in quanto coincide con il culmine della potenza della natura. Eppure il mezzodì, proprio per la discontinuità temporale che genera, dal momento che il tempo sia pure per un istante si ferma, causa disorientamento e terrore negli uomini e negli animali ed è per questo che alcune cose vanno necessariamente fatte prima di mezzogiorno, quando la capacità di orientarsi non è ancora andata smarrita.45

3.2 Mezzogiorno, ora di terremoti e di nascite prodigiose in Filostrato e Eliodoro A Festo, nell’isola di Creta, in un mezzogiorno di inizio primavera si verifica, secondo il racconto di Filostrato, un evento perturbante che da un lato pertiene al meraviglioso naturale, dall’altro evoca una potenza visionaria tanto eccezionale da far pensare che Apollonio di Tiana fosse fornito del dono della bilocazione (VA 4,34,1). ————— 45

Come afferma Hillman 1977, 121, ‘il culmine meridiano … è il misterioso momento in cui io e la mia ombra siamo uno’ ed è l’ora panica per eccellenza, quella in cui dominano l’incubo e il terrore (123, 125). Sul mezzogiorno e la mezzanotte, cf. Speyer 1984, il quale, non del tutto esattamente almeno per quanto riguarda i fantasmi dei morti (Caillois, 1988, 19 ss.; Stramaglia 1999, 47), ritiene che le apparizioni di mezzogiorno sarebbero più spesso benigne che maligne, al contrario di quelle della mezzanotte. Sul ‘lato oscuro’ del romanzo antico, in particolare greco, si veda anche Scippacercola 2008, la quale nella sua tesi di dottorato affronta i temi dell’ ‘inquietante soprannaturale’ (sogni, fantasmi, demoni) e della negromanzia in tutti i romanzi greci, ad eccezione di Longo.

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Filostrato racconta che, mentre Apollonio, sul far del mezzogiorno (peri mesēmbrian) parlava a un folto pubblico di fedeli nel tempio di Lebeno a Festo, ‘tutta Creta fu scossa da un terremoto:46 rimbombò un tuono non dalle nubi bensì dalla terra, e il mare si ritirò per buoni sette stadi’ (4,34,4). Egli rassicurò la folla, impaurita dalla possibilità che il mare trascinasse via la terra, con una metafora di potente ambiguità: ‘Fatevi animo … il mare ha partorito la terra’. In effetti ‘dopo qualche tempo certe persone venute da Cidonia annunciarono che nella medesima data in cui era avvenuto il fenomeno, e proprio a mezzogiorno (kata tēn hēmeran te kai mesēmbrian), era emersa un’isola dal mare, nel tratto che si trova fra Tera e Creta’. A nostro avviso è possibile riscontrare alcune coincidenze significative tra il racconto del prodigioso concepimento di Cariclea in Eliodoro e quello della nascita di una nuova isola in Filostrato. Già Winkler evidenziò indizi di un più profondo significato cosmico sotteso alla coincidenza temporale tra il concepimento di Cariclea a mezzogiorno di una giornata estiva e il suo arrivo, al culmine47 di un solstizio estivo, in Egitto, terra di importanza cruciale ove Cariclea e Teagene, caduti in un’imboscata di giovani Etiopi, si consegnano come prigionieri di guerra nelle loro mani, facendo così avverare il vaticinio ricevuto in sogno da Teagene. Si tratta in effetti di indizi relativi alla posizione della terra rispetto al sole in diversi momenti del suo percorso nel cielo, che evidenziano l’importanza dell’astro solare nella vita del singolo e in quella di interi popoli, in particolare degli Egiziani e degli Etiopi (come testimoniano in Eliodoro le ‘crescite’ e i ‘ritorni’ del Nilo) (9,9,2).48 Come è noto, durante la siesta meridiana (to mesēmbrinon) di una giornata estiva, quando la mente torpida e i sensi estenuati invitano al sonno, un sogno,

————— 46

47 48

Le fonti letterarie antiche, tra cui i meteorologi (Arist. Mete. 2,8; Pr. 15,5; Plin. N.H. 2,195), concordano nel collocare molti fenomeni sismici a mezzogiorno, ora in cui, soprattutto al tempo della vendemmia, appare Ecate, nelle forme di una donna terrificante d’imponente statura accompagnata dai suoi cani (Lucian. Philops. 22; cf. Lyc. 1174-1180), e si manifesta minacciosa l’armata dei morti anzitempo (Stat. Theb. 4,430-433 e 438-441: ingentes infelix terra tumultus / lucis adhuc medio solaque in nocte per umbras / expirat, nigri cum uana in proelia surgunt / terrigenae. E perfino, diremmo noi, a mezzogiorno: 8,14,2-15,1. Le risonanze cosmiche presenti nella storia di Cariclea sono già state evidenziate da Winkler 1982, 151-152, il quale suggerisce una ricca serie di indizi in base ai quali il lettore avvertito potrebbe cominciare a congetturare ‘cosmic patterns’, ‘hints of a deeper cosmic meaning underlying the romantic exile and return of the Aithiopian princess’, mettendo però in evidenza come ‘these are only tantalizing hints’ (152). Cf. Suárez de la Torre 2004, 42-43.

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forse erotico,49 ingiunge al re Idaspe di congiungersi con la regina Persinna, la quale, visto il giuramento del marito in merito alla motivazione dell’atto erotico, si lascia coinvolgere in un rapporto amoroso durante il quale volge lo sguardo verso un dipinto, anch’esso in qualche misura erotico, che raffigura Andromeda, completamente nuda, mentre scende dalla roccia aiutata da Perseo (4,8,4-5). La duplice sollecitazione erotica e la misteriosa volontà divina, che il sogno lascia trasparire, hanno tanto successo che Persinna, ancora senza figli dopo dieci anni di matrimonio, si accorge immediatamente di essere rimasta incinta. Ma la trasgressione relativa al compimento dell’atto sessuale durante l’ora meridiana, in effetti destinata al riposo, fa sì che l’essere concepito somigli sfortunatamente alla bianca Andromeda (4,8,5). Non è impossibile, a nostro avviso, che Eliodoro abbia affidato l’affacciarsi alla vita di Cariclea a un giorno particolarmente significativo per la famiglia reale e l’intero popolo etiope, e cioè al solstizio d’estate, quando il Sole, che è ovunque sorgente di vita e di potenza fecondatrice e in Etiopia è anche il capostipite della famiglia reale (4,8,2), proprio a mezzogiorno, ora in cui è facile cedere alla vertigine che affolla la mente di perturbanti visioni fantasmatiche, giunge all’apice della sua potenza generatrice.50 Se così fosse, Cariclea, concepita prodigiosamente in quel giorno magico, avrebbe visto la luce nove mesi dopo in pieno equinozio di primavera, arco temporale anch’esso astronomicamente significativo, che, secondo la scienza astrologica, favorisce le nascite.51 Diciassette anni dopo, sempre intorno all’equinozio di primavera, la fanciulla sarebbe partita da Creta insieme a Calasiris e Teagene, diretta in Etiopia, giungendo in Egitto (la ‘inbetween land’ in cui gli Etiopi, facendola prigioniera insieme a Teagene, ————— 49

50

51

Non si tratta certo, qui, di un oneirogamos, caratterizzato da fantasie sessuali ed emissioni spermatiche (per cui si rimanda a Pigeaud 1988), ma di una phantasia, e cioè di un sogno erotico affine alle visioni ipnagogiche di cui parla Macrobio nel già citato In somn. Scip. 1,3,7. Cf. Caillois 1988, 46. A Goldhill 2001 (in particolare, 175-176) dobbiamo osservazioni di grande interesse sull’interpretazione del tema nel sec. II d.C. Il ruolo e il significato dei sogni nei romanzi greci, anche alla luce dell’opera di Artemidoro, è stato indagato da MacAlister 1996. Caillois 1988, 74-76. Il dio ispiratore del sogno potrebbe essere pertanto lo stesso Helios, che è il capostipite della famiglia reale etiope (4,8,2) e domina l’intero romanzo fin dal metaforico incipit (1,1,1, hēmeras arti diagelōsēs kai hēliou tas akrōreias kataugazontos); per la potenza metaforica del sole, vedi Whitmarsh 2005a, 103. Così sostiene Ptol. Tetr. 1,10,2; 2,11,3, secondo il quale la data del concepimento è astrologicamente tanto importante quanto quella della nascita (3,2,1-7). Non ci sembra fuor di luogo pensare che le indicazioni relative al concepimento di Cariclea, e dunque alla sua nascita, siano ispirate alla scienza astrologica in cui il Sole ricopre ovviamente un ruolo fondamentale (e.g. 1,2,2 ss.), quella stessa scienza astrologica che è praticata, come ormai sembra certo (Liviabella Furiani 1979), dal sacerdote egiziano Calasiris ed è imperante nei primi secoli dell’era cristiana.

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avrebbero confermato il sogno di Teagene) proprio al colmo del solstizio estivo quando hanno luogo le feste del Nilo (9,9,2), il quale, secondo il sofisticato e capzioso intervento di Idaspe, sono motivo d’orgoglio non tanto per l’Egitto quanto per l’Etiopia, che è il luogo in cui il Nilo ha le sue origini (9,22,7).52 Se è vero, come crediamo plausibile, che Eliodoro, nella sua opera narrativa si sia liberamente ispirato anche alla Vita di Apollonio di Tiana, incrociando con opportune modifiche eventi eccezionali, non è del tutto illecito per il lettore avvertito, cui spetta il compito di scoprire le maglie del fitto e costante dialogo intertestuale tra Filostrato e Eliodoro, ipotizzare che proprio il viaggio per mare da Malea a Creta, intrapreso da Apollonio all’inizio della primavera, abbia suggerito a Eliodoro il viaggio di Cariclea da Creta verso l’Egitto, cominciato proprio al soffio dei primi zefiri primaverili, ‘il primo giorno della luna nuova, dopo la sua congiunzione con il sole’ (Hld. 5,22,8; cf. VA 4,34,1). Proprio nel momento culminante di questo viaggio, funestato a mezzogiorno da un fortissimo terremoto, Apollonio annunciò in diretta al suo pubblico che quello stesso giorno, a quella stessa ora, il mare aveva partorito la terra. Questo lieto evento (la nascita di una nuova isola) potrebbe aver ispirato a Eliodoro (che nell’apportare raffinati e sofisticati ritocchi alle fonti dimostra un vero talento) la collocazione temporale della nascita prodigiosa di Cariclea, avvenuta forse durante l’equinozio di primavera in un’ora ignota che il lettore potrebbe perfino identificare con l’ora meridiana.

3.3 «Dov’è sparito, dove s’è nascosto il Sapiente?» L’ultima apparizione del Sapiente di Tiana si verificò in un’ora diurna imprecisata, coincidente forse col mezzodì (VA 8,31,2-3). Apollonio, poco tempo dopo la sua morte (‘se pure è morto’, come canta Costantino Kavafis53), apparve a un giovine studente di Tiana che, dopo essersi ostinato per quattro giorni a negare l’immortalità di Apollonio, durante la discussione piombò in un improvviso sonno diurno. Sia che Apollonio gli fosse apparso come un fantasma sia che quella fosse la mirabile epiphania di un Apollonio assunto in cielo (VA 8,30,2-3), il giovane e incredulo studente riconobbe con felice impeto che Apollonio era immortale e ne recitò i versi sull’immortalità dell’anima. ————— 52

53

Whitmarsh 1999, 27, in Hld. 9,22,7 rinviene ‘Heliodorus’ witty play with the title of his own text. The Aethiopica is not just a tale of Egypt … It goes beyond an Aegyptia: it is an Aethiopica, the ultimate philosophical narrative’. Sull’Egitto come ‘in-between land, cf. Nimis 2004, 54-55. Citiamo Costantino Kavafis (Se pure è morto) nella bella traduzione di F.M. Pontani (Milano 1961).

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Conclusione Filostrato, Longo e Eliodoro, scrittori operanti nel movimento della Seconda Sofistica o appartenenti a un milieu letterario dalla Seconda Sofistica profondamente influenzato, testimoniano con grande vivacità narrativa la malia e le insidie dell’ora meridiana, recuperando e rivitalizzando un motivo topico cristallizzato ma non ancora sclerotizzato. Filostrato, che romanziere non è, fa di esso il fulcro teologico, ideologico e politico dell’Heroikos e della Vita di Apollonio di Tiana, caratterizzandolo come il momento fatale in cui l’uomo incontra più da vicino gli eroi defunti e le divinità e con essi intrattiene un perturbante rapporto intimo. I romanzieri, a loro volta, reinventano questo tema topico riproponendolo con aggiustamenti e variazioni molteplici e, senza sottrargli le valenze simboliche che da sempre esso veicola, lo sfruttano in funzione eminentemente narrativa per costruire e far progredire il racconto e a volte, come fa Eliodoro, interpretano alcuni eventi emblematici in chiave eminentemente naturalistica. Su Filostrato, sofista sapido e fascinoso per eccellenza, convergono dunque, a parer nostro, gli sguardi affascinati di due tra i più sofisticati romanzieri della paganità al tramonto, i quali, come è piacevole e inevitabile che sia, fanno del meriggio un raffinato motivo squisitamente romanzesco.

4.1 Bibliografia Aitken, E.B. 2004. ‘Why a Phoenician? A proposal for the historical occasion for the Heroikos’, in Aitken & Maclean 2004, 267-284. Aitken, E.B. & Maclean, J.K.B. (edd.). 2004. Philostratus’s Heroikos. Religion and Cultural Identity in the Third Century C.E., Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Alcock, S.E. 2004. ‘Material witness: an archaeological context for the Heroikos’ in Aitken & Maclean 2004, 159-168. Anderson, G. 1993. The Second Sophistic: a Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire, London & New York: Routledge. Anderson, G. 1994. Sage, Saint and Sophist. Holy Men and their Associates in the Early Roman Empire. London & New York: Routledge. Betz, H.D. 2004. ‘Hero worship and Christian beliefs: observations from the history of religion on Philostratus’s Heroikos’, in Aitken & Maclean 2004, 25-47. Billault, A. 1991. La création romanesque dans la littérature grecque à l'époque impériale, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Billault, A. 2000. L’univers de Philostrate, Collection Latomus 252, Bruxelles: Latomus. Borgeaud, P. 1979. Recherches sur le dieu Pan, Bibliotheca Helvetica Romana 17, Roma: Institut Suisse de Rome. Bowersock, G.W. (ed.) 1974. Approaches to the Second Sophistic. Papers presented at the 105th Annual Meeting of the American Philological Association, University Park, Pennsylvania: American Philological Association.

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Bowersock, G.W. 1994. Fiction as History. Nero to Julian, Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press. Bowie, E.L. 1978. ‘Apollonius of Tyana: tradition and reality, ANRW 2.16.2, 1652-1699. Bowie, E.L. 1989. ‘Greek sophists and Greek poetry in the second sophistic’, ANRW 2.33.1, 209-258. Bowie, E. 1994. ‘Philostratus: writer of fiction’, in Morgan & Stoneman 1994, 181-199. Bowie, E. 2005. ‘Les animaux dans le Daphnis et Chloé et Leucippé et Clitophon’, in Pouderon 2005, 75-85. Bowie, E. 2008. ‘Literary milieux’, in Whitmarsh 2008, 17-38. Caillois, R. 1988. I demoni meridiani. Prima edizione in volume a cura di C. Ossola. Introduzione di C. Ossola, Torino: Bollati Boringhieri. Cheins, A. 2001. ‘Le dieu Pan et l’expression de la violence dans Daphnis et Chloé’, in Pouderon 2001, 165-180. Colonna, A. (ed.) 1987. Le Etiopiche di Eliodoro, trad. e comm. a cura di F. Bevilacqua, Torino: UTET. Daude, C. 2005. ‘Paysage et expérience romanesque dans le discours VII (Eubéique ou Le Chasseur) de Dion Chrysostome’, in Pouderon 2005, 137-152. Del Corno, D. (ed.) 1978. Filostrato, Vita di Apollonio di Tiana. Milano: Adelphi. Dodds, E.R. 1991. Parapsicologia nel mondo antico, trad. it. Bari: Laterza. Dué, C. & Nagy, G. 2004. ‘Illuminating the classics with the heroes of Philostratus’, in Aitken & Maclean 2004, 49-73. Follet, S. 2004. ‘Philostratus’ Heroikos and the regions of the Northern Aegean’, in Aitken & Maclean 2004, 221-235. Galimberti, U. 1992. ‘Allucinazione’, in Dizionario di psicologia. Torino: UTET. Goldhill, S. (ed.) 2001. Being Greek under Rome. Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Goldhill, S. 2001. ‘The erotic eye: visual stimulation and cultural conflict’ in Goldhill 2001, 154-194. Hägg, T. 2004. ‘Apollonios of Tyana – magician, philosopher, counter-Christ. The metamorphoses of a life’, in Parthenope. Selected studies in ancient Greek fiction (1969-2004), Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 179-204. Haß, P. 1998. Der locus amoenus in der antiken Literatur: zu Theorie und Geschichte eines literarischen Motivs, Bamberg: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag. Hillman, J. 1977. Saggio su Pan, trad. it., Milano: Adelphi. Hunter, R. 1983. A Study of Daphnis and Chloe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hunter, R. 1996. ‘Longus, Daphnis and Chloe’, in Schmeling 1996, 361-386. Jones, C.P. 2001. ‘Philostratus’ Heroikos and its setting in reality’, JHS 121, 141-149. Lannoy, L. de 1997. ‘Le problème de Philostrate (état de la question)’, ANRW 2.34.3, 23622449. Larson, J. 2001. Greek Nymphs: Myth, Cult, Lore. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Leopardi, G. 2007. Tutte le poesie e tutte le prose. I-II. Milano: Newton Compton. Létoublon, F. 1993. Les lieux communs du roman. Stéréotypes grecs d’aventure et d’amour, Leiden, New York & Köln: Brill. Liviabella Furiani, P. 1979. ‘L’astrologia nelle Etiopiche di Eliodoro’, GIF 31, 311-324. Liviabella Furiani, P. 1995. ‘L’aurora della coscienza nelle Pastorali di Longo’, QIFP 12, 1336. Liviabella Furiani, P. 1999. ‘La voce degli dèi nelle “Pastorali” di Longo’, QIFP 14, 69-102.

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Liviabella Furiani, P. 2000. ‘Le rire comme élément de communication non verbale dans les romans grecs d’amour’, in M.-L. Desclos (ed.), Le rire des Grecs. Anthropologie du rire en Grèce ancienne, Grenoble: Jérôme Millon, 77-94. Liviabella Furiani, P. 2006. ‘Le «Pastorali» di Longo tra retorica ed erotica’ in C. Santini, L. Zurli & L. Cardinali (edd.) Concentus ex dissonis. Scritti in onore di Aldo Setaioli, I-II, Napoli: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane, 367-388. Lo Cascio, F. 1974. La forma letteraria della vita di Apollonio Tianeo, Palermo: Bruno Lavagnini. MacAlister, S. 1996. Dreams and Suicides. The Greek Novel from Antiquity to the Byzantine Empire, London & New York: Routledge. Maclean, J.K.B. 2004. ‘The αἶνοι of the Heroikos and the unfolding transformation of the Phoenician merchant’, in Aitken & Maclean 2004, 251-265. MacQueen, B.D. 1985. ‘Longus and the myth of Chloe’, ICS 10, 119-134. MacQueen, B.D. 1990. Myth, Rhetoric, and Fiction. A Reading of Longus’s “Daphnis and Chloe”, Lincoln & London: University of Nebraska Press. Mantero, T. 1966. Ricerche sull’Heroikos di Filostrato, Genova: Istituto di Filologia Classica e Medioevale. Martin, R.P. 2002. ‘A good place to talk: discourse and topos in Achilles Tatius and Philostratus’ in M. Paschalis & S. Frangoulidis (eds.), Space in the Ancient Novel, Ancient Narrative Suppl. 1, Groningen: Barkhuis, 143-160. Meillier, C. 1975. ‘L’épiphanie du dieu Pan au livre II de Daphnis et Chloé’, REG 88, 121-132. Mestre, F. 2004. ‘Refuting Homer in the Heroikos of Philostratus’, in Aitken & Maclean 2004, 127-141. Morgan, J.R. 1994. ‘Daphnis and Chloe: Love’s own sweet story’, in Morgan & Stoneman 1994, 64-79. Morgan, J.R. 1996. ‘Heliodoros’, in Schmeling 1996, 417-456. Morgan, J.R. (ed.) 2004. Longus. Daphnis and Chloe. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Morgan J.R. 2005. ‘Le blanc et le noir: perspectives païennes et chrétiennes sur l’Éthiopie d’Héliodore’, in Pouderon 2005, 309-318. Morgan, J.R. 2009. ‘The Emesan connection: Philostratus and Heliodorus” in K. Demoen & D. Praet (eds.), Theios Sophistès. Essays on Flavius Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii, Leiden: Brill, 263-282. Morgan, J.R. & Stoneman, R. (edd.) 1994. Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context, London & New York: Routledge. Nilsson, M.P. 1941. Geschichte der griechischen Religion. I, Münich: Beck. Nimis, S. 2004. ‘Egypt in Greco-Roman history and fiction’, Journal of Comparative Poetics, Alif 24, 34-67. Pattoni, M.P. 2004. ‘La gara di bellezza fra Dorcone e Dafni (Longus I 16): motivi bucolici e riusi romanzeschi’, in A. Valvo & G. Manzoni (edd.), Analecta Brixiana, Brescia: Vita e Pensiero, 171-190. Pattoni, M.P. (ed.) 2005. Longo Sofista, Dafni e Cloe, Milano: BUR. Pouderon, B. (ed.) 2001. Les personnages du roman grec. Actes du colloque de Tours 1999, Lyon: Maison de l’Orient. Pouderon, B. (ed.) 2005. Lieux, décors et paysages de l’ancien roman des origines à Byzance. Actes du 2° Colloque de Tours 2002. Lyon: Maison de l’Orient. Reardon, B.P. 1971. Courants littéraires grecs de II et III siècles après J.-C., Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Reardon, B.P. 1974. ‘The Second Sophistic and the novel’ in Bowersock 1974, 23-29.

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Rohde, E. 1970. Psiche. Culto delle anime e fede nell’immortalità presso i Greci, trad. it. I-II. Bari: Laterza. Rossi, V (ed.) 1997. Filostrato, Eroico, Venezia: Marsilio. Rusten, J. 2004. ‘Living in the past: allusive narratives and elusive authorities in the world of the Heroikos’ in Aitken & Maclean 2004, 143-158. Schmeling, G. (ed.) 1996. The novel in the ancient world, Leiden, New York & Köln: Brill. Scippacercola, N. 2008. Il ‘lato oscuro’ del romanzo antico: la violenza, l’orrido, il macabro. Tesi di dottorato, Università degli Studi “Federico II” di Napoli. Shayegan, M.R. 2004. ‘Philostratus’s Heroikos and the ideation of late Severan policy toward Arsacid and Sasanian Iran’ in Aitken & Maclean 2004, 284-315. Speyer, W. 1984. ‘Mittag und Mitternacht als heilige Zeiten in Antike und Christentum’, in Vivarium. Festschrift T. Klauser zum 90. Geburstag, Münster: Aschendorff. 314-326. Stramaglia, A. 1995. ‘Le voci dei fantasmi’ in F. De Martino & A. H. Sommerstein (edd.), Lo spettacolo delle voci, Bari: Levante, 193-230. Stramaglia, A. 1999. Res inauditae, incredulae. Storie di fantasmi nel mondo greco-latino. Bari: Levante. Suárez de la Torre, E. 2004. ‘La mirada y la contemplación en las Etiópicas de Heliodoro’, CFC (G): Estudios griegos e indoeuropeos 14, 201-233. Whitmarsh, T. 1999. ‘The writes of passage. Cultural initiation in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica’, in R. Miles (ed.), Constructing Identities in Late Antiquity, London & New York: Routledge, 16-40. Whitmarsh, T. 2001. Greek literature and the Roman Empire. The Politics of Imitation, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Whitmarsh, T. 2004. ‘The harvest of wisdom: landscapes, description, and identity in the Heroikos’, in Aitken & Maclean 2004, 237-249. Whitmarsh, T. 2005a. ‘Heliodorus smiles’, in S. Harrison, M. Paschalis & S. Frangoulidis (edd.), Metaphor and the Ancient Novel, Ancient Narrative Suppl. 4, 87-105. Groningen: Barkhuis. Whitmarsh, T. 2005b. The Second Sophistic, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Whitmarsh, T. (ed.) 2008. The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman novel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Winkler, J.J. 1982. ‘The mendacity of Kalasiris and the narrative strategy of Heliodoros’ Aithiopika’, YCS 27, 93-158. Zeitlin, F.I. 1990. ‘The poetics of erōs: nature, art and imitation in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe’, in D.M. Halperin, J.J. Winkler, F.I. Zeitlin (edd.), Before Sexuality: the Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 417464. Zeitlin, F. I. 2001. ‘Visions and revisions of Homer’, in Goldhill 2001, 195-266.

The sense of travelling: Philostratus and the novel1 T OMAS H ÄGG † Universitetet i Bergen

To cross the highest part of the mountain, they went on foot, since it was precipitous. Apollonius put this question to Damis: ‘Tell me, where were we yesterday?’ ‘In the plain’, he replied. ‘And where are we today, Damis?’ ‘In the Caucasus’, he said, ‘unless I have forgotten who I am.’ ‘When were you lower down, then?’, Apollonius asked next, and the other said, ‘This question is not even worth asking, since yesterday we were travelling through a cleft of the earth, but today we are near heaven.’ ‘You think, then, Damis, that yesterday’s journey was below and today’s above?’ ‘Of course’, replied Damis, ‘unless I have gone mad.’ (VA 2,5)2 Apollonius of Tyana continues the interrogation, in his usual Socratic manner, while the small Greek party toils across the Caucasus. The contrast between yesterday’s riding through populous villages in the plain and today’s climbing of an untrodden and sacred mountain region, considered ‘the home of the gods’, is further emphasised by Damis of Old Ninos, the sage’s devoted companion. But Apollonius’ point in asking these puzzling questions, it transpires, is a philosophical one: no matter how high up one happens to be, in the Caucasus, Athos, or Olympus, one will come down again none the wiser unless one possesses a pure and unblemished soul. To be close to heaven and have a clearer sight of the sun, moon, and stars, is not enough in itself for spiritual enlightenment. The topographical conversation, one might easily conclude, functions just as a point of departure,

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[Editors’ note. This paper is published posthumously, and the author did not have the opportunity to revise or update it.] I use the translation of Jones 2005 throughout, but sometimes modify it to come closer to the Greek. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 213–236

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as Philostratus himself remarks at another place: ‘They had many such learned discussions, taking whatever was noteworthy as their starting point’ (2,16). Yet it would be a mistake to dismiss the travelogue components of Philostratus’ Apollonius of Tyana3 as something unimportant or necessarily subordinate to the philosophical and religious content of the work. As John Elsner has shown in a forcefully argued paper, it is possible to interpret the VA as narrating ‘the spiritual journey of Apollonius as a paradigmatic holy man’.4 On this reading, the travelling is not just a useful expedient to allow Philostratus to develop all the multifarious topics he happens to have on his mind, but very much the essence itself: ‘Philostratus transform[s] the tropes of actual travel into a rhetorical symbolism which constantly reinforces the special nature of his subject’.5 Now, if one actually rereads the VA after having let oneself be carried away by Elsner’s own scholarly rhetoric, one finds much that does not fit this agenda at all, but points in various other directions. But the same is true of other global interpretations of the work as well: Apollonius as a super-sophist addressing a specific political message to contemporary readers, as Erkki Koskenniemi suggests;6 or as a champion of Hellenism in the Roman world, politically or perhaps rather culturally, according to two successive proposals of Simon Swain;7 or as a domesticated ascetic and a religious antiquarian, constructed in order to assimilate the ascetic movement in the Roman social order, in the reading of James Francis.8 It is as well to admit that Philostratus has produced a work that allows of several parallel, sometimes even mutually exclusive, interpretations. If he really had one sole cause he wanted to propagate, he was rather careless in making it come through. In some respects, he certainly is a careless writer, with all the internal contradictions, inconsistencies, and loose ends one easily finds in his work;9 ————— 3 4 5 6 7 8

9

Henceforth VA (= Vita Apollonii). Elsner 1997, 24. Elsner 1997, 37. Koskenniemi 1991. Swain 1996, Swain 1999. Francis 1995. I have discussed these recent constructions, including that of Elsner, in Hägg 2004, 392-398. For a thorough treatment of the political aspects of the VA, see Flinterman 1995. One example is his handling of his hero’s linguistic capacity: at the beginning of the journey eastwards, Apollonius tells Damis that he knows all human languages (1,19,1-2); this is remembered in 1,21,2, but seems then to be forgotten (1,27; 1,31,2; 1,32,1: 2,23,1; 2,26,1 etc.). See also Jones 2001 on Philostratus’ geographical and other errors in his ‘passage to India’, sometimes due to simply misreading Herodotus and other literary sources, mixing up names, and so on. Schirren 2005, 231-233, prefers to read the alleged mistakes as belonging to ‘der systematischen Unzuverlässigkeit des Erzählers’ (n. 75, cf. 286-318 on ‘Ironiesignale und kalkulierte Kipp-Phänomene’).

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but he should not be blamed for failing to do something he probably never intended: to make his Apollonius the spokesman for a specific religious-philosophic or political message. The commonly repeated statement that the Empress Julia Domna ‘commissioned’ the work – implying that she ‘wished to see Apollonius described as a Pythagorean saint’10 – builds on an over-interpretation of what Philostratus actually says when he gives an account of his sources.11 The empress, he claims, gave him some notebooks (deltoi) containing the ‘memoirs’ (hypomnēmata)12 of a certain Damis and asked him to transcribe (metagrapsai)13 and improve them stylistically. Julia Domna, he adds, ‘admired and encouraged all rhetorical discourse’ (1,3,1). But Philostratus’ VA is in fact something very different from an imagined transcription and stylistic revision of Damis’ alleged memoirs of his travels with Apollonius. Damis is used and quoted as only one of several sources, albeit the dominant one. The VA is Philostratus’ own literary product, and never presented as anything else. He is himself present everywhere in the text to direct his narrative, to comment, expound, and digress.14 Moreover, the figure of Damis is most probably a pure fiction, an invention of Philostratus,15 and consequently so is Julia Domna’s demand for stylistic revision of his memoirs.16 The discovery of notebooks containing the ‘memoirs’ of an eye-witness was already a well-known novelistic trick in antiquity. No doubt Philostratus

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Solmsen 1940, 568. The myth of the VA as a royal commission is repeated everywhere, also by the present writer: Hägg 2004, 387; cf. Anderson 1986, 121; Flinterman 1995, 25; Schirren 2005, 2; Bowie in Bowie & Elsner 2009, 29, 37. Levick 2007, 119, even ventures to use the VA to trace Julia Domna’s religious agenda. Jones 2005, I,4, correctly identifies the problem, but still thinks that Philostratus wants us to believe the VA to be identical with the revision, ‘though he does not actually say so’. Also referred to as ἡ δέλτος ἡ τῶν ἐκφατισμάτων, ‘the book of scraps (from the manger)’ (1,19,3). ‘Transcribe’ seems to fit the immediate context better than ‘rewrite’, pace Schirren 2005, 44-47, who analyses the whole clause in depth and proposes a radically different interpretation. It is sometimes difficult to distinguish between the voice of the narrator and that of his alleged source Damis, as noted by Whitmarsh 2007, 419; but mostly Philostratus the sophist is clearly audible. On the ambiguous use of φασί, ‘they say’, meaning either ‘Apollonius and Damis say that …’ or ‘tradition reports that …’, see Whitmarsh 2004, 427-428, 434. For authoritative discussion, with this conclusion, see Bowie 1978, 1653-1671. Cf. also Bowie 1994, 189; Swain 1996, 383-384.; Francis 1998, 429; Jones 2001; Whitmarsh 2004, 426-427; Schirren 2005, 44-46. Contra Anderson 1986, 155-173. The middle standpoint, that ‘Damis’ memoirs’ did exist, but were a pseudepigraphic NeoPythagorean work (see, e.g., Flinterman 1995, 79-88), fails to convince (cf. Schirren 2005, 5-6).

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meant the VA, in the first place, as a work of learned entertainment.17 He mixed into his account of Apollonius a number of currently popular topics (religion figuring prominently among them) and took advantage of the various literary devices available to him.18 His intellectual versatility, odd sense of humour, and considerable literary talents ensured that the resulting work, in all its apparent formlessness and unevenness, has this peculiar power of provoking interest and attracting ever new interpreters, from late antiquity until today.19 If Elsner’s ambitious and in many respects convincing article attempted to make sense of the motif of travel in the VA, the present paper has the more limited aim of analysing to what extent and by what means Philostratus succeeds in communicating to his readers the actual ‘sense of travelling’, particularly in his description in the first two books of Apollonius’ journey to India (more precisely, 1,18-2,20). I shall then compare his narrative technique to that of the novelists, taking advantage of John Morgan’s article on travel in the novels.20 But again my perspective is more restricted and my interest more ‘technical’ than Morgan’s in his discussion of Chariton, Xenophon of Ephesus, and Heliodorus. I shall concentrate on what Morgan somewhat dismissively calls ‘the practicalities of travel’, and on the reflection of the travelling in the speech and thought of the characters, as exemplified in my introductory quotation from the VA. It is my claim that Philostratus integrates the travelling itself and the experiences of the travellers into his narrative to a far greater extent than the preceding novelists. This is not to say, however, that he does so continuously or consistently;21 as always, passages of considerable technical accomplishment stand alongside others where he has not cared at all about integration or illusion. One sometimes has the impression that breaking the illusion, in any way, is indeed one of his favourite pursuits. ————— 17

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Producing entertainment for a demanding readership does not preclude literary ‘seriousness’, as Francis 1998 seems to imply (429, ‘simply contrive some artsy fabrication’) in an otherwise highly stimulating contribution, criticising among other things the false dichotomy between ‘fiction’ and ‘history’ in earlier VA scholarship. Reardon 1971, 266, pertinently calls the VA ‘un véritable pot-pourri des formes littéraires de notre période’, providing a useful list of the components. Though he stresses the religious interest, he also characterizes the VA as an ‘œuvre de divertissement’; and, he adds, ‘la «religion» de Philostrate est des plus pâles; elle lui fournit un autre sujet littéraire, et voilà tout’ (268). Similarly, Koskenniemi 1991, 70-79 finds Philostratus ‘religiously passive’. Its present topicality is confirmed by the recent publication of two collections of high-class essays, one on Philostratus by Bowie & Elsner 2009, the other on VA specifically by Demoen & Praet 2009. Both appeared too late for the present paper to be able to profit from them. Morgan 2007. On the non-description of many places where the action takes place, see Billault 2000, 102-104.

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Apollonius’ journey to India: the sense of travelling The following summary of Apollonius’ first and longest journey beyond the borders of the Roman Empire will have its main emphasis on the means and practicalities of travel and on the instances where the travelling itself is thematised in dialogue. The whole work, of course, is full of spatial movement: Apollonius is depicted against a constantly changing geographical background, be it between cities and sanctuaries in Asia Minor, Greece, and Italy, or on his three main exotic travels to India, Spain, and Ethiopia.22 His journey to India, however, is the most elaborate and sustained travel description in the VA. We join our young hero in Antioch, after he has decided to go to India to meet the wise men there, including in his itinerary the magi in Babylon as well (1,18). Leaving his seven disciples behind (they are too weak for the journey), he sets out from Antioch ‘with two family servants, of whom one was a shorthand writer and the other a calligrapher’ (1,18). Though these are never mentioned again (one of the story’s many loose ends), we may presume that they remain part of the small travel group throughout: that is, together with Apollonius and Damis they constitute the implied subject of the many travel verbs in the third person plural, ‘they’.23 Apollonius arrives in Old Ninos (no travel details), where he enlists Damis as his admiring companion and secretary (1,19,2-3); Damis obviously takes over the function intended for the two servants. They cross to Mesopotamia at Zeugma, where the intervention of a tax collector – a realistic-sounding travel ingredient – provides the occasion for a scene and a joke (1,20,1). Then the narrator himself takes over to provide some geographical information about the region (especially the rivers) and its inhabitants. He continues, reminding himself and the reader again of his alleged main source: To be precise and to leave out nothing that Damis wrote, I would have liked to tell of their conversations as they travelled among these barbarians. But my narrative urges me on to greater and more extraordinary subjects… (1,20,3) These more wondrous things are apparently what they experienced in Babylon, for this is where ‘he’ arrives after passing Ctesiphon (again no travel details). (The narrative sometimes hides the companions of Apollonius from view, putting the travel verbs in the third person singular.) At the royal guard-post on the border, interchange with the satrapēs stationed there as the ‘King’s Eye’ (1,21,1) again ————— 22

23

There is a useful survey of his travels in Jones 2005, I,13-17; his ‘passage to India’ specifically is treated in Jones 2001. Only occasionally spelled out as ‘Apollonius and those with him’ (1,21,1; cf. 1,41).

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concretises the vicissitudes of travelling past the borders of the Empire.24 But it also lets us have a glimpse of the travelling sage from an outside perspective: ‘seeing a man completely unkempt’, the satrap cried out like a frightened woman. After they have reached speaking terms, the eunuch-satrap says his king Vardanes ‘would provide each of you with a camel on your way to India’ (1,21,2). He himself offers them wine and various kinds of substantial food, ‘for from here on, your way lies for many stades through villages that are not very well supplied’ (1,21,3). The conversation goes on, serving several purposes at once: it illustrates Apollonius’ asceticism, provides exotic details of Persian culture, and (the aspect my quotations have privileged) anticipates the hardships now awaiting the Greek travellers. ‘After proceeding for twenty stades’, they come across the carcass of a huge pregnant lioness (1,22,1). Such precise information about distances is very rare; the reason for including it at all is no doubt to provide an air of authenticity to the travel description. One is reminded of the frequent use of such numerical items in the most fantastic parts of the Alexander Romance, in Alexander’s long letter to Aristotle (3,17 in Rec. A). In our case, too, it is followed by a thauma: the giant lioness turns out to have no fewer than eight cubs, which first occasions a piece of zoological lore about normal lion pregnancies on the part of the narrator, then the recording of a discussion between Apollonius and Damis about the significance of this thauma for their travels. ‘Damis’, says Apollonius, ‘the duration of our sojourn with the king will be one year and eight months’ – the year being the lioness, the months her cubs (1,22,2). Damis tries to dispute this reckoning on the basis of Calchas’ interpretation of a similar portent in the Iliad (2,301-330). Surely, says Damis, ‘our stay will last for nine years’, mother and offspring being counted together; but Apollonius’ view prevails as usual, and eventually turns out to be correct (1,40-41,1). This specification of the exact length of their stay in Babylon belongs to the characterisation of Apollonius as a prophet and master of time, rather than being part of any coherent time scheme; segmentation of the narrative in the VA is as a rule achieved not by temporal markers but through the kind of geographical relocation we are scrutinising in the present paper.25 Next they proceed into the territory of Cissia and approach Babylon (1,23,1); instead of any travel details, we are told about a dream vision that Apollonius receives and interprets. The dream relates to the Eretrians who ‘five hundred years ago’ (1,23,2) were taken prisoner by Darius and placed ‘in Media, not far from ————— 24

25

At another level, the crossing of a succession of boundaries, as Whitmarsh 2004, 433 notes, ‘symbolically mark[s] the journey into the unknown’. On time in the VA see Knoles 1981, 66-121, and Whitmarsh 2007 (on means of segmentation at 418, on prophecy and mastery of time at 426-427).

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Babylon, four days away for a fast traveller’ (1,24,1).26 Our hero now visits the descendants of these displaced countrymen, weeps over their fate, and later improves their conditions by interceding with the king (1,36). The lengthy description of the place and its inhabitants is a mixture of the travellers’ actual experiences, authorial information, and discussion of various sources.27 The rest of the first book, some 15 pages, is devoted to their sojourn in Babylon and offers little of interest for our particular topic. It is indicative that Apollonius’ arrival in Babylon is not mentioned until the city itself has been described in some detail (1,27). Apollonius apparently informs the gate keeper that he has come historias charin, ‘for the sake of enquiry’ (or we might with Christopher Jones say ‘as a sightseer’).28 The difficulty for such an unofficial traveller to enter a foreign city is again thematised, as is Apollonius’ supreme contempt for all bureaucratic fuss. Even part of the sightseeing is sabotaged by the Greek sage who instead of being daunted by what he sees passes through the Persian palace ‘as if he were travelling a highway’, conversing with Damis about details of Greek hymnography (1,30,1).29 The continuation of their travels is alluded to at a couple of places, as when Damis wants Apollonius to accept gifts from the king in order to have enough provisions for the return journey from India as well (1,34,2). Apollonius answers with the well-known dictum, ‘to a wise man Greece is everywhere and the wise man will not consider or believe any place to be deserted or uncivilised’ (1,35,2). When they finally leave Mesopotamia for India, none of them accepting any money from the king, a little scene is recorded about travel practicalities: ‘Well, take a guide anyhow’, said the king, ‘and camels to ride on, for the distance is too great for you to walk the whole way’. ‘As you wish, Majesty’, he said. ‘The journey is apparently impossible without such transport, and moreover they are animals easy to feed, even where there is no fodder. We must also provide ourselves with water, I think, carrying it in skins like wine’. ————— 26

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ἡμέρας δρομικῷ ἀνδρί (the numeral is omitted in the manuscripts but conjecturally restored by Reiske); for the Eretrians compare Hdt. 6,101, 119. It contains one of the more curious internal contradictions of the VA: Apollonius, ‘on seeing the Eretrians’ (1,23,3), writes to the sophist Scopelian about what he has seen and done (this letter being part of Philostratus’ sources, he says). But when the letter is quoted later on, Apollonius appears to have written it much later in life: ‘I assisted your Eretrians when I was still young’ (1,24,3). Cf. further Jones 2001, 196-197. Rephrased some lines later as ‘touring the country’ ἀφιστοροῦντι τὴν χώραν. Cf. also Damis in 2,11,2: ‘For like you [Apollonius], I have left my property and go around in search of knowledge (φιλομαθῶν) and studying foreign cultures (περιφρονῶν τὰ ἐν τῇ ξένῃ)’. Similar contempt for wondrous sights is demonstrated in 1,39.

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‘The land is waterless for three days’, said the king, ‘but after that there are plenty of rivers and springs. You must take the Caucasus road, on which supplies are abundant and the country is friendly’. (1,41,2) Book 2 starts with a recapitulation of the same matter in narrative form, setting the tone for this travel book par excellence: They set out from there in the summer, riding with their guide, who served as groom for the camels. They had abundant provisions for their every need by the gift of the king; the territory through which they travelled was prosperous; and the villages received them with attention, as the leading camel had a gold chain on its brow to tell those they met that the king was sending one of his friends on their way. (2,1) We note that the season of the year is specified, again not as part of any coherent time scheme, but to lend atmosphere to the narrative. Soon the travellers’ sensory impressions are brought in directly: they notice that the soil smells sweeter when they approach the Caucasus (2,2,1), and they travel in full moonlight (2,4). We are told that Apollonius looks up at the peak of the mountain when talking about the barbarian belief that the gods live there (2,5,1) and that they have heard their guide say that they are close to Mount Nysa (2,7,2).30 This is part of the fiction of Damis’ impressionistic record of their travelling, noted down day by day, and contrasts in the text with passages of factual (geographical, zoological, or other) information contributed by the narrator. It belongs to the same authenticating apparatus that the passage of a river is not just noted as a fact, but articulated, without the details provided having any further relevance for the story: ‘They themselves crossed the river Cophon in boats, while the camels forded the water, for the river is not at all deep’ (2,8,1). The feeling that the Greek party is travelling in a concrete landscape and among specific native tribes is further enhanced by small picturesque scenes. For instance, after crossing the Caucasus they meet some Indians riding on elephants, others on camels. After the use of different riding animals has been authorially explained, we hear they are offered wine made from dates as well as honey and ‘steaks cut from lions and leopards that [the nomads] had just flayed’ (2,6). They accept everything except the meat and ‘start off for India in an easterly direction’. Immediately afterwards we find them having breakfast by a spring (2,7,1), Damis ————— 30

Cf. also 2,10,1 for an inverted eyewitness testimony: ‘The crag called Aornos is not far from Nysa, but Damis claims not to have seen it, since it lay off their route and their guide was afraid of diverging anywhere from their forward path. He had heard, however, that...’.

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mixing in Greek fashion the Indian wine they had received with the fresh water. Apollonius the ascetic of course refuses to taste it, referring among other things to the many Indians they have encountered ‘being under influence of this wine, some dancing till they fall over, others singing while nodding off’ (2,7,2). Yet he graciously allows Damis and the others both to drink wine and eat meat, which they happily do, ‘thinking that more plentiful nourishment would make their journey easier’ (2,7,3). A favourite way of thematising the travelling, as we have already seen repeatedly, is to record dialogues between Apollonius and Damis about what they observe, or between them and people they meet on their path. We noticed in the introductory quotation how the Caucasian landscape itself provides the point of departure for such a discussion, which soon turns out to be about philosophy rather than geography.31 Other conversations really are about the phenomena that trigger them, like an exotic animal or some strange human behaviour. One example will suffice to show the method and the effect, as well as the limits of Philostratus’ attention to narrative devices. The section begins: ‘When they reached the Indus, they say they saw a herd of elephants crossing the river and were told the following about the animal’ (2,12,1). There follow some 70 lines of general description of the characteristics and habits of the elephant, to begin with styled as reported speech (with ‘they say’, repeated in 2,12,2). But soon, after some 20 lines, the primary narrator – or let us simply say ‘Philostratus’32 – himself takes over, apparently from 2,13,1 when the testimony of King Juba about African elephants is quoted and subsequently rejected (2,13,2 ‘I do not accept this reasoning’). After this very detailed authorial description (some 50 lines) is finished, we return to the point of departure, now with further details provided (2,14,1): When Apollonius saw the elephants crossing the Indus, about thirty of them, I think, and using the smallest of their number as leader, while the larger ones carried their own young on their projecting tusks, fastening their trunks around them for security, he said: ‘This, Damis, they do not because anyone has told them, but because of their understanding and intelligence. You see the way in which they carry their young like porters, and tie them on to transport them?’ ‘Yes, Apollonius’, said Damis, ‘I see how cleverly and intelligently they do it. What is the point of that silly problem which people toy ————— 31

32

The deeper implications of this dialogue about gods while they are passing precisely over the Caucasus, ‘un passage obligé pour atteindre l’Inde merveilleuse’, are well brought out by Hanus 1995, 90. On Philostratus’ ‘I’ and his ‘autoportrait’ in VA, see Billault 1993; cf. Whitmarsh 2004, 424: ‘The primary narrator does not name himself, but nor does he gainsay any assumed identification with the rhetorical superstar Philostratus’.

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with as to whether it is natural to feel goodwill for one’s offspring? Even elephants are enough to proclaim that it comes to them from nature. …’ The ensuing discussion between Apollonius and Damis about love of offspring includes many different species of animals, like lionesses who take leopards as their lovers and then hide their spotted cubs from jealous lion mates, and tigers who approach the ships on the Red Sea to beg for the return of their cubs. After birds, sea creatures, and reptiles have been covered as well, this part of the discussion ends with Euripides’ pronouncement, ‘So for all humans children are their life’ (Andr. 418-419); it is quoted in this form and then emended by Damis to ‘for all creatures’ (2,14,4). After 70 lines of such discussion, we return to the curious spectacle on the Indus that generated both description and discussion. Damis says: ‘But tell me this: Did we not say at the beginning of our discussion that elephants possessed wisdom and sense in their actions?’ ‘Certainly we said so, Damis’, said Apollonius, ‘for if this animal did not have sense to govern it, neither it, nor the peoples among whom it exists, would survive.’ ‘Well then’, said Damis, ‘why do they make their crossing in a way so stupid and disadvantageous to themselves? As you see, the smallest one leads, and he is followed by one slightly bigger, then by one bigger than him, while all the largest are in the rear. Surely they should cross just the opposite way, and make the largest ones their walls and ramparts?’ ‘No, Damis’, said Apollonius. ‘First, they seem to be evading pursuit from humans following their tracks, whom we shall perhaps meet. When under attack, it is the rear that needs protection above all, just as in war, and you should consider this animal a more skilful tactician than any. Second, as to the crossing, if the largest of them crossed first, they could not form an estimate about the water and whether they could all cross it, since for these, being the tallest, it would be readily and easily crossed; but for the others it would be difficult and tricky, as they do not exceed the level of the stream. But if the smallest crosses, that tells the rest to expect no harm. In addition, if the larger went first, they would make the river deeper for the smaller ones. …’ (2,15,1-2) This ingenious exposition is followed by a comment on the part of Philostratus: ‘Now, I myself have found in the accounts of Juba’ etc. (2,16,1), and then the generalising remark, quoted already at the beginning of the present paper, that ‘the two had many such learned discussions, taking whatever was noteworthy as their starting point’. Thus the elephant section is ended, after almost seven pages

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of reported speech, authorial description, and quoted speech. Yet, the dialogue makes the pretence of taking place simultaneously with the spectacle: the ‘as you see’ inserted close to the end presupposes that the two are conducting the whole discussion while watching the elephants cross the river. The reader’s impression, after the large amount of narrative time that separates the beginning and end of the passage, will probably be different; but to Philostratus it is evidently more important to include all the zoological lore in this framework than to maintain the illusion. At 2,20 the travellers arrive at Taxila where the Indian philosopher-king resides; we leave them there, with the passage to India completed and the more stationary Indian logos beginning.33 It is time to see to what extent Philostratus’ different ways of conveying a sense of travelling have antecedents in earlier Greek fiction.

Travelling thematised in the novels of Chariton, Xenophon, and Achilles Tatius Together with Xenophon’s Cyropaedia and Ps.-Callisthenes’ Alexander Romance, VA belongs to a small group of extended historical fiction in Greek that is sometimes labelled ‘biographical romances’.34 The main characters are historical, but the life stories told seem to a large extent to be the result of their authors’ creative imagination.35 Since all three distribute their plot over a variety of geographical locations, it would be natural first to look for similarities in the travel description between the VA and the two other works in this group. However, such a comparison, which I have carried out at another place,36 yields a largely negative result: the VA stands alone in the group in its vivid thematisation of the travelling itself. Xenophon, who in his Anabasis is so concrete in his representation of the Greek mercenaries’ retreat towards the Black Sea, offers none of the same closeness to the travelling in the Cyropaedia. Cyrus the Elder’s movement between places is mostly just stated as a fact; there is some ethnographical colouring, but ————— 33

34 35

36

There is one exception, their travelling from Taxila to the Wise Men, thematised in advance in conversation with the Indian king (2,40) and then described in 2,42-43,12 (including much reported or authorial description). The journey back to Greece by land and sea is narrated in 3,50-58. See Hägg 2012 and compare Whitmarsh 2004, 423, with further references. The exact formulation in Francis 1998, 421, is valid for all three: ‘… elements of invention and reality are not only juxtaposed in VA but shaded one into the other so as to blur the distinctions between them’. Hägg 2009.

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very little geographical specificity or sense of travelling. Much the same is true for the main narrative in the Alexander Romance: between the scenes of dialogue, exchanges of letters, or battle descriptions, there is hardly any concrete information about what Alexander and his men experience when they march from country to country. Only Alexander’s long letter home to Aristotle registers topographical facts and travel vicissitudes, though in a peculiarly dry, ‘scholarly’ manner. The contrast between Apollonius travelling to India in the footsteps of Alexander, as described by Philostratus, and the account of Alexander’s own march eastwards in the Romance, could hardly be greater.37 A more promising place to look for antecedents to Philostratus’ method is the so-called ‘ideal’ novel of love, travel, and adventure. With the exception of Longus, all the extant ideal novels are built up with travels in the Mediterranean and the Middle East as an organic part of the plot.38 It is true that the causes and circumstances of travelling in the VA are quite different from what we find in the novels. Apollonius always chooses himself where to go and when; he is the master of space as well as time, while the heroes and heroines of the novels travel because they are either physically compelled by others or searching for each other.39 Furthermore, to travel in the novels typically means being the victim of storms and shipwrecks, robbers and pirates, whereas the independent traveller Apollonius is never overcome by either the elements or hostile humans: he controls every situation and commands admiration where the protagonists of the novels evoke pity.40 Yet travelling is thematised in both cases, be it positively or negatively, and the techniques of conveying the sense of travelling may coincide or overlap. Now, Philostratus wrote the VA sometime in the 220s or 230s, when the novels of Chariton, Xenophon of Ephesus, and Achilles Tatius (and others now lost) had long been in circulation.41 It is thus a fair assumption that the novelistic traits of the VA ————— 37

38

39 40 41

The Alexander historians proper are of course another matter; a comparison between the VA and Arrian’s Anabasis of Alexander in this respect would probably be worth while, especially in the light of Patrick Robiano’s interesting hypothesis that Philostratus styled his work to be a combination of Arrian’s Anabasis + Indica and his Discourses of Epictetus, representing a philosopher on the move (Robiano 1996). See, most recently, Morgan 2007 and Romm 2008; the latter, however, in spite of its title, is less about ‘Travel’ than about the various exotic localities visited by the novelistic travellers. This difference is noted and discussed by Billault 2000, 108-110. See Billault 2000, 110-113. On the known dates of ‘Philostratus II’, the author of both the VA and Lives of the Sophists, see de Lannoy 1997, 2382-91. Flinterman 1995, 26 and 241, places the publication of the VA between 222 and 238. Bowie 2002, 57-58 and 61, tentatively dates Chariton before AD 62, Xenophon of Ephesus after 65, and Achilles Tatius before 160.

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– among them the development of the travel motif – owe something to this successful genre. We shall now look into the three novels mentioned to see if there are means of thematising the travelling that correspond to those observed in the VA. My object is not to prove a direct influence on Philostratus from any one of these novels specifically, but to use the generic affinity in this respect mainly to make Philostratus’ own technique stand out more clearly. Heliodorus, as writing later (whether c. 240, c. 270, or c. 370),42 will not be investigated here; a comparative study of travelling in the VA and the Aithiopika would no doubt be of interest, but then to illuminate Heliodorus’ narrative technique rather than that of Philostratus.43 In Chariton’s Callirhoe,44 the heroine is taken by pirates from her native Syracuse via Attica to Miletus in Ionia. Her husband Chaereas makes the same voyage in search of her and is then taken to Caria as a prisoner. The second main transport in the novel is by land from Ionia and Caria to Babylon. War operations bring them both back westwards to the island of Aradus (in north Phoenicia), and from there home to Syracuse by sea.45 In general, I agree with John Morgan’s conclusions about the role of travelling in this novel. As he notes, Chariton ‘shows virtually no interest in the process of how [his characters] get from place to place. The majority of Chariton’s journeys take place out of view, as it were, and nothing of much note happens in the course of them’. So, ‘travel is not thematised in this book’.46 Yet, in our context, there are some qualifications to be made and a couple of exceptions to the general rule to be discussed. Though Chariton does not actually follow his travellers through the landscape or across the sea, some practicalities of travel do get noted, if only selectively and routinely. Travellers by ship take on board provisions (1,11,8), put in to land to get water (1,11,4), and refresh themselves after the toils at sea (1,11,5; 3,6,1). The direction and character of the winds are noted (1,11,1; 3,5,1; 8,6,1). There is a storm and a shipwreck (3,3,10-12). Some of the short-distance movements, especially around Miletus – the location the author seems to know best – are described in greater detail than most of the longer travels (2,3,4; 3,2,11; 3,2,14). We should also note that the alternation between different scenes of action sometimes means ————— 42 43

44 45 46

These alternative dates are discussed by Bowie 2008, 32-35. Possible influences from the VA on the Aithiopika are specified in Bowie 2008, 32, with n. 63. On the important role played by travelling in Heliodorus’ narrative, see Morgan 2007, 151-156; however, the VA is only mentioned in his last footnote, as ‘clearly an intertextual target for Heliodoros’ (159, n. 20). Chariton is cited from the translation of Bryan Reardon in Reardon 1989/2008. For a detailed summary of the travels, see Morgan 2007, 141-143. Morgan 2007, 145.

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that travels which, in Morgan’s words, ‘take place out of view’, are still given a sense of time passing, through the narrative time spent on the alternative scene. For instance, the sailing home in 8,4,11-8,6,1, though not narrated, is not felt as missing since the void is filled by the account of the Great King’s and Dionysius’ simultaneous activities (8,5). Now for the exceptions, the places where travelling is thematised, one way or another. The very first case of travel by sea, Callirhoe being taken in Theron’s pirate vessel eastwards from Sicily, is not, like most of the later ones, just noted as a fact, but partly filled with a reported dialogue between the pirate and his captive, and Callirhoe’s inner monologue directed to her father Hermocrates is quoted. In the latter, her emotional response to the travelling is expressed: ‘Father, in this very sea you defeated three hundred Athenian warships; a tiny boat has carried off your daughter, and you do nothing to help me. I am being taken off to a foreign land’ and so on (1,11,1-3). Though in embryonic form, this scene on board the ship resembles the dialogues between Apollonius and Damis that reflect the actual travel conditions. Another similarity is history being evoked in its specific geographical locations. As Philostratus lets Apollonius visit the same places as Alexander the Great and discuss topography with the Alexander historians, Chariton makes the sea between Syracuse and Athens echo the Peloponnesian war. The most important exception is Callirhoe’s journey from Ionia through Asia Minor and across the Euphrates to Babylon, narrated in two instalments at the transition from Book 4 to Book 5. Interestingly, it is thus a journey that overlaps geographically with Philostratus’ most elaborate travel description. The hero crossing the Euphrates, the border between the familiar and the unknown world, between Greek-speakers and barbarians, is thematised in both accounts (Chariton 5,1; VA 1,20). In Chariton, there are two parallel ‘processions’ (4,7,5) that set out eastwards: Mithridates’ from Caria bringing Chaereas, and Dionysius’ from Ionia bringing Callirhoe, but only the latter party is actually followed in the narrative. Callirhoe travels through the lands in triumph: ‘Rumour sped ahead of the lady, announcing to all the world that Callirhoe was at hand. … Whole cities came to meet her; people flocked in and packed the streets to see her; and all thought her still lovelier than report had made her out’ (4,7,5-6). There follows an elaborate account of Dionysius’ negative thoughts provoked by this inopportune celebration of his beautiful wife. Callirhoe, in turn, ‘was distressed to be taken far from the Greek sea; as long as she could see the harbours

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of Miletus, she had the impression that Syracuse was not far away; and Chaereas’ tomb in Miletus was a great comfort for her’ (4,7,8). After the first half of the novel has been summarised at the beginning of Book 5, we are back with the heroine, who is now about halfway: As far as Syria and Cilicia, then, Callirhoe found her journey easy to bear: she heard Greek spoken; she could see the sea that led to Syracuse. But when she reached the Euphrates, beyond which there is a vast stretch of unending land – it is the threshold of the King’s great empire – then longing for her country and family welled up in her, and she despaired of ever returning. She stood on the bank of the river, told everyone to leave except Plangon [her personal servant], the only person she could trust, and began to speak: ‘Malicious Fortune! [Here we get another recapitulation of what has happened so far, now from Callirhoe’s personal perspective.] … Now it is not Ionia where you keep me exiled; the land you allotted me up to now was admittedly a foreign country, but it was Greek, and there I could take great comfort in the thought that I was living by the sea. Now you are hurling me from my familiar world – I am at the other end of the earth from my own country. This time it is Miletus you have taken from me; before, it was Syracuse. I am being taken beyond the Euphrates, shut up in the depths of barbarian lands where the sea is far away – I, an island woman! … Bactra and Susa are my home from now on, and my tomb. Once only, Euphrates, am I going to cross you – it is not the length of the journey that frightens me, but the fear that there too someone will think me beautiful!’ With these words, she kissed the ground, stepped on board the ferry, and crossed the river. (5,1,3-7) There follows another description of ‘the attentions of the local people’ (5,1,8), parallel to the one in 4,7,5-6, as well as a short glimpse of Mithridates’ party passing through Armenia and travelling ‘more energetically’ (5,2,1), before each party arrives at Babylon (5,2,2, 5,2,6). Upon arrival we learn in retrospect one further detail about the travelling, Callirhoe’s means of transport: Dionysius ‘mounted his horse but left Callirhoe in the carriage and closed the curtains’ (5,2,9).47 As we have seen, Chariton elaborates on Callirhoe’s travel by land through a foreign country as a specific theme. She misses the sea that connected her with ————— 47

Cf. also later on about the Persian beauty Rhodogune entering the carriage with Callirhoe (5,3,10): ‘So the carriage (harmamaxa) moved on with curtains drawn; and the crowd, unable now to see Callirhoe, kissed the wagon (diphron).’ The concrete detail about the covered carriage (and the kiss as well) derives from X. Cyr. 6,4,10-11 where Panthea says farewell to Abradates.

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Syracuse. As she crosses the Euphrates, she yearns for the Greek language and culture that have consoled her in her enforced exile at Miletus, and also during the first part of the present journey. The main emphasis throughout is her emotional response to these tragic circumstances, while there is no specific reaction to landscape, people, or natural phenomena, as in the VA. The geographical names that are dropped – Syria, Cilicia, Armenia – remain just names, there is no description. The inhabitants of the countries she traverses are involved, but in a uniform, iterative manner: cities meet her, people pack the streets, her beauty wins all hearts, be it in Hellenic lands or Persian. The description of Callirhoe crossing the Euphrates, with its high emotional charge, lacks the specific travel details that Philostratus provides for Apollonius in the corresponding situation (1,20): he crosses the river at the city of Zeugma, is interviewed by the tax collector about what commodities he is exporting, and gives a witty answer. The author then inserts a short geographical survey of Mesopotamia and describes the nomadic tribes living between the rivers, though he explicitly abstains from quoting what Damis has reported about their conversations with ‘these barbarians’. In Chariton, all interest is focused on the Greek travellers themselves and their inner life, whatever shifting landscapes they are moving through. It should be added that the sheer bulk of narrative time that separates beginning and end of the journey – some six pages of text – contributes to giving the travelling a sense of volume, even though only part of that text actually concerns the travel. Xenophon’s Ephesiaca48 is the travel novel par excellence. The itineraries of Habrocomes, Anthia, and the robber Hippothous cover most of the eastern Mediterranean, each moving separately in ‘a clockwise circuit from Asia to Africa to Europe and back to Asia’.49 In spite of this, the novel only to a rather small extent thematises the actual process of travelling. Several sea voyages are only stated as taking place, with the places of embarkation and disembarkation named (4,4,2; 5,8,1; 5,9,3). Sometimes the number of days of the voyage is added (1,14,6; 5,6,4; 5,11,2; 5,15,1), sometimes some other qualification about winds or swiftness or slowness (1,11,2-3; 1,12,3; 5,1,1). For land journeys, a correspondingly laconic phrasing often occurs (2,9,1; 3,1,3). Yet, it should be noted, the constant alternation between the different lines of action often makes the non-narration of the actual travel in one line pass unnoticed because the reader ‘in the meantime’50 ————— 48

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50

For Xenophon of Ephesus, I use the translation of Graham Anderson in Reardon 1989/2008. Lowe 2000, 231. The travels are mapped in Alvares 1996/2003. Morgan 2007, 147-148 provides a verbal survey, although it is difficult ‘to summarise the vertiginous movement and frenzied narrative of this text’. Mostly expressed through a standard transitional phrase of the type ὁ μὲν (οὖν) …, ἡ δὲ …. For a detailed analysis, see Hägg 1971, 154-178.

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follows another line. Among practicalities of travel, the various operations when a ship is about to leave are specified (1,10,8; 5,15,1), we are told that the travellers supply provisions (1,11,6; 1,12,3; 3,1,2; 5,10,3), take lodgings (3,1,3; 5,10,4), refresh horses (2,14,5) or heroine (5,5,8), and use pack animals (4,3,2; 5,2,2). All this is told rather perfunctorily, in the usual formulaic style of the author.51 But there are also more extended references to travelling, as when the route of a ship past various named islands is recorded (1,11,6; 5,10,2-3) or we are made to follow the itinerary of Hippothous’ bandits through Syria and Egypt (4,1; cf. 3,2,14; 5,2,7). In such cases, the author’s topographical interest (and knowledge) is evident. There is an occasional glimpse of local atmosphere: as they went through the large settlements [in Cappadocia] they had a plentiful supply of provisions of all kinds, for Hippothous was able to speak Cappadocian, and everyone accepted him as a native (3,1,2) Sightseeing aspects of travelling also pop up at places, as when Habrocomes and Anthia are touring ‘the great and beautiful island of Rhodes’ (1,11,6-12,3; cf. 1,11,2) or the robbers take up lodgings in Laodicea ‘posing as tourists’ (4,1,1). Apprehensions before a journey is started (1,11,1; 4,3,3-4) and unpleasant memories in retrospect (3,3,1; 5,14,1-2) belong to the standard repertoire in the speech and thought of the protagonists. A scene on board a ship that reflects the voyage itself, similar to Callirhoe lamenting when she is being abducted from Syracuse, occurs in Xenophon too, perhaps as a deliberate intertextual allusion (3,8,5-7). Furthermore, in this novel a greater proportion of the dramatic action takes place on the road or at sea than in Chariton: storms, shipwrecks, attacks of pirates and robbers, attempted rape, and so on. Still there is very little concrete description of the various localities where these events take place: a road is just a road,52 a robbers’ cave is ‘the cave’. And we do not hear of any reactions on the part of the travellers to specific aspects of the physical landscape they pass through or to natural or human phenomena they encounter, as in the VA. Travelling is not exotic or thought-provoking, but mostly just terrifying. It remains to look at Achilles Tatius,53 presumably the extant novelistic predecessor closest to Philostratus in time, with whom he shares, among other things, an interest in the marvellous and paradoxical. For instance, they both enlarge upon ————— 51

52 53

The stereotyped phraseology used for the sea voyages (and sometimes adapted to land journeys) is analysed by O’Sullivan 1995, 52-58. I have registered one exception, ‘a long desert road’ in 3,12,2. I use the translation of Jack Winkler in Reardon 1989/2008, sometimes modified. This novel is not treated in Morgan 2007.

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the nature and behaviour of elephants, theoretically and as observed in reality (Ach. Tat. 4,4-5; VA 2,12-16).54 The travels in Leucippe and Clitophon look impressive on the map, extending geographically from Byzantium in the north to the Nile Delta and Alexandria in the south, with the Phoenician cities of Tyre, Sidon and Beirut as well as the Ionian metropolis of Ephesus as intermediate localities. In reality, only a couple of the many sea voyages are actually narrated, but then at length. As for the rest, they are just stated as taking (or having taken) place (e.g. 2,15,1), with only a few references to storms or favourable winds (1,1,2; 5,15,13; 8,19,2) or the number of days spent on a voyage (5,1,1; 5,10,1; 5,17,1; 8,16,7). As we shall see presently, the two sole transportations on land receive greater attention. Among practicalities of travel, we may note that in this novel, in contrast to that of Xenophon of Ephesus, references to the travellers taking lodgings or hiring a boat are given an extra realistic touch by details about their expenditure of travelling-money (3,9,1; 4,17,6 ephodion, cf. 6,2,5; 5,2,3; 7,6,6). The sightseeing perspective is present several times, most intensely in the magnificent account of the hero-narrator’s first arrival in Alexandria, an ecphrastic description that registers the topographical and architectural details as they appear before the eyes of the enthusiastic Tyrian tourist (5,1-2; cf. also 1,1,2; 5,6).55 Tyre, Clitophon’s hometown, is never described in connection with the action that takes place there,56 nor is Ephesus,57 in spite of the fact that some two thirds of the plot are located in these cities (1,3-2,31 and 5,17-8,19, respectively). Most descriptive energy of this type is devoted to the Nile Delta, Alexandria, and Pharos (3,5-5,15), perhaps simply because of the author’s local knowledge.58 Of the two land journeys, Clitophon and Leucippe’s nocturnal escape by carriage from Tyre and northwards to Sidon and Beirut is narrated with some emphasis on the pure process of travelling: their means of travel, the route chosen, the time spent on each part of the way (2,31,3-6). The other and much more ————— 54

55

56

57

58

This is of course an interest they share with other authors of the Second Sophistic, cf. Laplace 2007, 101-102. For an acute analysis of this ‘impressionistic’ description, see Morales 2004, 100-106. Cf. Laplace 2007, 224-228, on the ‘encomium Alexandriae’ as a literary topos. There is, however, a short ecphrastic description of the main topographical features of Tyre when Sostratus, Clitophon’s uncle, interprets an oracle as referring to this city (2,14,2-4). ‘Tyre between land and sea’ was a rhetorical topos, cf. Chariton 7,2,8 and Laplace 2007, 201. Yet, Achilles may have had some local knowledge of Tyre and surroundings, as transpires from the kidnapping scenario in 2,17-18 and the flight in 2,31. As Plepelits 1996/2003, 387, notes, there is ‘not even an attempt at describing the temple of Artemis’, despite the role the cult of Artemis plays in the action (6,3,2; 6,21,2; 7,12,2 etc.) and the heroine even taking refuge in the temple (7,13,2 etc.). On the evidence for Achilles Tatius as a native of Alexandria, see Plepelits 1996/2003, 387-388.

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extensive description is about the hardships and horrors that await the couple when their ship has gone down outside Pelusium at the east end of the Nile Delta (3,5,6-4,19, ca. 45 pages). In the nature of things, most of the narrative is devoted to motifs other than the travelling itself. Yet, there are glimpses of rather concrete and realistic-sounding descriptions of sailing on the Nile (3,9; 4,18) and of marching as prisoners of the robbers (3,12-13). The River Nile and its Delta, the habitat of the savage boukoloi, are described in graphic detail by the ego-narrator (4,1112). A reference to what exotic sights (4,12,1) meet the eyes is not linked to the actual experience of the visiting foreigner, as in the description of Alexandria; this is an excursus, in the manner of historians and geographers, rather than an integrated part of Clitophon’s dramatic story. Or, to remain in the fiction: this is Clitophon the narrator who displays the knowledge about the region that he has acquired afterwards, not what Clitophon the character knew or observed at the time he was dragged along through the Delta by the robbers.59 Between the two land journeys falls the longest sea voyage of the novel – the longest, that is, in narrative time – that from Beirut to Pelusium (2,31,6-3,5, ca. 15 pages). The overture is a vivid depiction of the ship being made ready for departure, setting sail, and leaving the harbour (2,31,6-32,2). This is all described as the novel and exciting experience it must have been to young Clitophon; the impressionistic quality throughout surfaces in his observation: ‘From the ship we watched the land recede by slow degrees, as if it was itself sailing away’ (2,32,2). As a pendant to the bright and optimistic scene of departure, with favourable winds and auspicious prayers, we encounter at the other end of the voyage another ecphrasis, elaborating a storm and a shipwreck in all their terrifying details (3,15). The ship as a helpless victim of winds and waves is consistently described from the viewpoint of the passengers, the ‘we’ who anxiously observe the sailors and the pilot at work, who move back and forth over the deck, always expecting death, and so forth. Finally, the focalisation narrows in on Clitophon and Leucippe specifically, as they watch their companion Clinias being engulfed by a wave, but themselves manage to reach the shore at Pelusium. The rest of the narration of the voyage, between the two ecphrases, is devoted to a conversation between Clitophon, Clinias, and their new acquaintance, the Egyptian Menelaus. Only their interchange when they first meet on board the ship, introducing themselves and sharing the breakfast the Tyrians have brought with them (2,33), has a bearing on the immediate circumstances and the reasons for their travelling. The rest is a lengthy discussion between men, while Leucippe is sleeping in a corner of the ship, about the advantages and drawbacks of homosexual and heterosexual love. ————— 59

On the distinction between the acting and the narrating ‘ego’ in Achilles, see Hägg 1971, 126-129. On the Delta description, cf. Laplace 2007, 217-220.

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No attempt is made to integrate this conversation into the travel account; it ends abruptly with the end of Book 2, and Book 3 simply begins: ‘After three days of clear sailing...’, thus letting the narrative time of the discussion, some seven pages, compensate for the non-description of most of the sailing. In contrast, the other sea voyage narrated in some detail, that of Clitophon and the alleged widow Melite from Alexandria to Ephesus (5,15-17,1), is actually mirrored in the conversation of the travellers. The account starts rather like the former one, with a scene of departure and taking leave, a favourable wind blowing and a meal being consumed. And love becomes again the subject of conversation, but in quite another vein: Melite is trying to make Clitophon consummate their marriage, as he has promised to do once they have left the environment where memories of Leucippe prevent him from engaging in a new love. Clitophon is still reluctant, however, while ‘sailing over Leucippe’s grave’, the sea. This is the point where their current location, a cabin on board a sailing ship, takes on a role in the argument: ‘… And is this an appropriate place to consummate any marriage? Our wedding night on choppy waves? Our first night on a rocking boat? Surely you want our bridal bed to stay in one place?’ ‘Darling’, she replied, ‘you’re splitting hairs. For lovers every location is a bedroom. No place is inaccessible to that god. The sea in fact is quite appropriate for Eros and his mother’s mysteries – Aphrodite is a daughter of the sea. Let us gratify the goddess of unions and please the sea her mother by our marriage. The ship itself is hinting at our matrimony: above our heads swings the crossyoke, and ropes are knotted on the yardarm. O my master, good omens! We will be yoked in holy wedlock and linked by bonds of love. The helmsman’s rudder is hard by our bed: Fortune is steering us to our union. Poseidon and his chorus of Nereids will be our entourage, remembering his own marine marriage to Amphitrite. The breeze is whistling sweetly around the rigging; it sounds to my ears like a flute picking out the notes of the wedding melody. See how the sail conceives and grows big-bellied – prophesying here and now a blessed eventuality. Soon you will be a father too’. Seeing how insistent she was, I said: ‘I vote for the ascetic life until we land. I promise you, in the name of the sea itself and our safe passage, that my eagerness is a match for yours. But the sea too has its laws, and often I have heard old salts agree that ships and sex should never mix, whether in reverence for the ships’ own holiness or to prevent anyone from relaxing in such great danger. The sea itself, my darling, might grow angry at our insolence: desire and apprehension are uneasy bedfellows. Let us keep our pleasure

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unadulterated by other feelings’. I sweetened my argument with kisses, and she let herself be convinced. We slept that night in innocence. After five days of continuous sailing we reached Ephesus… (5,16,2-17.1) In language rich in nautical metaphors, Achilles Tatius thematises the travelling in a way comparable to Philostratus when he lets Apollonius and Damis reflect in their conversation how they are in the process of climbing the Caucasus. The sea of course lacks the specificity of the Caucasian landscape, so generic features like waves and wind, rudder and sails provide the material for the erotic discourse, as the high peaks under the clear sky did for Philostratus’ philosophical discussion. Still, the sense of travelling is equally present in both: the characters are not talking in a vacuum but let their current surroundings and sense impressions inspire their conversation.

Conclusion It is evident that Philostratus, in his description of Apollonius’ passage to India, thematises the process of travelling much more concretely and with more variegated means than any of our novelists. He lets his travellers react to the physical landscape in a way unprecedented in the novels, except perhaps for some passages about Clitophon’s experiences in the Delta. Achilles and Philostratus have in common their descriptions of exotic animals being observed by the travellers, but it is only Philostratus who sometimes really integrates the description into his narrative. In addition, as we have just seen, Achilles on one occasion (Melite and Clitophon on board the ship) thematises the actual travelling in the conversation between characters – like Philostratus, even if the techniques are rather different. But the heroes and heroines of the novels nowhere exchange their personal views of what they see and hear en route in the manner of Apollonius and Damis. Partly, of course, this is due to the separation motif with the ensuing monologic form of expression; solitary lament on board a pirate ship is the novelist’s counterpart. Chariton’s Callirhoe being conveyed through Asia Minor and across the Euphrates is as close as these novels ever get to providing a sense of travelling over time, with her monologue when crossing the boundary between terra cognita and incognita as the emotional peak. Xenophon occasionally reveals a more detailed interest in geography and routes than the others, but the description rarely goes beyond the bare place names, and the characters do not engage in the landscape. What all three novels do provide are scattered set scenes, such as the ship departing from the harbour or struggling in a storm, and the occasional registering

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of practical circumstances connected with the travelling, such as favourable or adverse winds, or the travellers supplying provisions, refreshing themselves, taking lodgings, riding or going by carriage, using pack animals, and occasionally embarking on tourism. These are things that Philostratus too mingles into his narrative at places, sometimes developing the trivialities into meaningful or witty intermezzi. But his real innovation no doubt lies in his integration of travel impressions in the dialogue of the characters. By such means, he makes us see the shifting landscape, experience the unexpected sights, and feel the joy of travelling through Apollonius and Damis and their infectious curiosity. That he chooses to use this technique only intermittently, breaking the illusion when it suits him,60 is consistent with his sophistic ideal of variation – and perhaps a necessary device in such a voluminous work of entertainment.

Bibliography Alvares, J. 1996/2003. ‘Maps (A-L)’, in: Gareth Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, rev. ed., Boston & Leiden: Brill, 801-814. Anderson, G. 1986. Philostratus: Biography and Belles Lettres in the Third Century AD, London: Croom Helm. Billault, A.1993. ‘Le personnage de Philostrate dans la Vie d'Apollonios de Tyane: autoportrait de l’auteur en biographe’, in: M.-F. Baslez, Ph. Hoffmann & L. Pernot (eds.), L’invention de l’autobiographie d'Hésiode à Saint Augustine, Paris: Presses de l’École normale supérieure, 271-278. Billault, A. 2000. L’Univers de Philostrate (Collection Latomus, 252), Brussels: Latomus. Bowie, E.L. 1978. ‘Apollonius of Tyana: tradition and reality’, in: ANRW II.16.2, 1652-1699. Bowie, E. 1994. ‘Philostratus: writer of fiction’, in: J.R. Morgan & R. Stoneman (eds.), Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context, London & New York: Routledge, 181-199. Bowie, E. 2002. ‘The chronology of the earlier Greek novels since B.E. Perry: revisions and precisions’, AN 2, 47-63. Bowie, E. 2008. ‘Literary milieux’, in: T. Whitmarsh (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 17-38. Bowie, E. & Elsner, J. (eds.) 2009. Philostratus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Demoen, K. & Praet, D. (eds.) 2009. Theios Sophistes: Essays on Flavius Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii (Mnemosyne, Supplements, 305), Leiden & Boston: Brill. Edwards, M., Goodman M. & Price, S. 1999. Apologetics in the Roman Empire: Pagans, Jews, and Christians, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Elsner, J. 1997. ‘Hagiographic geography: travel and allegory in the Life of Apollonius of Tyana’, JHS 117, 22-37.

————— 60

Expressed in the terms of modern theory of fiction, the author readily violates the ‘contract of fictional complicity’ that he has himself induced his readers to sign. On this ‘contract’ in relation to VA and the novels, cf. Francis 1998, 427, 431-439.

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Flinterman, J.-J. 1995. Power, Paideia & Pythagoreanism: Greek Identity, Conceptions of the Relationship between Philosophers and Monarchs and Political Ideas in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius, Amsterdam: J.C. Gieben. Francis, J.A. 1995. Subversive Virtue: Asceticism and Authority in the Second-Century Pagan World, University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press. Francis, J.A. 1998. ‘Truthful fiction: new questions to old answers on Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius’, AJP 119, 419-441. Hägg, T. 1971. Narrative Technique in Ancient Greek Romances: Studies of Chariton, Xenophon Ephesius, and Achilles Tatius (Acta Instituti Atheniensis Regni Sueciae 8o, 8), Stockholm. Hägg, T. 2004. ‘Apollonios of Tyana – magician, philosopher, counter-Christ: the metamorphoses of a life’, in: Parthenope: Selected Studies in Ancient Greek Fiction (1969-2004), ed. L.B. Mortensen & T. Eide, Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 379-404. Hägg, T. 2009. ‘The ideal Greek novel from a biographical perspective’, in: G.A. Karla (ed.), Fiction on the Fringe: Novelistic Writing in the Post-Classical Age (Mnemosyne, Supplements, 310), Leiden & Boston: Brill, 81-93. Hägg, T. 2012. ‘Historical fiction in the Graeco-Roman world: Cyrus, Alexander, Apollonius’, in: P.A. Agapitos & L.B Mortensen (eds.), Medieval Narratives between History and Fiction: From the Centre to the Periphery of Europe, c. 1100-1400, Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 25-48. Hanus, P. 1995. ‘La vie d’Apollonios de Tyane: d’une géographie réelle à une géographie mythique’, Annales littéraires de l’Université de Besançon 148, 81-97. Jones, C.P. 2001. ‘Apollonius of Tyana’s passage to India’, GRBS 42, 185-199. Jones, C.P. (ed.) 2005. Philostratus, The Life of Apollonius of Tyana, Vols. I-II (The Loeb Classical Library), Cambridge, MA & London: Harvard University Press. Knoles, T.G. 1981. Literary Technique and Theme in Philostratus’ ‘Life of Apollonius of Tyana’, Ann Arbor, MI: University Microfilms, Inc. Koskenniemi, E. 1991. Der philostrateische Apollonios (Commentationes Humanarum Litterarum, 94), Helsinki: Societas Scientiarum Fennica. Laplace, M. 2007. Le Roman d’Achille Tatios. ‘Discours panégyrique’ et imaginaire romanesque (Sapheneia, 12), Bern: Peter Lang. Levick, B. 2007. Julia Domna, Syrian Empress (Women of the Ancient World), London & New York: Routledge. Lowe, N.J. 2000. The Classical Plot and the Invention of Western Narrative, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morales, H. 2004. Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ ‘Leucippe and Clitophon’, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morgan, J.R. 2007. ‘Travel in the Greek Novels: function and interpretation’, in: C. Adams & J. Roy (eds.), Travel, Geography and Culture in Ancient Greece, Egypt and the Near East (Leicester Nottingham Studies in Ancient Society, 10), Oxford: Oxbow Books, 139-160. O’Sullivan, J.N. 1995. Xenophon of Ephesus: His Compositional Technique and the Birth of the Novel, Berlin & New York: Walter de Gruyter. Plepelits, K. 1996/2003. ‘Achilles Tatius’, in: G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, rev. ed., Boston & Leiden: Brill, 387-416. Reardon, B.P. 1971. Courants littéraires grecs des IIe et IIIe siècles après J.-C. (Annales littéraires de l’Université de Nantes, 3), Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Reardon, B.P. (ed.) 1989/2008. Collected Ancient Greek Novels, 2nd ed., with a new foreword by J.R. Morgan, Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press.

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Robiano, P. 1996. ‘Philostrate émule d’Arrien? Le cas de la Vie d’Apollonios de Tyane’, REG 109, 489-505. Romm, J. 2008. ‘Travel’, in: T. Whitmarsh (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 109-126. Schirren, T. 2005. Philosophos Bios: Die antike Philosophenbiographie als symbolische Form. Studien zur Vita Apollonii des Philostrat (Bibliothek der klassichen Altertumswissenschaften, N.F., 2. Reihe, 115), Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter. Solmsen, F. 1940. ‘Some Works of Philostratus the Elder’, TAPA 71, 556-572. Swain, S. 1996. Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek World AD 50-250, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Swain, S. 1999. ‘Defending Hellenism: Philostratus, In Honour of Apollonius’, in: Edwards, Goodman & Price 1999, 197-221. Whitmarsh, T.J.G. 2004. ‘Philostratus’, in: I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist & A. Bowie, Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature: Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative, volume one (Mnemosyne, Supplements, 257), Leiden & Boston: Brill, 423-439. Whitmarsh, T.J.G. 2007. ‘Philostratus’, in: I.J.F. de Jong & R. Nünlist, Time in Ancient Greek Literature: Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative, volume two (Mnemosyne, Supplements, 291), Leiden - Boston: Brill, 413-430.

Part Three Apographs and Atticists: Adventures of a Text

La prose des Métamorphoses d’Apulée : éléments d’une poétique L OUIS C ALLEBAT Université de Caen Normandie

Les termes « poésie » et « poétique », utilisés pour caractériser l’une des composantes jugées marquantes de la prose d’Apulée – celle des Métamorphoses, mais aussi des Florides et du De Magia – recouvrent un concept polysémique dont les ambiguïtés et la difficulté de définition au regard de la prose ont nourri un long débat doctrinal, développé depuis l’Antiquité jusqu’à l’époque contemporaine. C’est dire que l’étude de la nature et de la fonction du poétique dans le langage des Métamorphoses ne saurait être réduite à l’analyse d’un avatar de la langue latine, d’un simple procédé rhétorique ou du constituant indissociable d’une prose d’art-type, abusivement perçue comme élément d’une catégorie esthétique parfaitement homogène. Nous attachant à cerner ce qui peut être proprement défini comme « poétique » dans la prose apuléienne, considérant, avec H. Meschonnic,1 que des catégories telles que « poésie, vers, prose sont de faux universaux », et qu’ « historiquement, poétiquement, linguistiquement, il y a des différences de degré, non de nature entre la prose et les vers »,2 que la réalité poétique doit être envisagée dans sa pluralité (non pas la poésie ou la prose, mais les poésies et les proses), nous situerons notre enquête dans une double perspective : celle d’une rhétorique d’art et celle d’une poésie de la prose.

Introduction : La rhétorique décorative On attribue communément aux anciens sophistes l’intérêt originellement porté à une structuration esthétique et rythmique de la prose. La perception d’une composante rythmico-musicale de la parole fondait cet intérêt, consciemment ouvert ————— 1 2

Meschonnic 1982, 400. Meschonnic 1982, 458. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 239–249

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sur une double ambition : celle de la beauté artistique de l’œuvre et celle de son efficacité. Si les dites « figures gorgianiques » (antithèse, isocolon, homéotéleute, homéoptote, paronomase) ne sauraient être proprement identifiées comme des créations de Gorgias – soit qu’elles se trouvent antérieurement chez Homère, soit qu’elles puissent coïncider avec des structures spontanées du langage – leur application par le rhéteur sicilien à des objectifs conceptuels et doctrinaux précis (ainsi de l’antithèse, signe pour Gorgias de l’ambivalence des choses et du logos), leur systématisation, leur intégration dans un code formel prenant en compte les trois grands niveaux de l’expression stylistique : rythmique, sémantique, phonétique, accréditaient la prose comme objet esthétique. Alors que la proto-rhétorique d’un Corax définissait déjà les cinq grandes parties de l’oratio (exorde, narration, argumentation, digression, épilogue), l’art rhétorique de Gorgias marquait, pour sa part, l’avènement d’une « prose décorative » dans laquelle la fonction d’ornatus était susceptible d’intéresser à la fois chacun des mots (ornatus in uerbis singulis), leur combinaison (ornatus in uerbis coniunctis), les figurae (elocutionis et sententiae), la compositio d’ensemble et l’organisation rythmique. C’est en regard de la poésie que cette prose d’art a défini sa spécificité, s’agissant de choix lexicaux, mais d’une structuration rythmique surtout de la parole organisée en unités de même type que celles du langage poétique, relevant d’une même terminologie rythmique et métrique, moins assujettie cependant à des schèmes contraignants. « Le poète se rapproche beaucoup de l’orateur, écrit Cicéron. Plus asservi à la mesure, mais plus libre et hardi dans l’expression, il dispose à peu près de la même richesse d’ornements » (de orat. 1,70). 3 Cicéron cite Thrasymaque comme ayant été l’un des premiers orateurs à avoir accordé une place privilégiée au rythme.4 Essentiellement appliquée par Gorgias5 à un type de discours épidictique, cette prose décorative influencera l’histoire entière de la prose latine, s’agissant non seulement du discours oratoire, mais aussi de l’historiographie : « L’histoire, écrit Quintilien, est très proche de la poésie et, en quelque sorte, un poème en prose ».6 Le récit d’imagination en prose ne pouvait qu’être affecté par ce rapprochement. Intervenant sur un large étalement de temps et d’espace, les théories professées sur l’art de la prose, d’Aristote à Sidoine en passant par Platon, Théophraste, ————— 3

4 5 6

Trad. E. Courbaud ; est enim finitimus oratori poeta, numeris astrictior paulo, uerborum autem liberior, multis uero ornandi generibus socius ac paene par. Orat. 175. Auquel Cicéron reproche d’en avoir abusé : Orat. 176. Inst. 10,131 : est enim proxima poetis et quodammodo carmen solutum

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Démétrios, Denys d’Halicarnasse, Cicéron, Quintilien, l’auteur du Sublime, Fronton…, ne sauraient être considérées comme définissant un modèle stéréotype. Sur l’héritage continûment transmis d’une tradition doctrinale se sont greffés de nouveaux rameaux, ouvertes de nouvelles perspectives qui ont transformé ou déformé cet héritage : glissement d’une mousiké techné à la techné rhetoriké et à la métriké, de la réflexion philosophique sur le logos et son expression par la lexis à la techné peri phonès ; phases de l’ars rhetorica, de l’ars metrica, des artes dictaminis et de la rhetorica de la Renaissance.7 Deux conclusions importantes sont à tirer de ces observations liminaires : 1. L’histoire de la prose littéraire romaine ne saurait être confondue avec l’histoire de la langue latine. 2. Définir une poésie de la prose implique que soient préalablement différenciées les notions de prose artiste et de prose poétique, quels que soient leurs éléments communs et l’interprétation possible de la prose poétique comme accomplissement extrême de la prose d’art.

1. Fonds linguistique et prose littéraire S’il appert que l’histoire de la prose littéraire et celle de la langue latine entretiennent des liens naturels, nécessaires et que tout écrivain élabore son œuvre à partir d’un fonds linguistique contemporain vivant, quels que soient les écarts creusés avec le langage de communication courant de son époque, la prose littéraire ne constitue, en aucune manière, le miroir fidèle d’un état historique de langue. Comme l’a pertinemment rappelé S. J. Harrison, dans une étude éclairante des Aspects of the Language of Latin Prose,8 associer le style des Métamorphoses à une dégradation de la langue latine, voire, selon l’expression outrancière de Norden, à sa « prostitution », constitue une approche aberrante du style des Métamorphoses. Le concept même de « Latin tardif », utilisé comme critère de caractérisation du fonds linguistique de la prose apuléienne appelle un traitement nuancé, s’agissant d’un auteur que deux ou trois décennies seulement séparent de l’époque de production littéraire de Tacite et de Juvénal. Les faits de langue le plus nettement marqués, dans les Métamorphoses, par référence à un parler vivant commun relèvent essentiellement, en réalité, d’une écriture de genre : celle d’une tradition narrative populaire (satura, milésiennes, mime). Si, par ailleurs, différents éléments lexicaux et grammaticaux n’y répondent pas aux règles strictes du purisme classique, la confrontation établie avec les documents écrits du IIe siècle et, plus ————— 7 8

Sur ces questions, voir Calboli 1986 ; Luque Moreno 2006. Cf. Harrison 2005, 274-277.

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largement, avec les textes des autres écrivains latins, atteste que le fonds linguistique du roman d’Apulée participe d’un état de langue contemporain nécessairement en évolution par rapport à celui de l’époque cicéronienne, mais dont le processus de transformation demeure, dans la société cultivée, très fortement contrôlé par le conservatisme scolaire.9 L’impression première laissée par les Métamorphoses d’une œuvre linguistiquement marginale, déconcertante, témoignage d’un état de langue en mutation, relève essentiellement, et de manière peut-être paradoxale, de la compétence linguistique même, exceptionnelle, de l’auteur : effet de facteurs personnels, mais aussi socioculturels, d’une situation linguistique par laquelle une même langue se trouvait appréhendée comme langue spontanée, naturelle et comme langue de prestige au regard d’un idiome indigène pratiqué par les classes populaires, paysannes…La conséquence souvent manifestée de cette situation (dans l’Antiquité, comme à l’époque moderne) est une pratique à la fois aisée et très élaborée de langue et, dans le cas des locuteurs les plus instruits et les plus cultivés, une conscience aiguë des normes traditionnelles en même temps que de l’usage vivant contemporain.

2. La Prose littéraire des Métamorphoses C’est donc dans son statut de prose littéraire et dans sa situation particulière au regard de l’histoire et des orientations de cette prose que doit être définie la spécificité artiste de l’écriture et du style des Métamorphoses, avec la réserve importante précédemment émise : le concept de prose littéraire, ou prose d’art ne recouvre pas exactement celui de prose poétique. Par ses lignes de base, la prose d’art des Métamorphoses s’inscrit dans une tradition d’écriture littéraire dont Salluste apparaît comme l’un des précurseurs et à laquelle sont plus particulièrement attachés les noms de Sénèque, de Tacite et de Pline. En regard d’une prose littéraire classique, artistiquement travaillée, mais restée proche du parler vivant de la société cultivée contemporaine, cette prose, plus libre dans ses choix grammaticaux et lexicaux, se révèle cependant moins liée intrinsèquement à un parler vivant : elle constitue un langage essentiellement de l’écrit par les ruptures créées dans les schèmes scolaires de construction et le caractère composite de ses constituants lexicaux (archaïsmes, poétismes, hellénismes, termes techniques…). À ce niveau, où ces différents éléments fonctionnent comme signes à la fois informatifs et décoratifs, les emprunts faits par Apulée

————— 9

Sur ces questions, voir Callebat 1968, 325-365 ; 1994, 1601-1616.

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aux poètes, qu’il s’agisse de termes non utilisés jusqu’alors en prose,10 de désignations périphrastiques,11 de caractérisations ornementales,12 ou encore d’emplois grammaticaux,13 sont à interpréter comme les marques esthétiques d’abord d’une prose artiste codifiée à l’élaboration de laquelle participent par ailleurs les procédés catalogués de la tradition rhétorique, figures gorgianiques singulièrement et schémas métriques des clausules.14 Inscrite dans ce courant d’écriture artiste, en même temps que dans la tradition perpétuée de rhétorique ancienne, la prose des Métamorphoses doit être plus précisément située aussi dans un contexte historique que marquaient de nouvelles orientations esthétiques (celles du sublime, de l’elocutio novella, de la néo-rhétorique) et l’affirmation d’une vitalité nouvelle de la parole traitée moins désormais comme instrument que comme fin en elle-même. Tendant à définir, au delà d’une simple techné, une éducation universelle et aussi, sans doute, le langage commun à une aristocratie intellectuelle, les néo-rhéteurs fondaient leur empire sous la double référence de la rhétorique et de la sophistique, exacerbant, sur ce second plan, le travail d’élaboration et la construction ornementale de la parole.15 Chez le néo-rhéteur, conférencier en vogue, que fut lui-même Apulée, l’imprégnation est assurément profondément manifestée des choix esthétiques fondamentaux mis en œuvre par la Seconde Sophistique, s’agissant singulièrement de l’intensification et de la singularisation artistes de la parole : structurations formelles par opposition, entrecroisement de signes (chiasmes, hyperbates), usage privilégié des clausules favorites des nouveaux rhéteurs (dichorée, crétique-spondée, spondéecrétique, double crétique), dramatisation de l’énoncé, recherche du rare, maniérisme, baroquisme, déstructurations faisant apparaître une nouvelle unité syntagmatique : le « morceau » : paysages, portraits…16 On rattachera à ce traitement virtuose des ressources du langage l’exploitation diversifiée de registres de représentation démarquant aussi bien le maniérisme catullien des poètes nouveaux contemporains17 que la solennité des genres tragiques et épiques. Sans doute peut-on trouver dans les choix de cette intertextualité la recherche d’une poétisation du ————— 10

11 12 13

14 15

16 17

Type : caelamen (Met. 5,1,3. Cf. Ov. Met. 13,291); cantamen (Met. 2,1,2; 2,22, 3. Cf. Prop. 4,4,51). Type : Musici uatis Piplei (Met. 2,26,8). Type : Thebas Heptapylos (Met. 4,9,4). Ainsi des désignations plurielles telles que confinia lucis (Met. 2,17,5) ou des emplois, fréquents chez Tacite d’un adjectif neutre pluriel complétés par un génitif : Type : ardua montium et lubrica uallium et roscida caespitum et glebosa camporum (Met. 1,2, 2). Sur ces procédés, cf. Bernhard 1926, 188-283. Sur le mouvement de la Seconde Sophistique et sur le contexte socioculturel de l’époque des Antonins, voir Reardon 1971 ; 1984 ; Brown 1983, 65-111. Sur ces différents faits stylistiques, cf. Callebat 1978, 175-178 ; 1994, 1655-1662. Mouvement auquel participait Apulée lui-même : cf. Castorina 1950.

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langage narratif.18 La mise en œuvre de ces plans de représentation paraît surtout répondre cependant à une volonté d’enrichissement de l’écriture et à l’affirmation d’une haute compétence culturelle : « Empédocle, écrit Apulée, compose des poèmes, Platon des dialogues, Socrate des hymnes, Épicharme des mimes, Xénophon des histoires, Cratès des satires : votre Apulée embrasse tous ces genres et cultive les neuf Muses avec un zèle égal ».19 Conduisant à leurs extrêmes limites à la fois les aspirations romantiques et les recherches esthètes, notamment influencées par les arts plastiques, des écrivains de l’Empire, Apulée ne s’écartait pas seulement, dans les Métamorphoses, de l’art ordonné de la prose cicéronienne, mais déformait aussi, en les outrant et les enrichissant, les bases structurelles et la nature même de la prose tacitéenne. La prose des Métamorphoses fonde, à des fins personnelles, sans prétention théorique, une esthétique originale de la prose par convergence de plusieurs traits spécifiques : primat accordé à la sensation, saisie impressionniste de l’objet, goût de la couleur, du pittoresque, mais aussi de la musique des mots, culte de la beauté et du raffinement, quête de l’insolite. Ce traitement artistique de la prose se révèle très proche du « décadentisme »,20 catégorie esthétique théorisée à la fin du XIXe siècle, mais, comme le baroque, pertinent en d’autres temps de l’histoire.21

3. Une poétique de la prose C’est à ce niveau d’esthétisme de la prose que peut être étudiée, le plus exactement sans doute, une poétique des Métamorphoses qui n’est pas seulement une prose décorative, recherche d’ornatus trouvés dans le lexique, les structures grammaticales ou les schèmes métriques des poètes, mais qui constitue, suivant le sens étymologique du mot, une « création », ou « recréation » de la vision commune portée et donnée sur les êtres et sur les choses : « Il convient, écrivent les ————— 18 19

20

21

Cf. Harrison 2005, 277-283. Fl. 20, 5-6. Le traitement épique ou tragique de différents épisodes par Apulée peut avoir été en large partie orienté par la prédilection des rhéteurs pour la grandiloquence (cf. Petr. 1 : rerum tumore et sententiarum uanissimo strepitu), des néo-sophistes en particulier à propos desquels Nikagoras affirme que « la tragédie était leur mère » (Philostr. VS. 2,27,10). Le mot n’implique aucune valeur de dégradation d’une langue : « J’aime le mot décadence, écrit Verlaine, tout miroitant de pourpre et d’or. J’en révoque, bien entendu, toute imputation injurieuse et toute idée de déchéance. Ce mot suppose au contraire des pensées raffinées, d’extrême civilisation, une haute culture littéraire, une âme capable d’intenses voluptés » ; citation tirée du livre de son ami Ernest Raynaud (1920 ; nouvelle édition 1971, I,64.). Cf. Callebat 2000. Sur le baroque, cf. Pierrot 1994, 918-920, et bibl. cit.

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Goncourt, de faire voir les êtres et les choses à travers de verres qui n’ont point encore servi, montrer des tableaux sous un jour inconnu jusqu’alors, créer une optique nouvelle ».22 Emprunts lexicaux et grammaticaux aux poètes, recherche du rare (préoccupation au cœur même des théories littéraires de l’elocutio novella), effets divers de rupture et de uariatio,23 susceptibles sans doute de créer un effet premier de préciosité et de maniérisme, répondent également, dans les Métamorphoses, à une attitude de poète, rejetant les structures conventionnelles de forte prévisibilité, mais, pour cela même, subjectivement inadéquates. Définir ce qui, dans cette reconstruction subjective, relève proprement de la poésie conduit à identifier, dans les Métamorphoses, deux constituants fondamentaux, intimement liés, d’une poétique spécifique : les réseaux de signification et l’organisation sonore de la parole. Réseaux de signification : Entendons par « réseau de signification » une structure impressionniste d’énoncé associant, en « correspondances » un faisceau d’éléments polysémiques et de registres divers. Accordant le primat à la fonction poétique,24 ce type de langage connote, dans un miroitement sémantique et par surimpression de sensations une réalité multiforme et fugitive. Mots et structures empruntés aux poètes ne sont pas rares dans ce type d’énoncé, dont la fonction est celle, non de simple ornement du discours, mais d’une saisie plurielle de l’objet – objet dont les composantes diverses, mais solidaires s’interpénètrent. Situant le cadre de l’apparition isiaque, un bref énoncé (11,1,1 nanctus opacae noctis silentiosa secreta) laisse découvrir une caractérisation de la nuit soumise à différentes variations chez les poètes (Lucr. 4,460-461 : seuera silentia noctis ; Verg. A. 4,123 : et nocte tegentur opaca ; Ov. Met. 7,184 : per muta silentia noctis), fonctionnant plus spécifiquement ici comme signe esthétique du registre choisi, celui du langage d’un poète, enrichissant l’évocation par la qualité sémantique du caractérisant, silentiosa, création probable d’Apulée (formation en –osus marquant la plénitude de la qualité), par l’alliance insolite en allitération (silentiosa secreta), par le réseau surtout de correspondances (opacae, noctis, silentiosa, secreta), qui à la fois transcrivent la matérialité du lieu et la perception que peut en avoir la personne impliquée, la relation de cette matérialité avec un plan allégorique : association de la notion d’isolement, de silence, de ténèbres avec l’environnement usuel des pratiques magiques et de l’accomplissement des mystères, mais appelant, par l’effet créé de clair-obscur la suggestion de la lumière (sol aureus : Met. ————— 22 23 24

Goncourt 1876, V, 118. Callebat 1978, 175-178 ; 1994, 1631, 1634, 1643-1647. Jakobson 1963, 220sq.

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11,7,2 ; dies apricus : Met. 11,7,4).25 Dans sa découverte d’Eros par Psyché, au livre V des Métamorphoses, les ailes d’Eros que contemple Psyché sont appréhendées à la fois dans leur scintillement coloré (pinnae roscidae micanti flore candicant) et dans un frémissement (sensation auditive) que connote une texture phonique riche en liquides (plumulae tenellae ac delicatae tremule resultantes inquieta lasciuiunt).26 C’est, par ailleurs, dans ce même passage, une dominante de blancheur éclatante, nuancée de vermeil et rose (sensation visuelle, picturale) qu’impose au tableau, après le clair-obscur de l’ouverture (prolata lucerna […]cum primum luminis oblatione tori secreta claruerunt), la convergence de termes relevant du vocabulaire de la couleur et de la lumière : lacteas purpureas, splendore fulgurante, roscidae, micanti,27 candicant. Dans ce type de réseau, l’oxymore constitue un instrument privilégié de la mise en évidence d’une réalité cachée, d’un sens profond des choses à découvrir sous le non-sens apparent : palla nigerrima splendescens atro nitore ;28 splendet intus umbra signi de nitore lapis ;29 udis ignibus.30 « Tout, écrira Victor Hugo, forme, mouvement, nombre, couleur, parfum […], est significatif, réciproque, converse, correspondant ».31 Organisation sonore (euphonie et eurythmie) : Au système des correspondances sémantiques des réseaux de communication est intimement associée dans les Métamorphoses une fonction harmonique dont Denys d’Halicarnasse avait plus particulièrement mis en évidence la nature et l’importance : « C’est une musique, écrit Denys, que la science de l’éloquence publique ; elle ne se distingue de la musique vocale ou instrumentale que par une différence de degré, non de nature. Chez elle aussi l’expression possède mélodie, rythme, variété, convenance, si bien que, pareillement, l’oreille est charmée par la mélodie entraînée par le rythme, flattée par la variété, mais désire par dessus tout la propriété ». 32 Comme chez Tacite, à des fins de composition sur le registre des poètes épiques et tragiques,33 mais aussi de parodie, Apulée emprunte fréquemment leur ————— 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32

33

Callebat 1998, 277. Sur la représentation sublimée du réel, cf. Fick 1991, 71-82. Met. 5,22,6. Verbe impliquant éclat et scintillement, comme dans le Peruigilium Veneris (17). L’esthétique de la prose poétique des Métamorphoses n’est pas sans analogies avec celle du Peruigilium. Met. 11,3,5. Met. 2,4,7. Met. 11,2,3. Hugo 1869, XV. Cf. Callebat 2000, 49-50. Op. Rhet. 3,11,13-14, trad. Aujac. On rappellera qu’une réflexion telle que celle, au XVIe siècle, sur le rythme et l’harmonie sonore des lettres et des mots, chez Scaliger, Pontano, Sánchez de las Brozas, doit autant à Denys d’Halicarnasse et à Hermogenes qu’à Aristote et à Cicéron. Cf. supra, note 21.

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rythme à la métrique des poètes : suite de dactyles suggérant une fuite rapide (me pedibus fugientem alienis),34 rythme spondaïque marquant de pathos l’annonce de la mort tragique de Thrasyleon (miserum funestumque spectamen aspexi) ;35 fragment d’hexamètre dans la formule d’introduction au récit de la mort de Tlépomène et de Charité (sollicitis animis intendite quorsum…).36 C’est cependant sur une structuration énonciative, une « construction de paroles »,37 fondée sur une organisation sonore par laquelle est réglé l’agencement des mots, indépendamment des contraintes grammaticales, que doit être identifiée la spécificité d’une authentique poétisation de la prose des Métamorphoses. Une architecture musicale est construite que déterminent les combinaisons récurrentes de phonèmes identiques, récurrences dont la rime fournit le modèle que reproduisent, dans sa structure, d’autres types de récurrences touchant des mots de sens plein et de place remarquable. À ces structures phoniques récurrentes se trouve associée une mélodie sonore (échos de phonèmes) modulée tout au cours du phrasé. Les hymnes cultuels du livre XI,38 constituent une illustration assurément exemplaire de ce poétisme de la prose, au delà de l’influence exercée par les textes liturgiques isiaques.39 À la base des plus anciens textes italiques (carmina, textes osco-ombriens, vers saturniens), les correspondances formelles (allitérations, isosyllabie, isocolie, isométrie, climax, correspondances verticales dans des cola successifs,40 correspondances horizontales, syntactiques, sémantiques) tendent à restaurer dans les Métamorphoses les principes fondamentaux d’un art ancien sublimé.41 Étudier la poétique des Métamorphoses conduit à découvrir un moment essentiel dans l’histoire d’une esthétique de la prose et des rapports établis, depuis l’Antiquité jusqu’à l’époque moderne entre prose et poésie. Si le style des Métamorphoses est riche, dans ses registres, de variations – parlant, dans les Florides42 du langage du philosophe qu’il revendique, Apulée dit qu’il peut prendre « tous les ————— 34 35 36 37 38 39 40

41

42

Met. 4,27,3. Met. 4,20,5. Met. 8,3,3. Valéry 1952, 17. Met. 11,2 ; 11,5 ; 11,25. Cf. Lafaye 1916, 56sq. L’étude de l’organisation rythmique des cola, bien initiée par Hijmans 1978, 107-122, appellerait une étude approfondie, à la lumière de recherches théoriques récentes telles que celles de Luque Moreno. Observation identique à propos des structures phoniques. Je renvoie pour l’illustration de ces données au travail précurseur de Westermann 1939, 124-129. Voir aussi Tatum 1974, 145-159 ; Callebat 1994, 1653-1654 ; 2000, 273-291; Pasetti 1999, 247-271. Flor. 13,3.

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tons » (oratio omnicana) – et si la prose des Métamorphoses ne peut être analysée dans son intégralité comme poétique, 43 elle propose cependant les éléments fondamentaux d’une poétique de la prose dont la poésie elle-même adoptera plus tard les principes.

Bibliographie Bernhard, M. 1927. Der Stil des Apuleius von Madaura, Stuttgart: Kohlammer. Brown, P. 1983. Genèse de l’Antiquité tardive [trad. franç.], Paris : Gallimard. Calboli, G. 1986. ‘Nota di aggiornamento’, in: E. Norden, La Prosa d’Arte Antica, Roma : Salerno, 1145-1149. Callebat, L. 1968. Sermo cotidianus dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée, Caen & Paris : PUC. Callebat, L. 1978. ‘ La prose des Métamorphoses : genèse et spécificité’, in: B.L. Hijmans & R.Th. van der Paardt (eds.), Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Groningen : Bouma’s Boekhuis, 167-187 (= Callebat 1998, 95-122). Callebat, L. 1994. ‘Formes et modes d’expression dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée’, ANRW II 34,2. 1616-1664 (= Callebat 1998, 123-179). Callebat, L. 1998. Langages du roman latin, Hildesheim, Zurich & New York: Olms. Callebat, L. 2005. ‘Le Conte d’Amour et Psyché : un style ‘décadent’, Fontes 3 : 5-6, 45-54. Castorina, E. 1950. Apuleio poeta, Catania: N. Giannotta. Fick, N. 1991. Art et mystique dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée, Paris : Les Belles Lettres. Goncourt, E. 1876. Journal, Paris : Flammarion. Harrison, S.J. 2005. ‘The Poetics of Fiction: Poetic Influence on the Language of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: T. Reinhard, M. Lapidge, J.N. Adams (eds.), Aspects of the Language of Latin Prose, Oxford: Oxford University Press. 273-286. Hijmans, B.L. 1978. ‘Asinus numerosus’, in: B.L. Hijmans & R.Th. van der Paardt (eds.), Aspects of Apuleius Golden Ass, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis. 189-209. Jakobson, R. 1963. Essais de linguistique générale [trad. franç.], Paris : Ed de Minuit. Lafaye, G. 1916. ‘Litanie grecque d’Isis’, RPh 40 : 55-108. Luque Moreno, J. 1995. De pedibus et metris, Granada : Editorial Universidad de Granada. Luque Moreno, J. 2006a. Puntos y comas, Granada : Editorial Universidad de Granada. Luque Moreno, J. 2006b Accentus. El canto del lenguaje, Granada: Editorial Universidad de Granada. Meschonnic, H. 1982. Critique du rythme, Paris : Lagrasse, Verdier. Pasetti, L. 1999. ‘La morfologia della preghiera nelle Metamorfosi di Apuleio’, Eikasmos 10 : 247-271. Pierrot, J. 1994. ‘Décadentisme’. Dictionnaire Universel des Littératures, Paris : PUF. Raynaud, E. 1920. La mêlée symboliste : portraits et souvenirs, Paris : La Renaissance du Livre ; nouvelle édition 1971, Paris : Nizet.

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L’exemplarité de séquences telles que celles du livre XI a occulté une forme spécifique de poésie touchant les realia, dans l’évocation desquelles mots et rythme donnent une image sublimée du réel. Une étude approfondie de cet aspect, portant sur le système d’énoncé et, surtout, son organisation rythmique reste à faire.

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Reardon, B.P. 1971. Courants littéraires grecs des IIe et IIIe siècle après J.-C., Paris : Les Belles Lettres. Reardon, B.P. 1984. ‘The Second Sophistic’, in: W.E. Treadgold, ed., Renaissances before the Renaissance. Cultural Revivals of Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 23-41. Tatum, J. 1979. Apuleius and the Golden Ass, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Valéry, P. 1953. Charmes (Commentés par Alain), Paris : Gallimard. Westermann, J.F. 1939. Archaische en archaistische Woordkunst, Nijmegen & Utrecht: Dekker & van der Vegt.

Lucianic (and ‘un-Lucianic’) moments in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses M AAIKE Z IMMERMAN University of Groningen

τῷ ‘πατρὶ τοῦ λόγου’ χαριστήριον This essay is but a small token of my admiration of, and deep feelings of friendship for Bryan Reardon. I feel it a privilege to have known him, and I profited greatly from his unfailing guidance in all kinds of matters, and enjoyed his humour and his mildly ironic comments. While studying Latin fictional prose of the first centuries of our era, I learned very much from Bryan’s works on the Greek literature of that same period. I thank the editors of this volume for inviting me to be part of this enterprise. Bryan Reardon’s Courants littéraires grecs des IIe et IIIe siècles après J.-C. was one of my first ‘bibles’ when I was striving to acquire an insight into the wider literary and cultural background of Apuleius, the author to whom I devoted most of the latter part of my career. It was also this book that kindled my interest in Lucian of Samosata, not least because much of what I learned about Lucian there appeared to me to be equally valid for an assessment of the literary persona of Apuleius. How could one for instance better express the uniqueness of Apuleius among his contemporary ‘sophists’ than by the following characterisation of a difference between Lucian and other sophists, a difference in dealing with the burden of their rhetorical education: ‘Si la paideia tue, c’est en étouffant, et non pas en empoisonnant. Mais Lucien … n’eut pas peur de respirer. Examinons, brièvement, son système respiratoire; son « esprit », en somme.’1 In my short contribution I will suggest that many passages in Apuleius’ novel reveal an affinity of ‘système respiratoire’ and ‘esprit’ with the work of Lucian, an affinity that is in my opinion more worthwhile investigating than occupying oneself with the ————— 1

Reardon 1971, 171. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 251–267

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insoluble question regarding the precise Greek (and for some Lucianic) origin of Apuleius’ fabula graecanica.

1. A continuing debate The relation between Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, the ‘pseudolucianic’ Λούκιος ἢ ὄνος (henceforth: the Onos), and the lost Greek Μεταμορφώσεις has been much debated, and has even been called by one scholar, ‘uno sterile battibecco asinino’.2 The related issue whether Lucian is the author either of the lost Greek work, or of the Onos, or of neither work, is equally much-discussed and various theories have been proposed. It is not my intention here to re-open those debates, and instead I hope to offer some clues that point to a more interesting relationship between Apuleius’ Latin Metamorphoses and some works of Lucian. Regarding the issues mentioned above, I take my cue from the main points resulting from the survey by Mason (1994):3 1) the Onos is an epitome; it is unlikely to have altered substantially the purpose of its original. Its author is unknown.4 Even as abbreviated, the Onos presents a lively and fairly consistent narrative.5 2) The Μεταμορφώσεις, now lost, but read by Photios (9th century CE), may have included material other than the ass-story. The first two books corresponded in content to the Onos. There may have been digressions, but not necessarily the same as those in Apuleius; it was similar in tone to the Onos, light and amusing rather than positively satirical; there may, however, have been an element of ridicule of true believers and wonder-seekers like the naive narrator of the tale. The author is not its first-person narrator, ‘Loukios of Patrai’, as Photios believed. The identity of the actual author cannot now be determined, although much recent scholarship has leaned towards Perry’s suggestion that it was Lucian.6 The work must have been

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6

Bianco 2001, 155. Abbreviating only here and there, I quote Mason’s Conclusion: Mason 1994, 1700-1701. Mason 1999, 104 f. argues decisively against Lucian as the author of the Onos. Recently, Tim Whitmarsh (2010/2013) has eloquently defended the idea that Lucian was the author of the Onos. However, as Karen ní Mheallaigh rightly states, ‘perhaps even the entire question of authorship itself is anachronistic for a text that is better understood as part of a “text-network” than a single-authored text in the more traditional sense’ (2014, 126 n.74). The ass-tale seems to have belonged to a fluid text-network of popular literature in antiquity and was probably subliterary for a long time before emerging into the literary record in both Latin and Greek. Recent papyrus discoveries show us that it may even have circulated in the form of a mime as well as in the more familiar novelistic format. Perry 1920.

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written at the end of the first century C.E., or the beginning of the second.7 3) Apuleius adapted the lost Greek Μεταμορφώσεις; but his adaptation in matters both large and small demonstrates a wide range of fidelity to the original, and the creative use of a variety of other sources. He occasionally follows his source carefully, but in general his version of the story reflects his own attitudes and techniques. Thus far the conclusive points made by Mason. I will return to some of these points below. But, first, I will present a number of ‘Lucianic’ moments in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses:

2. Lucianic moments in Apuleius’ tale of Cupid and Psyche In the tale of Cupid and Psyche, Zephyrus is repeatedly presented as a servant of Cupid, and, accordingly, of Psyche: in the first instance, Zephyrus carries Psyche from the rock to a locus amoenus which later on is known to be Cupid’s palace garden: Psychen autem, paventem ac trepidantem et in ipso scopuli vertice deficientem, mitis aura molliter spirantis Zephyri vibratis hinc inde laciniis et reflato sinu sensim levatam suo tranquillo spiritu vehens paulatim per devexa rupis excelsae vallis subditae florentis cespitis gremio leniter delapsam reclinat But as Psyche, anxious and trembling, was almost fainting right on top of the mountain, a mild breeze of the calmly blowing Zephyr slowly lifted her, the edges of her raiment waving to and fro and her dress billowing; and with his serene spirit gradually carrying her down the slopes of the elevated rock, he gently made her glide down and lie back in the bosom of a flowering meadow in a valley down beneath (Apul. Met. 4,35,4).8 ————— 7

8

This dating of the Μεταμορφώσεις is one of the arguments against Lucian as its author: ‘… if Apuleius adapted Lucian, we need to consider how a Greek Μεταμορφώσεις would fit into various proposals for the chronology of Lucian’s work, and how that can be related to suggested publication dates for the Golden Ass’. Thus Mason 1999, 105; and ibid.: ‘The case for Lucian remains unproven, and the author of the Μεταμορφώσεις unidentified, since none of the alternative candidates suggested has obtained general consent’. See also Hall 1981, 354-355; Harrison 2000, 218 and n. 34. Textual citations from Apuleius’ Metamorphoses are given according to Zimmerman 2012. All translations from Apuleius’ Metamorphoses are taken from the volumes of the Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius series, with some adaptations of my own.

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As von Möllendorff has pointed out,9 an interesting parallel for winds as servants of the gods is Lucian, VH 2,14, where the winds serve the guests at the symposium in the city of the blessed. The parallel is quite subtle: Zephyr is the only wind blowing on the isle of the blessed, and this wind there serves ψυχαί! From Met. 5,14 onward, Psyche’s sisters, out of jealousy for their younger sister’s blessed life in the palace of Cupid, plot to destroy Psyche. They treacherously approach her, thus gradually succeeding in convincing Psyche that her unknown husband is a monster that will devour her. Their slanderous assaults on Psyche/Soul are presented in terms of the enemies’ siege and capture of a beleaguered city, culminating in Met. 5,19,5: Tunc nanctae iam portis patentibus nudatum sororis animum facinerosae mulieres, omissis tectae machinae latibulis, destrictis gladiis fraudium simplicis puellae paventes cogitationes invadunt. The gates were open now, and those vicious women, having reached their sister’s defenceless mind, quit the concealment of their covered artillery, unsheathed the swords of their deception, and assaulted the timorous thoughts of the guileless girl.10 Stelios Panayotakis discusses among other texts Lucian’s treatise Calumniae non temere credendum, where Lucian offers various images depicting the methods of slanderers.11 Cf. for instance Cal. 19, where Lucian depicts slanderers as warriors who besiege a city: They [slanderers] assail whatever part of the soul they perceive to be weak, unsound and easy of access, bringing their siege-engines to bear on it and finally capturing it, as no one opposes them or notices their assault. Then, when they are once within the walls, they fire everything and smite and slay and banish; for all these things are likely to happen when the soul is captured and put in bondage. (trans. Harmon)

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Von Möllendorff 2000, 295. Here I have followed the translation of Hanson 1989. Panayotakis 1998, with extensive discussion of military terms and images as metaphors for artful trickery and deception, in Apuleius’ Met. and numerous other texts.

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The presentation of various Olympian gods in the tale of Cupid and Psyche, and their direct speeches reveal many similarities to Lucian’s Dialogi Deorum and other works of Lucian. Some instances: Apul. Met. 5,30,1: ‘Sed male prima tu a pueritia inductus es et acutas manus habes et maiores tuos irreverenter pulsasti totiens et ipsam matrem tuam, me inquam ipsam, parricida denudas cotidie et percussisti saepius et quasi viduam utique contemnis nec vitricum tuum fortissimum illum maximumque bellatorem metuis’: ‘But you were deceived by the errant impulses of early youth and have sharp hands, and you’ve insolently battered your elders so many times, and every day you strip bare your very own mother, my very self, you criminal, and you’ve struck me too often and you scorn me all the time as if I were a widow, and you do not even fear your stepfather, the strongest and greatest of all warriors.’ Venus’ complaint to Cupid here is very similar to Aphrodite’s complaint in Lucian. Dial. Deorum 19 (11), 1 and 20 (12), 1. – Lucian. Dial. deor. 19 (11), 1: ἐμὲ γοῦν αὐτὴν τὴν μητέρα οἷα δέδρακεν (‘such things he has done to me his mother’); – Lucian. Dial. deor. 20 (12), 1: ἃ γὰρ εἰς ἐμὲ τὴν μητέρα ὑβρίζεις (the outrages you do to me, your mother’). Apul. Met.5,31,4: ‘An ignoras eum masculum et iuvenem esse vel certe iam quot sit annorum oblita es? An, quod aetatem portat bellule, puer tibi semper videtur?’ ‘Don’t you know that he is a male and a young man, or surely you have forgotten how old he now is? Or does he, because he looks prettier than his years, still seem a boy to you?’ The arguments in defence of Cupid used here by Juno and Ceres in their dialogue with the angry Venus, are very much like the arguments Eros uses in his selfdefence in Lucian. Dial. deor. 6 (2),1: Ἀλλ’ εἰ καί τι ἥμαρτον, ὦ Ζεῦ, σύγγνωθί μοι· παιδίον γάρ εἰμι καὶ ἔτι ἄφρων (‘Even if I have done something wrong, Zeus, forgive me. For I’m a child and still silly’). The plea of Ceres and Juno, moreover, that Cupid looks prettier than his age, is reminiscent of Zeus’ ironic response to Eros’ self-defence in Lucian. Dial. deor. 6(2),1: Σὺ παιδίον ὁ Ἔρως, ὃς

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ἀρχαιότερος εἶ πολὺ Ἰαπετοῦ; ἢ διότι μὴ πώγωνα μηδὲ πολιὰς ἔφυσας διὰ ταῦτα καὶ βρέφος ἀξιοῖς νομίζεσθαι γέρων καὶ πανοῦργος ὤν; (‘You, Eros, a child? But you are more ancient than Iapetus. Or because you have not grown a beard or grey hair, do you for that reason ask to be considered a baby, when in fact you are a dirty old man?’) In Apul. Met. 6,7,1 Venus, who presents Psyche as a runaway slave (6,8,2: fugitivam … Veneris ancillam, … Psychen), engages the services of Mercury to track her down: Tunc se protinus ad Iovis regias arces dirigit et petitu superbo Mercuri dei vocalis, operae necessariam usuram postulat. Then she made her way at once to Jupiter’s regal citadel, and in a haughty appeal she demanded the indispensable use of the services of Mercury, the god of the clear voice. ‘He was the herald of the gods, now to be impressed as a town crier’. Thus Kenney on this passage.12 We find a similar representation of Hermes as the personal employee of Zeus in Lucian. Helm 1906/1967, 315 (see also Helm 1968, 223) compares Hermes’ role as a herald to catch runaway slaves on earth, both in the Fugitivi and Bis accusatus. Cf. Braun on Bis accus. 4, who enumerates the many instances in works of Lucian where Hermes has a role as Zeus’ agent on earth.13 Apul. Met. 6,17,4: Psyche intends to jump from a tower and thus commit suicide in order to make her journey to the Underworld; but the tower prevents this, and explains: ‘… Nam si spiritus corpore tuo semel fuerit seiugatus, ibis quidem profecto ad imum Tartarum, sed inde nullo pacto redire poteris’ ‘For if your spirit is once separated from your body, you will undoubtedly go down to the depths of Tartarus, but you will under no condition be able to return from there’. This is of course a well-known topos, but it is also used by Lucian, Dial. mort. 13,3: οὐ γὰρ θέμις ἀνελθεῖν τινα τῶν ἅπαξ τὴν λίμνην διαπλευσάντων (‘It is not ————— 12 13

Kenney 1990, 198. Braun 1994, 80, n. 2.

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allowed for any to return who have once sailed across the lake’). The Lucianic atmosphere of this part of the tower’s instructions to Psyche is strengthened by another Lucianic expression from the same dialogue. Cf. Apul. Met. 6,18,6: et moriens pauper viaticum debet quaerere et aes si forte prae manu non fuerit, nemo eum expirare patietur (‘and a dying poor man must find his fare, and unless a copper coin happens to be ready at hand, no one will allow him to let out his last breath’). Cf. Lucian. Dial. mort. 2 (22),2 (Menippus to Charon:) ᾔδειν μέν, οὐκ εἶχον δέ· τί οῦν; ἔχρην διὰ τοῦτο μὴ ἀποθανεῖν; (‘I knew, but I didn’t have one. So what? Should that have stopped me dying?’); cf. also Lucian. Luct. 10. Also the point made by the tower that Psyche should carry the two coins in her mouth for Charon in order to have her hands free for carrying barley cakes prepared with wine to lull Cerberus asleep, may be a humorous adaptation of the custom of placing a coin on the mouth of the dead person, mentioned by Lucian. Luct. 10: …ἐπειδάν τις ἀποθάνῃ τῶν οἰκείων, πρῶτα μὲν φέροντες ὀβολὸν εἰς τὸ στόμα κατέθηκαν αὐτῷ, μισθὸν τῷ πορθμεῖ τῆς ναυτιλίας γενησόμενον (‘when one of their relations dies, the first thing they do is to bring an obol and put it in his mouth, to pay the ferryman’). At Apul. Met. 6,22,3-4, Jupiter blames Cupid for having metamorphosed him into undignified animals: ‘Licet tu,’ inquit ‘domine fili, numquam mihi concessu deum decretum servaris honorem, sed istud pectus meum, quo leges elementorum et vices siderum disponuntur, convulneraris adsiduis ictibus, crebrisque terrenae libidinis foedaveris casibus, contraque leges et ipsam Iuliam disciplinamque publicam turpibus adulteriis existimationem famamque meam laeseris, in serpentes, in ignes, in feras, in aves, et gregalia pecua serenos vultus meos sordide reformando, …. ‘Though you’, he said, ‘my master and son, have never observed the respect decreed to me by consent of the gods, but have penetrated this heart of mine, by which the laws of the elements and the movements of the stars are ordained, through ceaseless wounds and violated it by frequent episodes of earthly lust, and though you have in defiance of the laws, even of the Julian law itself, and of public morals, injured my good reputation and status by humiliating transformation of my serene features into the shape of snakes, fire, wild animals, birds and beasts of the field …’

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‘Catalogues of this kind belong to the progymnasmata, as Bompaire has exhaustively shown: ps. Menander has the complete dossier’.14 Of course, Apuleius was familiar with such catalogues, but the dramatic frame of this whole scene in Apuleius, where Jupiter rebukes Cupid, is very similar to Lucian’s dialogue between Jupiter and Cupid at Dial. deor. 6 (2),1: ἐμοὶ μὲν οὕτως ἐντρυφᾷς ὥστε οὐδέν ἐστιν ὃ μὴ πεποίηκάς με, σάτυρον, ταῦρον, χρυσόν, κύκνον, ἀετόν (‘you treat me with such contempt that there is nothing you have not turned me into – satyr, bull, shower of gold, swan, eagle’).15 In Apul. Met. 6,23, a divine assembly takes place. This chapter offers many reminiscences of Roman satire (Lucilius, Seneca, Apocolocyntosis), and abounds with a typically Lucilian use of the technical language of Roman senatorial and other official proceedings. But there is here also an obvious play with the tradition of parodying epic divine councils, linked through the Lucianic instances (Concilium deorum and Icaromenippus) with the lost Menippean burlesques.16 The banquet of the gods at the wedding of Cupid and Psyche, in Apul. Met. 6,24, is very much like the divine symposium supposedly attended by Menippus in Lucian. Icaromen. 27, where, as here in Apuleius, different gods perform appropriate and sometimes amusing menial roles. That scene in Lucian may have a Menippean predecessor, but there is here a close similarity between the Lucianic dialogue and the Apuleian scene. The above list is by no means complete. However, I have now dwelt extensively enough on close similarities between several burlesque episodes in Apuleius’ tale of Cupid and Psyche and various works by Lucian. I have done so deliberately because, as all agree, the tale of Cupid and Psyche is certainly one of the genuinely Apuleian ‘additions’ to the Greek ass-tale,17 and yet, as we have seen, the tale reveals numerous ‘Lucianic moments’. We may therefore leave aside the shadowy question of whether Lucian was the author of the lost Greek Μεταμορφώσεις ————— 14 15 16

17

Thus Anderson 1976, 88, with full references. Cf. Helm 1914, 206 (= 1968, 229). For more details see the commentary on these chapters by Zimmerman, Panayotakis et alii 2004, 537-545. Opinions differ regarding the question as to which of the inset novellas and additional episodes that are found in the Latin Metamorphoses but not in the Onos may have had an equivalent in the lost Greek Μεταμορφώσεις, and which ones should be considered as Apuleius’ own additions. See Mason 1994, 1693-1695; 1699-1700. There is, however, a general consensus that the tale of Cupid and Psyche is a genuine Apuleian creation. Cf. Kenney 1990, 39, with n. 39.

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and/or the epitome, the Onos, and concentrate instead on general affinities between Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Lucian’s oeuvre.

3. Lucian and Apuleius. Affinities and correspondences It is well known that Lucian and Apuleius were exact contemporaries. Their birth dates have been estimated to be ca. 120 C.E. (Lucian), and 125 C.E. (Apuleius). But it is not only in their dates that they are similar. Although neither of them is mentioned in Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists, with its rather narrow focus, they both are typical representatives of the ‘pepaideumenoi in action’ who played an active part in the social and cultural world of the Second Sophistic as seen from the wider perspective offered by e.g. Anderson.18 A remarkable similarity between the two authors is that they both write in a language that is not their language of birth, and that they both proudly present themselves as ‘outsiders’ who have become most brilliant stylists in this language: Lucian. Bis accus. 34: …οὐκ ἂν οἶμαι μέμψαιτό μοι, ὡς θοἰμάτιον τοῦτο τὸ Ἑλληνικὸν περισπάσας αὐτοῦ βαρβαρικόν τι μετενέδυσα, καὶ ταῦτα βάρβαρος αὐτὸς εἶναι δοκῶν· … he (sc. Dialogue) cannot complain, I am sure, that I have stripped him of that Greek mantle and shifted him into a foreign one, even though I myself am considered foreign. (transl. Harmon).19 Cf. Apul. Apol. 4,1: Audisti ergo paulo prius in principio accusationis ita dici: ‘accusamus apud te philosophum formonsum et tam Graece quam Latine’ – pro nefas! – ‘disertissimum.’ Well, just now at the beginning of the accusation you heard them say ‘we accuse before you a philosopher, who is handsome and who, in both Greek and Latin’ – what a shame! – ‘is a very skilful speaker’.20 (transl. Hunink) ————— 18 19 20

Anderson 1989; 1990. See Braun 1994, 390 f. ad loc.; cf. also Lucian. Zeux. 2. In the Apology, Apuleius expresses pride in having mastered eloquence in both Latin and Greek through hard work (Apol. 5,1-2), though born a seminumida et semigaetulus (Apol. 24,1), and he utters contempt for those of his fellow countrymen who speak ‘only Punic’ (Apol. 98,8). The prominence in the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses of the issue of

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In this connection it may also be noted that Lucian and Apuleius share that extra sensibility in matters of language that one often meets in people who write (and think) in an acquired language that is not their sermo patrius.21 It has further been noted that there are remarkable similarities in structure and content between several of Lucian’s prolaliai and those of Apuleius’ Florida that may be considered prolaliai.22 It is not impossible that Lucian and Apuleius, who both travelled extensively throughout the Mediterranean world, and who moved in the same intellectual circles, had got to know each other in person. This must of course remain speculation, but one could at least imagine them sitting in one another’s audiences in one of the great cultural centres of that period during which they both travelled as much as their fellow sophists did, or in other ways taking notice of one another’s works. Many of the parallels between the Onos and Greek romances, enumerated by Anderson, are of course also paralleled in corresponding passages from Apuleius’ Metamorphoses.23 Here, I will mention only some examples that reveal a remarkable correspondence in the Metamorphoses with attitudes, themes, or ideas that are ubiquitous in various works by Lucian. The similarity of motifs in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and in works by Lucian like, for instance, Toxaris, Philopseudeis and Verae Historiae, has been carefully – though not always equally convincingly – elucidated by Anderson.24 Nevertheless, many of these motifs and themes are of the type of common collections of stock material, from which authors and rhetoricians could choose and adapt in view of their own aims. However, besides both being masters in variation of themes and motifs, Apuleius and Lucius also ————— 21

22

23 24

achieving eloquence in a foreign language may also be slightly autobiographical. See Dowden 2001, 129 f.; Keulen 2007, 79 (on Apul. Met. 1,1,4). For Lucian cf. Nesselrath 2002, 27: ‘… eine grosse Sensibilität in sprachlichen Dingen … (vielleicht nicht zuletzt deshalb, weil er aus einem gemischtsprachigen Gebiet stammt)’. See also Nesselrath ibid. n. 42. For Apuleius see e.g. Gwyn Griffiths 1975, 59-60.; 64; Kenney 1990, 2, and the discussion of Apuleius’ penchant for word play and etymologizing to be in part explained by his bi (tri-)lingualism by Nicolini 2007, 127 f., with bibliography in notes. The term ‘prolalia’ is used conveniently to indicate the type of short, epideictic pieces that orators composed as (often even multi-applicable) prologues to their longer rhetorical performances. Menander Rhetor (2,388,16) applies the term ‘lalia’ to this kind of introductory pieces. For Lucian’s prolaliai see Reardon 1971, 165-167; Branham 1985; Nesselrath 1990. For some of Apuleius’ Florida as prolaliai and comparison with those of Lucian see Mras 1949; extensive discussion by La Rocca 2005, 27-34, with references in notes 53-84. Cf. Anderson 1976, chapter VI, passim, esp. 86 f. See previous note.

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are very much alike each other, and at the same time unique among their fellow ‘sophists’, in their ability to handle and combine their common stock material in a creative and kaleidoscopic manner.25 Both Lucian and Apuleius with their literary allusions address an audience that is well versed in the whole of the literary tradition, and able to add meaning to the intricate intertextual network that both authors create. That there is an aspect of ‘self-fashioning’ involved in their ingenious intertextual play has been pointed out for both authors.26 Both in Apuleius’ Apology and in his Metamorphoses, the author’s knowledge of and interest in magical practices like witchcraft, love spells, necromancy, are obvious. Lucian, too, in many of his writings, displays a similar knowledge of and interest in magical practices. While Apuleius’ own attitude to magic is, to say the least, ambiguous, even in the Apology, where he has to defend himself against the charge of being a magician,27 Lucian is unambiguous in his complete rejection of magic as being a superfluous art that plays upon people’s vain hopes.28 Both authors, however, give plenty of room to tales of wonder and magic, obviously being sensitive to the rich narrative potential of such tales.29 In Lucian’s Philopseudeis the charm of the tales of magic is in tension with the moralistic outrage of Tychiades about these ‘lies’.30 In several works of Lucian, a dislike for, and satire of, religious charlatans who act out their ritual charades, is prominent.31 We may well compare the narrator’s unsympathetic presentation of the priests of the Dea Syria in Apul. Met. 8,25-9,10. Elsewhere I have in this connection discussed Lucian’s and Apuleius’ handling of the motif of temple robbery.32 The adultery tales in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses display similarities with Lucian’s Dialogues of the Courtesans, as Anderson has shown.33

————— 25

26

27 28 29 30 31

32 33

Repetition of motifs: for Lucian cf. Anderson 1976, 10 ff.; for Apuleius: Junghanns 1932, Index s.v. ‘Motivwiederholung’. Cf. Anderson 1994, 13; 1976, 50 ff. For this aspect of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses cf. Finkelpearl 1998; Harrison 2000, 220-226; for Lucian, cf. von Möllendorff 2000, 16 ff., referring for the concept of ‘self-fashioning’ to Hinds’ theory of intertextuality (Hinds. 1998, 138; 140-141). Cf. e.g. Apology 43. See Nesselrath 2002a, with rich references. Nesselrath 2002a,166. Cf. Ogden 2004, 493 n.45. Cf. Anderson 1976, 19 ff. See also the discussion on this subject, and comparison of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Lucian’s Philopseudeis in Kirichenko 2010, ch.6: ‘The Ass from Cymae: Lucius’ life as a Lucianic satire’. Cf. Zimmerman 2007. Anderson 1976, 65 f.

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Several other thematic correspondences between the two authors could be mentioned, but I will conclude this enumeration by highlighting one such correspondence in particular. Right from the first chapters of the first book of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, questions of credulity, and of belief and disbelief in tales of magic and other wonder tales, emerge as an important theme in this novel. Significantly, different attitudes towards such tales – belief, disbelief, and the suspension of disbelief for the sake of enjoying a fictional tale – are all represented immediately before the first tale of magic is under way, and they return after the tale has come to an end, as well as in other passages of the Metamorphoses.34 In Apuleius Met. 1,3,3, in the famous debate between the sceptical traveller and Lucius (the first person narrator of the Met.), the sceptic expresses himself in terms that are very similar to the reactions of Tychiades to the credulity of the philosophers listening to tales of magic in Lucian’s Philopseudeis: Lucian. Philops. 37: ‘Οὐ παύσεσθε,’ ἦν δ’ ἐγώ, ‘τὰ τοιαῦτα τερατολογοῦντες γέροντες ἄνδρες;’ ‘Will you never stop telling such buncombe, old men as you are?’ said I (transl. Harmon) Apul. Met. 1,2,5 (Lucius overhears a conversation between two travellers): alter exerto cachinno ‘Parce', inquit, ‘in verba ista haec tam absurda tamque immania mentiendo.’ one of them, with an obtrusive guffaw, said: ‘Stop ventilating in that talk of yours such repellent and such monstrous falsehoods.’ (trans. Keulen) In Lucian. Philops. 2, Tychiades, addressing his dialogue partner, expresses his amazement and annoyance at the fact that even excellent men, otherwise sensible and remarkable for their intelligence, delight in deceiving themselves and their associates with wonder tales. A similar remark is made to Lucius by the sceptic traveller after Aristomenes has told his tale, in Apul. Met. 1,20,2. ————— 34

See relevant discussion in Winkler 1985, 32; 42; 44; 120 ff. Cf. e.g. Apul. Met. 1,3,3; 1,20; 2,11,6 ff.; 7,9 f.: the robbers to their misfortune believe all that ‘Haemus’ has told them; cf. also the credulous husbands in some of the adultery tales of Book Nine, and the disastrous credulity of the father (the ‘Theseus’) in the ‘Phaedra Tale’ in Book Ten, who immediately believes the lies of his second wife (Met. 10,5).

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Those who believe in miracle tales call the incredulous person ἀσεβὴς οὗτός γε καὶ ἀνόητος, (‘that man [is] a sacrilegious fool’, Lucian. Philops. 3); in Apul. Met. 1,3,3 the believer Lucius addresses the sceptic traveller with ‘Minus … calles pravissimis opinionibus ea putari mendacia quae vel auditu nova vel visu rudia vel certe supra captum cogitationis ardua videantur.’ (‘You do not comprehend that because of people’s depraved notions those things are called lies, that seem novel to the ear or unfamiliar to the eye or at any rate too arduous to be within their mental grasp’) (trans. Keulen). It is not difficult to find other similarities in the debates about disbelief and credulity in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Lucian’s Philopseudeis.35 While the first-person narrator of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Lucius, in his eagerness to hear the tale, uses the same arguments in defence of those who delight and believe in tales of magic as does Eukrates in Lucian’s Philopseudeis, he mentions an important additional quality to the tale after it has been told: its providing agreeable distraction to the listener(s). This attitude of suspension of disbelief for the sake of enjoying a good fictional tale is absent from the debate in Lucian’s Philopseudeis, but it emerges clearly from the prologue to another work by Lucian, the Verae Historiae: in the prologue, the narrator of the Verae Historiae promises the reader ‘food for thought as well as pleasure’. Such a promise of the combination of pleasure and careful reading is present too in the prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, and appears to be summarised in the prologue’s famous final words, lector intende, laetaberis.36

4. Lucian and Apuleius. Differences There are, however, some important differences as well as correspondences between Lucian and Apuleius, and these may again be illustrated by their handling of the theme of belief and disbelief. Whereas the narrator, both in Philopseudeis and in the Verae Historiae, alerts his audience and does everything to convince them that one should not believe any of the ‘lies’ he (and others) are telling, the narrator of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, who in the first chapters of the novel sides with those who argue that even unbelievable tales may still be true (see above), in the concluding, eleventh book of the Metamorphoses invites the audience to believe in an epiphany of Isis, and in the miracle of his magical transformation by divine aid, and in his subsequent ‘conversion’ to Isis and Osiris. This is not in contradiction to Winkler’s argument that the Golden Ass ‘insistently raises and ————— 35 36

See also Kirichenko 2010, 131-132, with references. Cf. Keulen 2007, 90 ad loc. See also Smith 2001, 90.

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evades the question of its own authoritative meaning as a way of illustrating and actually reproducing the state of aporia toward the cosmos that can only be resolved by a radically individual and unsharable leap of faith’.37 Apuleius has the protagonist and ego-narrator of the Metamorphoses make that leap of faith in any case, and leaves it up to the readers to follow along – or not. As regards the theme of metamorphosis itself, the narrator of Apuleius’ novel appears on the whole to endorse the pronouncement, as voiced for instance by Socrates in the pseudepigraphic ‘Platonic’ dialogue Halcyon (wrongly transmitted in the corpus of Lucian’s writings),38 that both the gods and nature are capable of creations so fantastic that they cannot adequately be judged according to criteria of δυνατόν and ἀδύνατον. In Lucian’s Verae Historiae 2,40, on the other hand, there is a clear parody of the Halcyon, and of the transformation myth of Ceyx and Alcyone.39 Also in Philopseudeis, the narrator mocks those who believe in, for instance, ‘ … ὡς ἐκ γυναικός τις εἰς ὄρνεον … μετέπεσεν’ (‘… how some woman changed into a bird’). As Müller in his discussion of the Halcyon argues, there must in late Hellenistic times have been a much broader and livelier philosophical debate on the problem of metamorphosis than the evidence transmitted to us allows us to presume.40 We may wonder whether a voice was added to this debate by the unknown author of the longer, lost work, Μεταμορφώσεις, who had composed a compendium of various metamorphosis tales in several books, of which only the two books mentioned by Photios as being composed by ‘Loukios of Patrai’, presented the ass-tale.41 The author of the Onos adapted that ass-tale to his own, frivolous ends, and Apuleius, well aware of both the Μεταμορφώσεις and the Onos, in his turn adapted the Greek ass-tale to add his own, idiosyncratic voice to the philosophical debate, giving his work the title Metamorphoses.42 We know, and Photios knew, through Lucian’s other works, what Lucian’s position must have been in this debate. Lucian may, or may not have had a hand in the Greek part of the triangle Μεταμορφώσεις – Onos – Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (see above, section 1). I might add that both Apuleius and Lucian always make strong demands on the recipients of their texts, the readers. As such they are concerned with quite ————— 37 38 39

40 41

42

Winkler 1985, 125. Cf. Müller 1975, 272 f. Full discussion in von Möllendorff 2000, 462 f.; von Möllendorff, however, appears to regard the Halcyon as a genuine Lucianic dialogue. Cf. Müller 1975, 315 f. The voice of a ‘believer’, according to the remarks by Photios about this otherwise unknown work. See, however, Kussl 1990, 384 f. Winkler (1985, 292-321) has made a strong case for a double title of Apuleius’ novel, with a Latin part and a Greek part: Asinus Aureus. Περὶ Μεταμορφώσεων.

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another kind of metamorphosis: the metamorphic power of the text – the startling way in which we, the readers, out of intellectual curiosity, are transformed by the texts we choose to read, whether we like it, whether we even realize it or not.43 Lucian and Apuleius were both masters in the telling of short stories, but, unlike Apuleius, who wrote a novel in eleven books, Lucian did not write a novel, because he knew himself: he did not have the ability to write a prolonged history describing the road through life of a human being/human beings, or a long-winded narrative centred around one theme. This is my paraphrase in English of what Bryan Reardon, to whose memory this essay is dedicated, wrote in conclusion to his essay ‘Lucien et la fiction’: ‘… il savait qu’il n’était pas esprit à concevoir, à grande échelle, le thème majeur qu’était celui de l’être humain faisant son chemin dans la vie, et il s’est trouvé d’autres échappatoires. S’il n’écrivit pas de roman, c’est qu’il n’en avait pas le souffle’. Apuleius did have the esprit, and enough breath, to write his novel, The Golden Ass.

Bibliography Anderson, G. 1976. Studies in Lucian’s Comic Fiction, Mnemosyne Supplementum 43, Leiden: Brill. Anderson, G. 1989. ‘The Pepaideumenos in action: Sophists and their outlook in the Early Empire’, ANRW II.33.1, Berlin & New York: De Gruyter, 79-208. Anderson, G. 1990. ‘The Second Sophistic. Some problems of perspective’, in: D. Russell (ed.), Antonine Literature, Oxford & New York: Clarendon Press, 91-110. Anderson, G. 1994. ‘Lucien fabuliste: à la recherche de quelques thèmes populaires’, in: A. Billault (ed.), Lucien de Samosate. Actes du colloque international de Lyon organisé au Centre d’études romaines et gallo-romaines les 30 septembre – 1er octobre 1993, Paris: Boccard, 13-17. Bianco, G. 2001. ‘Ancora sulla fonte Greca delle Metamorfosi di Apuleio’, in: F. Bertini (ed.), Giornate filologiche, “Francesco della Corte” II, Genova: Università di Genova, Facoltà di Lettere, Dipartimento di Archeologia, Filologia Classica e loro Tradizioni, 155-169. Branham, R.B. 1985. ‘Introducing a Sophist: Lucian’s Prologues’, TAPhA 115, 237-243. Braun, E. 1994. Lukian. Unter doppelter Anklage. Ein Kommentar, Studien zur klassischen Philologie 85, Frankfurt a.M. etc.: Peter Lang. Dowden, K. 2001. ‘Prologic, predecessors, and prohibitions’, in: A. Kahane & A. Laird (eds.), A Companion to the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 123-136.

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I here paraphrase Karen ní Mheallaigh (2014, 137-143), who in this respect compares Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose with the Onos and Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. Interestingly, Eco in The Name of the Rose refers to both these classical texts.

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Ebner, M., Gzella, H., Nesselrath, H.-G. & Ribbat, e. (eds.). 2002. Lukian. Die Lügenfreunde oder der Ungläubige, SAPERE Band III, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Finkelpearl, E.D. 1998. Metamorphosis of Language in Apuleius. A Study of Allusion in the Novel, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Gwyn Griffiths, J. 1975. Apuleius of Madauros. The Isis-Book (Metamorphoses, Book XI), edited with an introduction, translation and commentary, Leiden: Brill. Hall, J.A. 1981. Lucian’s Satire, New York: Arno Press. Hanson, J.A. 1989, Apuleius, Metamorphoses, with an English Translation. 2 Volumes, The Loeb Classical Library, Cambridge Mass. & London: Harvard University Press. Harmon, A.M. 1936. Lucian. With an English Translation. In Eight Volumes, The Loeb Classical Library, Cambridge Mass.& London: Harvard University Press. Harrison, S.J. 2000. Apuleius. A Latin Sophist, Oxford & New York: Oxford University Press. Helm, R. 1906/1967. Lukian und Menipp. Leipzig & Berlin: Teubner; reprinted Hildesheim: Georg Olms. Helm, R. 1914/1968. ‘Das Märchen von Amor und Psyche’, Neue Jahrbücher für das Klassische Altertum 33, 170-209); reprinted in: G. Binder & R. Merkelbach (eds.), Amor und Psyche, Wege der Forschung Band 126, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 175-234. Hinds, S. 1998. Allusion and Intertext. Dynamics of appropriation in Roman poetry, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hunink, V. 2002. ‘Apology. Introduction and Translation’, in: S. Harrison, J. Hilton & V. Hunink (eds.), Apuleius. Rhetorical Works, Oxford & New York: Oxford University Press, 11-121. Junghanns, P. 1932. Die Erzählungstechnik von Apuleius’ Metamorphoses und ihrer Vorlage, Leipzig: Dieterich’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung. Kenney, E. 1990. Apuleius. Cupid and Psyche, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Keulen, W.H. 2007. Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius. Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses Book I. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Kirichenko, A. 2010. A Comedy of Storytelling. Theatricality and Narrative in Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter. Kussl, R. 1990. ‘Die Metamorphosen des ‘Lukios von Patrai’. Untersuchungen zu Phot. Bibl. 129’, RhM 133, 379-388. La Rocca, A. 2005. Il filosofo e la città. Commento storico ai Florida di Apuleio, Roma: «L‘Erma» di Bretschneider. Mason, H.J. 1994. ‘Greek and Latin versions of the Ass-Story’, ANRW II.34.2, Berlin-New York: De Gruyter, 1666-1707. Mason, H.J. 1999. ‘Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: Greek sources’, in: H. Hofmann (ed.), Latin Fiction. The Latin Novel in Context, London & New York: Routledge. ní Mheallaigh, K. 2014. Reading Fiction with Lucian: Fakes, Freaks, and Hyperreality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mras, K. 1949. ‘Apuleius’ Florida im Rahmen ähnlicher Literatur’, AAWW 86, 205-223. Müller, C.W. 1975. Die Kurzdialoge der Appendix Platonica, München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag. Nesselrath, H.-G. 1990. ‘Lucian’s introductions’, in: D. A. Russell (ed.), Antonine Literature, Oxford & New York: Clarendon Press, 111-140. Nesselrath, H.-G. 2002. ‘Lukian: Leben und Werk’, in: Ebner, Gzella, Nesselrath & Ribbat (eds.) 2002, 11-31. Nesselrath, H.-G. 2002a. ‘Lukian und die Magie’, in: Ebner, Gzella, Nesselrath & Ribbat (eds.) 2002, 153-166.

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Nicolini, L. 2007. ‘Ad (l)usum lectoris: giochi di parole nelle Metamorfosi di Apuleio’, MD 58, 115-179. Ogden, D. 2004. ‘Eucrates and Demainete: Lucian, Philopseudes 27-8’, CQ 54, 484-493. Perry, B.E. 1920. The Metamorphoses of Lucius of Patrae (dissertation Princeton University), New York: G.F. Stechert. Panayotakis, S. 1998. ‘Slander and warfare in Apuleius’ tale of Cupid and Psyche’, in: M. Zimmerman et alii (eds.), Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass Volume II. Cupid and Psyche. Groningen, Egbert Forsten, 151-164. Reardon, B.P. 1971. Courants littéraires grecs des IIe et IIIe siècles après J.-C., Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Reardon, B.P. 1994. ‘Lucien et la fiction’, in: A. Billault (ed.), Lucien de Samosate. Actes du colloque international de Lyon organisé au Centre d’études romaines et gallo-romaines les 30 septembre – 1er octobre 1993, Paris: Boccard, 9-12. Smith, W.S. 2001. ‘Apuleius and Luke: prologue and epilogue in conversion contexts’, in: A. Kahane & A. Laird (eds.), A Companion to the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 88-98. von Möllendorff, P. 2000. Auf der Suche nach der verlogenen Wahrheit. Lukians Wahre Geschichten, Classica Monacensia Band 21, Tübingen: Gunter Narr Verlag. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor & Actor. A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’s Golden Ass, Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press. Whitmarsh, T. 2010. ‘The Metamorphoses of the Ass’ in F. Mestre & P. Gómez (edd.), Lucian of Samosata, Greek Writer and Roman Citizen. Barcelona: Publicacions i edicions de la Universitat de Barcelona, 133-141; reprinted in Whitmarsh 2013, 75-85. Whitmarsh, T. 2013. Beyond the Second Sophistic. Adventures in Greek Postclassicism, Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press. Zimmerman, M., Panayotakis, S. et alii. 2004. Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius. Apuleius Madaurensis. Books IV 28-35, V and VI 1-24. The Tale of Cupid and Psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Zimmerman, M. 2007. ‘Aesop, the Onos, The Golden Ass, and a hidden treasure’, in: M. Paschalis et alii (eds.), The Greek and the Roman Novel. Parallel Readings, Ancient Narrative Suppl. 8, Groningen: Barkhuis & Groningen University Library, 277-292. Zimmerman, M. 2012. Apulei Metamorphoseon Libri XI. Oxford Classical Texts, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Filippo Beroaldo’s use of Roman Law in his Commentary (1500) on Apuleius’ Golden Ass G ERALD S ANDY University of British Columbia

Social historians have been quarrying the Apuleian corpus for evidence of what Fergus Millar calls ‘realistic images of social and economic relations, the framework of communal life in a Roman province and even, here and there, … the wider context of what it meant to be a subject of the Roman Empire’ for far longer than is often supposed.1 Not surprisingly, the Apology has received its share of attention since it purports to be Apuleius’ defence of himself before the proconsul of Africa, Claudius Maximus, during the period spanning the years 158-159, against charges of practising magic.2 The Golden Ass, on which I shall be concentrating, has also attracted considerable interest from social historians because, like the Apology, it is convincingly grounded in the present of the time of the story and contains a wealth of vivid and apparently realistic details of social relations.3 The two Apuleian works differ radically, however, in what the mediaeval commentators called the writer’s intentio.4 Apuleius faced at least exile and possibly death if convicted of practising magic; his trial was not a suitable occasion for him to indulge in levity at his own expense.5 The Golden Ass, on the other hand, is overtly light in tone: Lector intende: laetaberis (Apul. Met. 1,1). Except for Summers 1970 and 1972, whose goal is to detect verisimilitude in Apuleius’ references to Roman law and legal practices, the scholars cited above in note 3 allow ————— 1 2

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Millar 1981, 63. All dates are AD unless otherwise specified. Among the many studies of legal matters in the Apology the most comprehensive include Bradley 1997, chapter 2 of Harrison 2000, chapter 1 of Norden 1912, which summarizes and augments earlier studies, and Winter 1968. E.g. Elster 1991, Keulen 1997, Maehler 1981, Millar 1981, Norden 1912, Osgood 2006, and Summers 1970 and 1972. Beroaldo 1500, 2vo, Sandy 2007, 417. Bradley 1997, 207. Literary Currents and Romantic Forms, 269–298

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for Apuleius’ humorous intentions in what may be otherwise accurate representations of Roman legal practices. Even Norden, whom Keulen groups with Summers, is not blind to the humour of Roman law being cited incongruously, as, for example, when the praeco acknowledges that he may be breaking the Lex Cornelia by selling Lucius the donkey as though it were a Roman citizen.6 Perhaps the most sensible policy is that of Beroaldo himself, who treats the legal terminology as metaphors, as do Krautter, Bernhard and Keulen.7 In the following pages I shall attempt to give an impression of Beroaldo’s explanations of Apuleius’ depictions of Roman law and legal practices in the Golden Ass. I shall do so under two headings: (1) Language and style and (2) Critical scholarship. First, however, a few words should be said about the reception of Roman law in Beroaldo’s native city; and Beroaldo himself should be placed in context. Thanks to two recent monographs very little needs to be said about the reception of Apuleius in the Renaissance beyond the subject of this article.8 In the Latin West, including Italy, where the so-called Lex romana visigothorum prevailed, the Digest, which comprised the codification of Roman law promulgated by Justinian on 16 December 533, was scarcely known during the early Middle Ages.9 The sudden outburst of the study of Roman law in Italy late in the eleventh century and later is probably linked to the rediscovery of the Digest at that time in two sets of manuscripts, the (now lost) Codex S(ecundus), from which the Littera bononensis is derived, and the so-called Littera florentina (MS F), from which, with the exception of one fragment, all manuscripts of the Digest descend.10 MS F was taken as a prize of war from Pisa by Florence in 1406, where it remains to this day in the Biblioteca medicea laurenziana. ————— 6

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Apul. Met. 8,24,4 (‘quamquam enim prudens crimen Corneliae legis incurram, si civem Romanum pro servo tibi vendidero’); Beroaldo 1500, 183; Keulen 1997, 203; Norden 1912, 84 (see also Beroaldo 1500, 116 on concubinas at Apul. Met. 7,16). I use the abbreviations for Latin authors and works listed in the Oxford Latin Dictionary. Bernhard 1927, 194-199, Krautter 1971, 116-122, Keulen 1997. See also Beroaldo 1500, 64vo (Apul. Met. 3,12), 138vo-139 (Apul. Met. 6,29) and 171 (Apul. Met. 8,7), where Beroaldo uses translatio. Krautter 1971, 116, n. 163 endorses the view of Norden 1912, 8, n. 2 that Beroaldo and Scipio Gentilis (Scipione Gentili) in his 1607 edition of the Apology appreciate the jeu d’esprit of Apuleius’ use of legal metaphors. Krautter 1971, 117, provides other instances of Beroaldo’s use of translatio for Apuleius’ legal metaphors. Carver 2007 and Gaisser 2008. Ciapponi (ed.) 1995, ‘Introduction’, and Raimondi 1950, 77-99, provide details of Beroaldo’s intellectual context. The version of the Digest issued in 533 is a revised version of a work issued in 529 of which no copies survive. The Littera florentina, also known as the Littera pisana or Codex florentinus, a codex of 907 folios, dates to within a few decades of the official promulgation of the Digest in 529/533. For a detailed discussion of this codex see Müller 1990, Radding and Ciaralli 2006 and Baldi 2010.

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Whatever the reason, the nascent University of Bologna became the principal centre for the study of Roman law late in the eleventh century. Its students at the time of Beroaldo’s tenure, many of whom were transmonti, coming in large numbers from central Europe, especially Germany, were advanced. They were studying for the licentiate, roughly equivalent to master’s and doctoral degrees, principally in law and medicine.11 Beroaldo describes Thomas Tirstenius, for instance, as iuris pontifici insignibus decoratus.12 Beroaldo gave private lessons to him and his friend Sebastian von Rotenhan (de Rubro Gallo), utriusque iuris doctor, in the house of Sigmund von Hohenlohe, which served as ‘a school of oratory and a meeting place for the study of the humanities’.13 The Czech Bohuslaw Hassenstein von Lobkowicz studied with Beroaldo and became a doctor of canon law, as did his friends Peter Schott of Strassburg (Argentaria) and the German Vitus Mäler, both of whom became doctores utriusque iuris.14 After his death in 1505, 200 of Beroaldo’s approximately 300 students left Bologna and its university.15 Late in the fifteenth century, during Beroaldo’s tenure at the university, there were several prominent professors of law; and the illustrious jurist Andrea Alciato (1492-1550) spent a few years on its staff soon after the time of Beroaldo.16 Lodovico Bolognini’s tenure at the University of Bologna overlapped with that of ————— 11

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Grendler 1999, 476-477. Nicolaus Copernicus, for example, was 23 when he enrolled in the Faculty of Law at the university in 1496; he did not complete a degree there in the subject, but attained a doctorate in canon law at the University of Ferrara. Beroaldo 1500, 91vo expresses the hope that …he ‘will be able to continue to serve the enterprise of learning and … to contribute to the common good of students of eloquence and candidates for degrees in the professions’ (…poteroque studiosis eloquentiae et candidatis doctrinarum in commune consulere). The reference to Thomas Tirstenius occurs in the epistolary dedication of Beroaldo’s commentary on Aulus Gellius’ Attic Nights (fol. sign. avo in the Bologna edition of 1503). Rose 2001, 104-144, has consolidated much of the information about Beroaldo’s known students. …oratoriae disciplinae gymnasium et elegantioris doctrinae conci