Reconstructing Satyr Drama 9783110725216, 9783110725230, 9783110725247, 2021934660

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Reconstructing Satyr Drama

MythosEikonPoiesis

Herausgegeben von Anton Bierl Wissenschaftlicher Beirat: Gregory Nagy, Richard Martin

Band 12

Reconstructing Satyr Drama Edited by Andreas P. Antonopoulos, Menelaos M. Christopoulos, George W.M. Harrison

ISBN 978-3-11-072521-6 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-072523-0 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-072524-7 ISSN 1868-5080 Library of Congress Control Number: 2021934660 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2021 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Typesetting: Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Silenos as komast: he is playing the aulos, while seated on wineskin made from cattle hide. Fragments of Apulian squat lekythos, attributed to the workshop of Darius Painter (c. 350-325 BC). Malibu, The J. Paul Getty Museum 86 AE 399 [Open Content].

Editors’ Preface 1984 is the annus mirabilis of the modern study of satyr drama: it saw the magisterial Oxford text of Euripides by Diggle, which contains the Cyclops, and the first full-length commentary on the play by Seaford. The years that followed witnessed an explosion of interest in all aspects of satyr drama, leading to numerous articles1 and books. The study of the fragmentary plays is deeply in debt to the volume edited by Krumeich, Pechstein, and Seidensticker (1999), with reference entries for all of the surviving fragments of satyr drama, combining text with German translation, potential artistic and historical links, as well as Nachleben. In its wake there has been a detailed survey of the themes, the plots and the function of satyr drama by Voelke (2001), a conference volume edited by Harrison (2005) investigating important aspects of the Cyclops and the fragments, as well as critical editions with commentaries of various fragmentary plays: the Euripidean by Pechstein (1998), and those of the minor poets by Cipolla (2003). The past decade started with the publication of another conference volume by Taplin and Wyles (2010), this time focusing on the famous ­Pronomos krater and other visual remains of the genre. There followed a monoghraph by Lämmle (2013) on the ‘poetics’ of the genre, and one by Shaw (2014) investigating the relationship of satyr drama with comedy, as well as a collection in a single volume of the Cyclops and the major fragments by O’Sullivan and Collard (2013), containing for each of them, text and English translation, brief notes and up-todate bibliography. Antonopoulos and Christopoulos decided that the time was right for a volume that would bring together all of the many facets of satyr drama, a genre that spanned more than eight centuries and can be traced in multiple literary and artistic genres. In the end, and unusually, the volume was conceived first by ­Antonopoulos and Christopoulos and then funding allowed a conference (Greek Satyr Play: Reconstructing a Dramatic Genre from its Remnants, Patras, 2016),2 in which the themes were further elaborated and researchers could discuss among themselves. This volume brings together twenty-five of the participants of that conference, to which nine other contributions have been sought from among scholars whose expertise in satyr drama made their inclusion desirable. 1 Among them figure prominently a series of articles by Griffith, now gathered together by him in a single e-publication (2015). 2 Of all of the good things to have come out of the conference, pride of place should go to the organization of the THIASOS – The International Society of Greek Satyr Play, a global network of satyr drama researchers, under the presidency of George W.M. Harrison, vice-presidency of Ralf Krumeich and direction of Andreas P. Antonopoulos. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-202

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 Editors’ Preface

­ ubsequent to the conference, Antonopoulos and Christopoulos asked Harrison S to join as co-editor, responsible mainly for contributions on performance and artistic renditions of satyr drama. This volume is the first collaboration on satyr drama written by experts in multiple fields, aiming at an increased coverage of the genre. Earlier studies, such as the one edited by Harrison (2005), or the recent work by Coo and Uhlig (2019) on the Aeschylean plays, have been entirely (or mostly) philological, or have centered on the artistic remains, such as the volume by Taplin and Wyles (2010). The contributions to this book are grouped by area of specialisation and are linked by chronology and theme, as far as is possible in such a wealthy and ­cross-supportive endeavour. All the major writers of satyr drama are represented – most significantly Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides – and their plays are referred to throughout the contributions to this volume, accessible easily through the Index of Satyr Dramas. The editors have aimed for a volume that is inclusive, illustrative, and thought-provoking. Space limitations make it impossible to be comprehensive of all the many aspects one might wished to have covered. We leave that to those we hope will be inspired by this collection. The INTRODUCTION has been designed as a general survey of satyr drama, concentrating all basic information on the genre: evidence, origins and function, relationship to tragedy and comedy, history line of satyric performances (from the late sixth century BC down to the mid-second century AD), characters and costumes, scenic setting, typical themes, et al. In terms of utility there is a twofold aim in this: (a) to make beginners familiar with the least known dramatic genre and its conventions, (b) to provide a first reference manual for more experienced readers, who up to now had to resort to multiple bibliographical sources. The main section of the volume is arranged thematically in six parts. PART I brings together four essays on the genre. PALMISCIANO surveys the origins and early development of satyr drama and its common roots with tragedy. The relationship with tragedy is further investigated by TOUYZ, who adduces new data on this topic from the evolution in the iconography of the satyrs. VOELKE explores the connections of satyr drama with dithyramb through the anodos theme, placing the two genres in their common cultic (Dionysiac) framework. Indicative of the various approaches for the theoretical interpretation of the genre is the final paper by SEAFORD; he studies the institution and the function of satyr drama in the Athens’ City Dionysia through the old antithesis of the centre of the polis and the mountainous periphery. Two key features of satyr drama as a dramatic/poetic genre, which set it apart from tragedy (written by the same poets) and comedy, are its production (covered in the Introduction) and its composition. PART II is devoted to the most visible

Editors’ Preface 

 IX

aspects of the composition, namely to language/style and to metre.3 SLENDERS’ chapter is a survey on the use of colloquialisms, perhaps the most noted characteristic of the language of satyr drama, as distinct from that of tragedy. The next two papers combine language and style, approaching satyr drama from a sociolinguistic angle: CATRAMBONE examines communication strategies in the dialogues of satyr drama, focusing on forms of politeness/impoliteness, while REDONDO draws attention to occasions where an elevated language is used by the Satyrs. Moving to metre, JACKSON surveys the composition of the songs of satyr drama and the accompanying dancing movements of the satyric chorus. Satyr drama is the least known of the three dramatic genres mainly because of its poor attestation. So, PART III focuses on the transmission of the text and its criticism. Many satyric fragments have come down to us through quotations by ancient authors, the topic of CIPOLLA’s chapter. One of the main challenges with fragments is to distinguish whether they actually belong to satyr dramas or to tragedies, since they were both written by the same poets and in the sources they are often quoted by poet name only. Thus, CARARRA has ­developed a meth­ nidentified fragments. odology, a set of criteria for determining the genre of u In the same line, MECCARIELLO examines the transmission of the ­Euripidean satyr dramas, focusing on their titles and total number. The other main challenge with the satyric corpus is the restoration of the text and of the accompanying stage action. And this is true even for Euripides’ Cyclops, the only complete satyr drama. With a set of notes on the Cyclops, ahead of his new edition and commentary, SEIDENSTICKER offers a demonstration of textual criticism and  analysis. DIGGLE shows how deeply such analysis could go, by scrutinising and restoring a single puzzling passage from the same play.4 PART IV contains ten studies on individual plays. In addition to providing some general information on the plays, these studies focus and contribute new ideas on specific aspects of them. BIERL compares a famous satyric song by Pratinas, the pioneer of satyr drama, to Euripides’ Cyclops, a play belonging to the mature phase of the genre, focusing on choral self-references by the Satyrs. SFYROERAS analyses the sacrificial theme in Euripides’ Cyclops, arguing that its treatment in this play – and possibly in other satyr dramas too – was distinct from that of tragedy and of comedy, and perhaps constituted a satyric topos. O’SULLIVAN focuses on the concept of philia in the same play, demonstrating that it 3 Another important aspect of the composition, satyr drama’s typical themes, is likewise covered in the Introduction; individual themes are also analysed in several chapters (for instance, the anodos in VOELKE and the new techne in ANTONOPOULOS). 4 Similar textual discussions on the fragmentary plays are also included in the contributions by SONNINNO and ANTONOPOULOS in Part IV.

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 Editors’ Preface

played a central role in it. Moving to the fragmentary plays, CHARALABOPOULOS investigates satyric paidotrophia in Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi, studying one of the most charming scenes with Silenos, the satyrs and baby Perseus. SONNINO’S chapter elucidates certain puzzling aspects of the stage action in Aeschylus’ Isthmiastai or Theoroi. The next two contributions refer to Sophocles’ Ichneutai. ANTONOPOULOS focuses on a crucial scene of the play, where the (silent) Satyrs’ actions on stage can be restored with the aid of Silenos’ comments on the strange behaviour of his sons; in addition, he demonstrates that these comments constitute a topos in the genre. CHRISTOPOULOS studies the invention of the lyre in this play; since the satyric theme of the heurema is already analysed in the Introduction, this paper is rather concerned with the details of the lyre’s construction, comparing in this respect the Ichneutai with its Epic prototype, the Homeric Hymn to Hermes. The minor poets are represented by three chapters. UHLIG investigates satyric transvestism in Ion’s Omphale. SLATER surveys the innovations of satyr drama in the fourth century BC through the fragments of Chaeremon and Astydamas. Finally, KOTLIŃSKA-TOMA studies fragmentary plays from Hellenistic playwrights, demonstrating how satyr drama engaged with new aesthetic trends, in order to increase its appeal as theatrical practices continued to develop and change. The dynamic of a literary genre is perhaps best manifested by its influences on other genres. Thus, PART V deals with satyr drama’s indirect tradition and its reception in antiquity. Given the scattered nature of the evidence across various genres and in different periods and, hence, the difficulty for an overall survey, this field is hereby investigated by three detailed case-studies. CHARALABOPOULOS brings together and elucidates metatheatrical references to satyr drama (whether explicit or allusive) in the works of Plato. MICHELS traces the afterlife of satyric plots in the mythographic tradition, demonstrating the value of ­Pseudo-Apollodorus’ Bibliotheca, in particular, for the reconstruction of fragmentary or lost satyr dramas. Finally, THOMAS draws attention to the use of satyr drama references by Aelius Aristides, Athenaeus and Lucian for the purpose of satirising Cynic philosophers. The volume closes with an extensive PART VI covering the archaeological evidence. In addition to the textual remains of satyr drama, there is a huge corpus of relevant vase-paintings and other artifacts, as well as inscriptional records, which not only can help us with lost or poorly attested plays, but most importantly, they are absolutely necessary for us to get an overall picture of the genre and its history. This Part starts with an introductory survey of satyric iconography by KRUMEICH, who focuses on several Athenian and South Italian ­vase-paintings that can plausibly be connected to particular satyr dramas. With a focus on dancing and the prehistory of the genre, SMITH studies black-figure

Editors’ Preface 

 XI

vases ­produced across Archaic Greece; in these vases we recognise dancing figures of various types (Satyrs, komasts, et al.), who might have been involved in pre-­dramatic performances. SHAW collects visual evidence from the Archaic down to the early Hellenistic period for a most surprising association of Satyrs with dolphins, which he traces back to the Dionysiac cultic choral dances, particularly the dithyramb; he argues that the dolphin-satyr-dithyramb correlation played a significant role in the development and the eventual decline of satyr drama. HEDREEN uses certain vases so as to investigate the concepts of love and marriage in satyr drama, within the wider framework of Dionysiac mythology and cult. PRITCHETT deals with the offshoots of satyric love, drawing attention to the portrayal of Satyr children in Athenian vase-painting, allowing us to follow their childhoods and see how their upbringing might contribute to their adult satyr behaviour. CARPENTER’S study of Apulian vases with Silenos opens up a new dimension, that of the influence of satyrs and satyr dramas in the imagination of the non-Greeks. The next two papers utilise archaeological evidence so as to map out the history of satyr drama during the late Hellenistic and Roman Imperial periods. SKOTHEIM’S survey of the inscriptional records (an aspect virtually neglected in previous satyr drama volumes) elucidates these two periods, from which we have no textual remains; she demonstrates that satyr drama not only continued to be performed, but became so popular that it expanded to various festivals across the Greek world, lasting at least until the second century AD. The continuing popularity and performance of satyr drama well into the Roman Empire is also demonstrated by HARRISON, who surveys architectural and artistic evidence of satyrs in theatres and in theatre contexts. This collaborative volume comes at a particularly welcome time since 2020 seems to be another annus mirabilis for the studies in satyr drama. A new (German) commentary on Euripides’ Cyclops has been published by Seidensticker from De Gruyter; Hunter’s and Lämmle’s commentary is also out now from Cambridge; in addition, Aguirre and Buxton have published a more general investigation of cyclopes in literature and art. The editors regret that these appeared too late to be considered in this volume.  The architecture of the book was designed to probe for themes and connections within satyr drama and between satyr drama and other genres (especially dithyramb, tragedy and comedy), as also to identify and resolve, if possible, problems and controversies. In essence we have tried to answer the questions ‘what is satyr drama’ and ‘what do we know of it’. The papers in this collection answer these questions in ways that are common to other genres too, as well as particular to satyr drama. In the process of addressing these questions, the editors had the pleasure to engage in fruitful discussions and exchange of views with the contributors (who have also done the same with one another in areas of mutual

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interest), but at the same time they have respected each contributor’s intellectual and academic freedom. Thus, the ideas expressed in the individual papers are ultimately the responsibility of their respective authors. With regard to presentation, the editors have not presumed to impose a straight-jacket in terms of style on contributors, since this publication brings together scholars working in multiple fields and from different scholarly traditions. Nevertheless, they insisted on matters that will make consultation of the indices easier and, hopefully, more productive. Thus, Latin or Latinised spellings have generally been preferred for figures from myth, names of ancient authors and titles of works, because these forms are commoner and universally recognised. In contrast, Hellenised spellings have been preferred for Dionysos and Silenos, as well as for the titles of satyr dramas (with the exception of Euripides’ Cyclops, commonly spelled this way), in an effort to maintain as much as possible their Greek savour.5 Especially the transliteration of satyric titles has had two additional advantages: (a) easily distinguishing satyric from tragic fragments, and (b) play titles from homonymous mythological figures/ play characters. Moreover, as these titles belong to fragmentary plays, and what is more, from a genre that has received proper attention only in the recent decades, many of them are not widely known6 and there is no unanimous way of referring to them.7 So, the Hellenised spelling has also been mandated to facilitate the reference to the original title of these plays and for avoiding confusion. The same applies to terms from Greek art (such as krater), which have been transliterated and sometimes (in cases of less known words, or when a word appears for the first time in a paper) also italicised. A project as long and complicated as this one relies on the help and good will of so many people, and it is a very great pleasure to acknowledge them all for their patience and good humour, first and foremost among which are our wives, Thaleia, Anastasia and Jane. Many thanks are also due to Ralf Krumeich, who has compiled with great care the Index Vasorum, to Panagiota Taktikou for assisting with the General Index and the Index Locorum, and to Anne Bowtell, who has made possible research in Oxford. The project has had tremendous support from our institutions: Judy Donaldson and Andrea McIntyre in Greek and Roman Studies, Michelle Santoianni in

5 It is observable that performances of satyr drama even during the Roman Empire were mainly a phenomenon of Greek speaking provinces. 6 For instance, many are not included in the lists of the OCD or the LSJ, which focus on the complete plays. 7 In scholarly and other publications they tend to be translated into various modern languages depending on the author, and even when Latinised, they appear with variant spellings depending on scholarly tradition.

Editors’ Preface 

 XIII

Technology, Society and Environmental Studies at Carleton, and Froso Polyzogopoulou in Patras. Gratitude is also expressed to chairs at Carleton, John Buschek and Shane Hawkins, and to the Vice-Rector for research in Patras, Demosthenes Polyzos. Expenses were partially met through a travel grant from Carleton and through the generosity of the University of Patras on numerous occasions: the University’s Research Committee provided funding for the Patras conference on satyr drama (1–3 July 2016), assisted with the publication of the volume, and also supported Andreas Antonopoulos with a fellowship (2014–2016) through its C. Caratheodory Programme for Postdoctoral Research. In the later stages of the project, Andreas Antonopoulos has been supported by a fellowship (2017–2019) from the State Scholarships Foundation of Greece (I.K.Y.). Final stages of the editing were expedited by Carleton’s appointment of George W.M. Harrison to a university Research/Teaching Fellowship. Finally, special thanks are due to Anton Bierl for welcoming this volume’s inclusion in the MythosEikonPoiesis Series and for kindly accepting our invitation to contribute a paper himself, as well as to Torben Behm from De Gruyter for his most helpful support in the publication process. August 2020

A.P.A. M.M.C. G.W.M.H.

Contents Editors’ Preface  List of Figures 

 VII  XIX  XXVII

List of Abbreviations and References  List of Metrical Symbols  Author Biographies 

 XXIX

 XXXI

Andreas P. Antonopoulos Introduction: What is Satyr Drama? 

 1

Part I: Genre Riccardo Palmisciano 1 Satyrikon and the Origins of Tragedy 

 39

Paul M. Touyz 2 Putting the ‘Goat’ Into ‘Goat-song’: The Conceptualisation of Satyrs on Stage and in Scholarship   59 Pierre Voelke 3 Satyr Drama, Dithyramb, and Anodoi 

 81

Richard Seaford 4 Urban Centre and Mountainous Periphery in Dionysiac Drama 

Part II: Language, Style and Metre Willeon Slenders 5 ΔιαλαλΗσωμΕν τι σοι: ʻColloquialisms’ in Satyr Drama  Marco Catrambone 6 Im/Politeness in Satyr Drama 

 141

 115

 101

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 Contents

Jordi Redondo 7 Satyrs Speaking like Rhetors and Sophists 

 175

Lucy C.M.M. Jackson 8 Metre, Movement and Dance in Satyr Drama 

 195

Part III: Text Transmission and Criticism Paolo B. Cipolla 9 Ancient Scholarship on Satyr Drama: The Background of Quotations in Athenaeus, Lexicographers, Grammarians, and Scholia   229 Laura Carrara 10 Distinguishing Satyric from Tragic Fragments: Methodological Tools and Practical Results   253 Chiara Meccariello 11 Eight and Counting: New Insights on the Number and Early Transmission of Euripides’ Satyr Dramas   283 Bernd Seidensticker 12 Some Notes on Euripides’ Cyclops 

 303

James Diggle 13 Thundering Polyphemus: Euripides, Cyclops 320–8 

 323

Part IV: Reflections on the Plays Anton Bierl 14 Pratinas and Euripides: Wild Origins, Choral Self-Reference and Performative Release of Dionysian Energy in Satyr Drama  Pavlos Sfyroeras 15 Sacrificial Feasts and Euripides’ Cyclops: Between Comedy and Tragedy?   361

 337

Contents 

Patrick O’Sullivan 16 Satyric Friendship in Euripides’ Cyclops 

 XVII

 375

Nikos G. Charalabopoulos 17 Baby-Boomer: Silenos Paidotrophos in Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi  Maurizio Sonnino 18 The Riddles of Aeschylus’ Theoroi or Isthmiastai 

 395

 409

Andreas P. Antonopoulos 19 Silenos on the Strange Behaviour of the Satyrs: The Case of Sophocles’ Ichneutai   433 Menelaos M. Christopoulos 20 The Invention of the Lyre in Sophocles’ Ichneutai 

 449

Anna Uhlig 21 Satyrs in Drag: Transvestism in Ion’s Omphale and Elsewhere 

 455

Niall W. Slater 22 Innovation and Self-promotion in Fourth-century Satyr Drama: The Cases of Chaeremon and Astydamas   477 Agnieszka Kotlińska-Toma 23 Satyr Drama at a Crossroads: Plays from the Early Hellenistic Period 

Part V: Satyric Influences Nikos G. Charalabopoulos 24 Plato and the Elusive Satyr (Meta)Drama 

 519

Johanna A. Michels 25 Traces of Satyr Dramas in the Mythographic Tradition: The Case of Pseudo-Apollodorus’ Bibliotheca   539 Oliver Thomas 26 Satyrising Cynics in the Roman Empire 

 567

 495

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 Contents

Part VI: The Archaeological Evidence Ralf Krumeich 27 Images of Satyrs and the Reception of Satyr Drama-Performances in Athenian and South Italian Vase-Painting   587 Tyler Jo Smith 28 Heads or Tails? Satyrs, Komasts, and Dance in Black-Figure Vase-Painting   637 Carl A. Shaw 29 Satyrs, Dolphins, Dithyramb, and Drama 

 669

Guy Hedreen 30 Sex, Love, and Marriage in Dionysiac Myth, Cultural Theory, and Satyr Drama   695 Hollister Nolan Pritchett 31 When does a Satyr become a Satyr? Examining Satyr Children in Athenian Vase-Painting   717 T.H. Carpenter 32 Beyond the Pronomos Vase: Papposilenos on Apulian Vases 

 735

Mali Skotheim 33 Satyr Drama in the Late Hellenistic and Roman Imperial Periods: An Epigraphical Perspective   749 George W.M. Harrison 34 Lowering the Curtain: (Modest) Satyrs on Stage in the Roman Empire 

Appendix Bibliography 

 799

General Index 

 861

Index Locorum 

 871

Index Vasorum 

 875

 765

List of Figures Figure 1.1

Figure 1.2

Figure 1.3

Figure 1.4

Figure 1.5 Figure 2.1

Figure 2.2

Figure 2.3

Choral masturbation of men dressed as satyrs. Attic black-figure aryballos handle plate, by Nearchos (570–550 BC). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art MMA 26.49 [By permission]   45 M  onkey-like figure, with a short skirt handling round shaped objects of unknown nature. Protoattic krater (known as the ‘Oresteia krater’, 660–650 BC); detail of the handle. Berlin, Antiquarium A 32, now lost [Public domain]   47 M  en performing a comic dance. Protoattic krater (known as the ‘Oresteia krater’, 660–650 BC), detail of the handle. Berlin, Antiquarium A 32, now lost [Public domain]   48 P  added dancers (the left figure’s hook-like foot is artificial). Early Corinthian alabastron, lower frieze (620–595 BC). Paris, Musée du Louvre S 1104 [By permission]   49 Scheme of a classic Nō play. Graph by author   53 Satyrs in perizoma dancing to aulos. Attic red-figure calyx krater (known as the ‘Pandora krater’), attributed to the Niobid Painter (c. 460–450 BC), obverse. London, British Museum 1856,1213.1 [©The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved]   66 Second style fresco with masks hanging from architrave. Boscoreale, west wall of the cubiculum of the villa of P. Fannius Synistor. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 03.14.13f (Rogers Fund 1903) [Public domain]   69 Detail of Figure 2.2   71

Figure 3.1

M  an emerging from the ground. Attic red-figure bell krater (first quarter of the fourth century BC). British Museum 1917,0725.1 [By permission]   96 Figure 3.2 W  oman emerging from the ground and satyrs brandishing hammers. Attic red-figure bell krater (mid-fourth century BC). Melbourne, National Gallery of  97 Victoria, Melbourne D1–1976 [By permission]  Figure 3.3a–b Two young people riding a dolphin. Attic lekythos (c. 525–500 BC). Baltimore, Museum of Art 1960.55.1 [By permission]   97 Figure 10.1

Figure 10.2

Figure 10.3

T he liberation of Andromeda. Apulian calyx-krater from Irsina (Basilicata), by the Darius Painter (340–320 BC). Matera, Museo archeologico nazionale ‘Domenico Ridola’ 151148 [By permission del Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo – Soprintendenza Archeologica, Belle Arti e Paesaggio della Basilicata]   270 The exposure of Andromeda, detail with Silenos. Praenestine cista. Paris, Musée du Louvre, Br 1664 [© 1980 Musée du Louvre / M. et P. Chuzeville, by permission]   272 The exposure of Andromeda. Attic red-figure kalpis from Vulci (Etruria; 450–440 BC). London, British Museum 1843.1103.24 [© The Trustees of the British Museum, by permission]   275

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-204

XX 

 List of Figures

Figure 11.1 Figure 11.2

Figure 17.1

 . Vindob. G 19766 (second centrury AD). Vienna, Österreichische P  289 Nationalbibliothek, Papyrussammlung [By Permission]  S  tatuette of Euripides with catalogue of plays (first or second century AD). Paris, Musée du Louvre, Ma 343 [© RMN-Grand Palais (Musée du Louvre)/Hervé Lewandowski]   291  ol. I of P. Oxy. 2161 (second century AD). Oxford, Sackler Library, Papyrology C Rooms [Courtesy of the Egyptian Exploration Society and the University of  400 Oxford Imaging Papyri Project] 

Figure 18.1 Pinax from Penteskouphia. Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Antikensammlung F. 683 + 757 + 822 + 829 = Wachter 2002, CO(rinthian) P(inax) 63) [Drawing from:  422 Zimmer 1982, p. 31]  Figure 19.1

Searching satyrs. Attic red-figure lidded jar fragment, attributed to Onesimos (sometimes Euphronios, c. 500–480 BC). Malibu, The J.P. Getty Museum, 81.AE.206.D.2015 [Open Content]   447

Figure 21.1

B  earded satyr and maenad, both in female dress. Attic red-figure chous (c. 450–400 BC). Athens, National Archaeological Museum 1220 [By permission]   458 Satyr wearing bra/false breasts. Fragment of an Attic red-figure bell krater. Athens, Agora Museum P 169 [By permission]   459 M  athu Andersen in drag with beard. Mailibu, Getty Images 2013 [Photo: Jennifer Lourie. Open Content]   460 B  earded men in female dress. Attic red-figure column krater, attributed to the Pig Painter (c. 470–460 BC). Cleveland, Museum of Art 1926.549 [By permission]   461

Figure 21.2 Figure 21.3 Figure 21.4

Figure 27.1

T heatrical cast of an Athenian satyr play below Dionysos and Ariadne. Athenian red-figure volute krater by the Pronomos Painter. Naples, Museo Archeologico  589 Nazionale 81673 [Photo from Furtwängler et al. 1932, pl. 143–144]  Figure 27.2 Detail of Figure 27.1. Actors dressed up as Heracles and Papposilenos [Photo from N. Chourmouziadis in Christopoulos and Bastias 1972, 364]   589 Figure 27.3 C  horusmen and flute-player of a satyr drama. Athenian red-figure dinos by the Painter of the Athens Dinos (420–400 BC). Athens, National Museum 13027 [© Athens, National Museum]   591 Figure 27.4 C  horusmen and flute-player of a satyr drama Fragments of an Athenian redfigure bell krater, attributed to the Painter of the Athens Dinos (420–400 BC). Bonn, Akademisches Kunstmuseum 1216.184–185; 1216.354–357; 1216.183; 1216.091 [© Akademisches Kunstmuseum der Universität Bonn. Photo: Jutta Schubert]   592 Figure 27.5a–c Satyrs robbing Heracles of his weapons. Athenian red-figure volute krater from Padula (510–500 BC). Salerno, Museo Archeologico Provinciale [© Salerno, Museo Archeologico Provinciale]   593‒4

List of Figures 

Figure 27.6

Figure 27.7

Figure 27.8

Figure 27.9

Figure 27.10a

Figure 27.10b

Figure 27.11

Figure 27.12a–b

Figure 27.13

Figure 27.14a–b

Figure 27.15a–b

Figure 27.16

 XXI

Old Silenos covered with white hair. Athenian red-figure oinochoë by Hermonax (460–450 BC). Formerly (as a loan) Basel, Antikensammlung und Sammlung Ludwig Kä 430 [© Cahn Auktionen AG. Auktion 6. Kunstwerke der Antike. Auktionskatalog Basel 5 November 2011 (Basel 2011) Nr. 96]   596 ‘Satyr family’ including the aged Silenos. Athenian red-figure calyx krater, attributed to the Villa Giulia Painter (460–450 BC). Karlsruhe, Badisches Landesmuseum B 3 [© Badisches Landesmuseum Karlsruhe. Photo: Th. Goldschmidt]   597 W  hite-haired Silenos (accompanying Dionysos?). Fragment of an undetermined Athenian red-figure vase (450–425 BC). Delos, Archaeological Museum B 3755 [Photo from Dugas 1952, pl. 54]   598 White-haired Silenos receives the child-Dionysos. Athenian white-ground calyx krater by the Phiale Painter (440–430 BC). Rome, Musei Vaticani 16586 [Photo: H.R. Goette]   599 Three satyrs wearing perizoma and carrying mallets, scene of anodos of a goddess. Athenian red-figure stamnos, attributed to the Eucharides Painter (500–490 BC). Paris, Louvre CP 10754 [© 1970 Musée du Louvre / Maurice et Pierre Chuzeville]   602 Join with figure 27.10a, head of a goddess rising from ground. Athenian ­ red-figure stamnos, attributed to the Eucharides Painter. Paris, Louvre CP 10754 [Photo from From Simon 1989a, pl. 35.2]   603 Chorusmen dressed up as cocks and flute-player. Athenian red-figure calyx krater (‘Getty Birds’, 440–430 BC). Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale [© Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo – Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli]   604 C  horusman dressed up as a cock and flute-player. Athenian red-figure pelike (440–430 BC). Atlanta, Michael C. Carlos Museum of Emory University. Carlos Collection of Ancient Art 2008.4.1 [© Michael C. Carlos Museum, Emory University. Photo by Bruce M. White, 2008]   605–6 S  atyrs witnessing the anodos of a goddess. Fragments of an Athenian red-figure cup by the Sotades Painter (460–450 BC). Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 03.841 [© Boston, Museum of Fine Arts/ Open Content  607 Program]  S  atyrs and the anodos of a goddess. Athenian red-figure volute krater by the Painter of Bologna 279 (450–440 BC). Ferrara, Museo Nazionale di Spina 3031 [From photographs in the photograph collection of the Archaeological Institute, University of Bonn]   607–8 Satyrs as furniture movers. Athenian red-figure kalpis by the Leningrad Painter (470‒460 BC). Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 03.788 [© Boston, Museum of Fine Arts / Open Content Program]   609–10 C  horusman near a man holding a torch (Prometheus?). Fragment of an Athenian red-figure bell krater by the Lykaon Painter (c. 440 BC). Oxford, Ashmolean Museum 1927.4 [© Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford]   612

XXII 

 List of Figures

Figure 27.17

Figure 27.18

Figure 27.19

Figure 27.20

Figure 27.21

Figure 27.22

Figure 27.23

Figure 27.24

Figure 27.25a–b

Figure 27.26

Figure 27.27

Figure 27.28

Figure 27.29

F igure 27.17 Aged silens as ‘Singers at the Panathenaia’. Athenian ­ red-figure bell krater by Polion (430‒420 BC). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 25.78.66 [© New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art / Open  613 Content Program]  Return of Hephaestus. Athenian red-figure calyx krater by the Altamura Painter (470–460 BC). Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum IV 985 [© Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien]   614 R  eturn of Hephaestus. Athenian red-figure calyx krater by the Altamura Painter (470–460 BC). Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale Stg. 701 [© Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo – Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli]   614 S  atyr (with perizoma) dancing next to a krater. Athenian red-figure cup by Makron (480–470 BC). Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen 2657 [© Staatliche Antikensammlungen München. Photo: Renate Kühling]   617 Satyr (with perizoma) as a part of the Gigantomachy. Athenian red-figure cup by Apollodoros (c. 500 BC). Lost. Formerly Rome, Collection Alibrandi [Photo from Brommer 1959, 17 fig. 9]   619 S  atyr (with perizoma) as an armed warrior. Athenian red-figure amphora of Panathenaic shape by the Eucharides Painter (480–470 BC). Malibu, The J. Paul Getty Museum 86.AE.190.1−6 + 86.AE.575 [© Malibu, The J. Paul Getty Museum / Open Content Program]   620 S  atyr (with perizoma) as an armed warrior. Athenian red-figure pelike by the Geras Painter (480–470 BC). Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 64.2032 [© Boston, Museum of Fine Arts / Open Content Program]   621 S  atyrs attacking Iris near an altar. Athenian red-figure cup, attributed to the circle of the Nikosthenes Painter (c. 500 BC). Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 08.30a [© Boston, Museum of Fine Arts / Open Content Program]   623 Satyrs driving away Iris from an altar and attacking Hera. Athenian redfigure cup by the Brygos Painter (490–480 BC). London, British Museum E 65 [© Trustees of the British Museum]   623–4 Aged silens as dignitaries opposite the Sphinx. Athenian red-figure kalpis (470–460 BC). Würzburg, Martin-von-Wagner Museum der Universität ZA 20 (permanent loan of the Nereus foundation) [© Martin-von Wagner-Museum  625 der Universität Würzburg. Photo: C. Kiefer]  O  ld silen leaning on branches. Fragment of an Athenian red-figure bell krater (440–400 BC). Bonn, Akademisches Kunstmuseum 1216.141 [© Akademisches Kunstmuseum der Universität Bonn. Photo: Jutta Schubert]   626 O  ld silens with sticks approaching a female harpist. Athenian red-figure calyx krater, attributed to the Phiale Painter (440–430 BC). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 1991.392.13 [© New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art / Open Content Program]   627 S  atyrs and old Silenos show great interest in the Fire of Prometheus. Athenian red-figure bell krater by the Nikias Painter (c. 410 BC). Gotha, Schlossmuseum 75 (AVa 110) [From a photograph in the photograph collection of the Archaeological Institute, University of Bonn]   628

List of Figures 

Figure 27.30

Figure 27.31

Figure 28.1

Figure 28.2

Figure 28.3

Figure 28.4

Figure 28.5 Figure 28.6

Figure 28.7

Figure 28.8

Figure 28.9a–b

Figure 28.10

Figure 28.11

Figure 28.12

Figure 28.13

 XXIII

Chorusmen of a satyr play. Apulian bell krater by the Tarporley Painter (early fourth century BC). Sydney, The University of Sydney. Nicholson Museum 47.05 [© Nicholson Museum of the University of Sydney]   631 Blinding of Polyphemus and satyrs dancing nearby. Lucanian calyx krater by the Cyclops Painter (420–410 BC). London, British Museum 1947.0714.18 [© Trustees of the British Museum]   632  orinthian komast figure, dancer grabbing buttocks. Corinthian blackC figure alabastron (625–600 BC). Paris, Musée du Louvre E 588 [© Musée du  640 Louvre, Dist. RMN-Grand Palais / Les frères Chuzeville]  Three male dancers in different poses. Athenian black-figure cup, attributed to the Komast Group (KY Painter, first quarter of sixth century BC). Paris, Musée du Louvre CP 10235 [© Musée du Louvre]   642 Three satyrs masturbating. Athenian black-figure aryballos, signed by Nearchos (c. 570 BC). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 26.49 [© The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image source: Art Resource, NY]   644 K  omast and ‘satyr’. Detail of Corinthian column krater (first quarter of sixth century BC). Paris, Musée du Louvre E 632 [Drawing: D. Weiss (after Steinhart 2004, 44, fig. 13)]   645 East Greek krater, from Cyme in Aeolis (mid-late sixth century BC). London, British Museum 1904.0601.1 [© The Trustees of the British Museum]   647 Drawing of satyr and ‘padded’ dancers. Detail of Laconian cup exterior, from Artemis Orthia (mid-sixth century BC) [Drawing: D. Weiss (after Smith 2010, 120, fig. 1)]   647 D  ancers with equine ears. Detail of Siana cup, by the Heidelberg Painter (mid-sixth century BC). Amsterdam, Allard Pierson Museum 3356 [Drawing: D. Weiss (after Brijder 1991, 399, fig. 96)]   648 Lyre player and dancers. Athenian black-figure amphora, by the Swing Painter (c. 530–520 BC). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 41.162.184 [© The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image source: Art Resource, NY]   652 Boeotian kantharos (sixth century BC). Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen 6010 (419) [© Glyptothek München und Staatliche  653 Antikensammlugen München]  S  atyr and female dancing. Athenian black-figure cup tondo, by the Oakeshott Painter (c. 550 BC). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 17.230.5 [© The Metropolitan Museum of Art]   655 Satyrs and females dancing, pair of nude komasts. Athenian black-figure ‘Nikosthenic’ amphora (third quarter of sixth century BC). Cleveland, Museum of Art 74.10 [© The Cleveland Museum of Art]   656 Satyrs and females dancing, draped komast. Chalcidian amphora (c. 540 BC). Leiden, Rijksmuseum PC 28 (1606) [© National Museum of Antiquities, Leiden]   657 Frontal-faced male and draped female dancing. Athenian black-figure cup, attributed to the Komast Group (Palazzolo Painter, first quarter of sixth century BC). Cambridge (MA), Harvard University. Arthur M. Sackler Museum 1925.30.133 [© Harvard Art Museums]   658

XXIV 

 List of Figures

Figure 28.14

 atyrs with drinking vessels and pipes. Athenian black-figure neck amphora, S attributed to the Lysippides Painter (third quarter of sixth century BC). Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum G 48 (GR 27.1864) [© The Fitzwilliam  662 Museum, Cambridge]  Figure 28.15a–b Dionysos with dancers, Athenian black-figure neck amphora, attributed to the Tyrrhenian Group (c. 570–560 BC). Paris, Musée du Louvre E 860 [Photo: Stéphane Maréchalle. © RMN-Grand Palais (Musée du Louvre)]   664–5

Figure 29.1

Figure 29.2

Figure 29.3

Figure 29.4

Figure 29.5

Figure 29.6

Figure 29.7 Figure 29.8a–b

Figure 29.9a–b

Figure 29.10

Figure 29.11

T roupe of satyrs. Attic red-figure psykter of Douris (signature, c. 480 BC). London, British Museum, 1868.0606.7 [© The Trustees of the British Museum / Art Resource, NY]   670 Dionysos at a banquet with a satyr. Athenian red-figure neck amphora; detail from the shoulder of side A. Berlin Painter (500–490 BC). Paris, Musée du Louvre G 201 [Photo: Hervé Lewandowski. © RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY]   670 Hoplites mounted on dolphins. Athenian red-figure psykter, attributed to Oltos (c. 520–510 BC). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 1989.281.69 (Gift of Norbert Schimmel Trust, 1989) [© The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image source: Art Resource, NY]   671 Athenian black-figure skyphos depicting chorus. Attributed to the Heron Group (c. 520–510 BC). Boston Museum of Fine Arts 20.18 (Gift of the heirs of Henry Adams)   672 Depiction of Dionysos in his ship. Athenian black-figure cup of Exekias (signature, c. 540–530 BC). Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlung 8729 [Photo Credit: bpk Bildagentur / Art Resource, NY]   673 Campanian red-figure bell krater by the Boating painter (name vase, c. 350–340 BC). Melbourne, National Gallery of Victoria D27–1979 (Felton Bequest) [By permission]   675 C  orinthian black-figure alabastron (c. 575–550 BC). Göttingen, Archäologisches Institut der Universität, Hu 533 g [Photo: Stephan Eckardt]   679 M  elicertes/Palaemon, komast and dolphin. Corinthian black-figure kotyle (c. 590 BC). Corinth, Archaeological Museum C–1962–449 [Photo Archive of American School of Classical Studies at Athens and Corinth Excavation.  679–80 Photographs: I. Ioannidou and C. Bartziotti]  Side a. Aulos player with actors dressed as horses and riders; side b. Silen and satyr/nymph chorus. Athenian black-figure amphora, Painter of Berlin 1686 (c. 540 BC). Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Antikensammlung F 1697 [Photo: Johannes Laurentius. Art Resource, NY]   681–82 Procession and horse-race (exterior), dolphins (interior). Athenian black figure cup (c. 550 BC). Paris, Musée du Louvre CA 2988 [Photo: Stéphane Maréchalle. © RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY]   683 E  ast Ionian black-figure cup (c. 540 BC). Münster, Archäologisches Seminar und Museum der Westfälischen Wilhelms-Universität 855 [courtesy of the museum. Photo: Robert Dylka]   684

List of Figures 

Figure 29.12a–b

Figure 29.13

Figure 29.14

Figure 29.15

Figure 29.16

Figure 30.1

Figure 30.2

Figure 30.3

Figure 30.4

Figure 31.1 Figure 31.2 Figure 31.3 Figure 31.4 Figure 31.5

 XXV

 omasts (revellers) and horsemen. Corinthian black-figure cup, K by the Gorgoneion Group Painter (590–570 BC). Paris, Musée du Louvre MNC 674 [Photo: Tony Querrec. Photo Credit: © RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY]   684–85 Dolphin men. Etruscan black-figure amphora, attributed to the Paris Painter (mid-sixth century BC). Rome, Musei Capitolini 9 [Photo: Koppermann. Courtesy DAI Rome: D–DAI–ROM–65.186]   686 Satyrs travelling on the sea riding on wineskins. Athenian red figure cup (510–500 BC), detail from the exterior. Paris, Musée du Louvre, G 92 [Photo: Hervé Lewandowski. © RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY]   689 A  ttic black-figure lekythos (525–500 BC). Baltimore, Museum of Art 1960.55.1 (Purchase with exchange funds from the Antioch Subscription, and Frank J. and Elizabeth L. Goodnow) [By permission]   690 Dionysos and satyr in a wheeled ship-cart. Attic black-figure skyphos by the Theseus Painter (c. 530–500 BC). Athens, National Archaeological Museum Acr. 1281 a [© Hellenic Ministry of Education and Religious Affairs, Culture and Sports]   691  ionysos and Ariadne as recipients of satyr drama. Attic red-figure D volute krater, by the Pronomos Painter (c. 410 BC), obverse. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale 81673 [Photo credit: Album/Art Resource,  696 NY]  D  ionysos and Ariadne celebrate their nuptials. Attic red-figure volute krater, by the Pronomos Painter (c. 410 BC), reverse. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale 81673. [Photo credit: Album/Art Resource, NY]   698 Dionysos and Ariadne prepare to consummate their marital union. Attic black-figured neck amphora, attributed to the Dayton Painter (c. 530 BC). Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 76.40 [© 2020 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston]   700 Dionysos discovers Ariadne on Naxos. Fragment of an Athenian redfigure calyx krater, attributed to the Group of Polygnotos (c. 440 BC). Tübingen, Museum Alter Kulturen der Universität 5439 [courtesy of the Antikensammlung des Archäologisches Instituts der Eberhard-Karls 706 Universität Tübingen]   ttic red-figure stamnos. Attributed to the Phiale Painter (c. 575–425 BC). A Warsaw, National Museum 142465 [Public domain]   721 Detail of baby satyr from Figure 31.1 [Public domain]   722 Attic red-figure amphora. Attributed to the Flying Angel Painter (c. 480 BC). Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 98.882 [By permission]   724 Attic red-figure calyx krater. Attributed to the Niobid Painter (c. 450 BC). London, British Museum 1856.1213.1 [By permission]   725 A  ttic red-figure chous. Attributed to the Eretria Painter (c. 430–425 BC). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Rogers Fund 08.258.22 [Public domain]   730

XXVI 

 List of Figures

Figure 31.6

 ttic red-figure pelike. Attributed to the Clio Painter (c. 470–450 BC). Würtzburg, A Universität, Martin von Wagner Museum 512 [By  733 permission] 

Figure 32.1

 ttic red-figure volute krater by the Pronomos Painter (c. 400 BC). Naples, A Museo Archeologico Nazionale 81673. [By permission]   735 Figure 32.2 M  ap of Apulia (By author)   736 Figure 32.3 Apulian red-figure calyx krater (c. 400 BC). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 24.97.104 [By permission]   738 Figure 32.4 Apulian red-figure bell krater. Attributed to the Tarporley Painter (c. 400 BC). Sydney, University of Sydney, Nicholson Museum 47.05 [By permission]   739 Figure 32.5 A  pulian red-figure bell krater. Attributed to the Choregos Painter (c. 400 BC). Cleveland, Museum of Art 89.73 [By permission]   740 Figure 32.6a–b N  aples 81673 (fig. 32.1) and Cleveland 89.73 (fig. 32.5); details   741 Figure 32.7 Apulian red-figure bell krater (c. 380 BC). St. Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum 1662 [By permission]   744 Figure 32.8 A  pulian red-figure volute krater. Attributed to the Lycurgus Painter (c. 370 BC). Vicenza, Intesa Sanpaolo 112 [By permission]   745 Figure 32.9 A  pulian red-figure situla. Attributed to the Lycurgus Painter (c. 370 BC). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 56.171.64 [By permission]   746 Figure 34.1 Figure 34.2 Figure 34.3 Figure 34.4 Figure 34.5

Figure 34.6

Figure 34.7

Figure 34.8

Figure 34.9

Figure 34.10

 leeping Silenos statue from Lisbon theatre. Lisbon, Museu Nacional de S Arquelologia, inv. 994.50.1 [By permission]   776 S  tamped lead disc of Silenos. Possibly from Holt (England). Location unknown, once thought British Museum [Public domain]   778 S  atyr gathers grapes. Oscilla for curtain swag (second century AD). Athens, National Museum 3635 [By permission; photo by author]   779 S  ilenoi in floral swags. Athens, Acropolis Archaeological Park NK 292 = B131. Altar, 4 (second century AD) [By permission; photo by author]   780 Silenos as buttress for stage building, stage level. Athens, Theatre of Dionysos (first or second century AD). Athens, Acropolis Archaeological Park NK 2302  782 [By permission; photo by author]  S  ilenos as column on stage building, above stage level. Athens, Theatre of Dionysos (first or second century AD). Athens, Acropolis Archaeological Park NK 2295 [By permission; photo by author]   783 C  rouching Silenos from left side of front of stage. Athens. Theatre of Dionysos (second century AD). Athens, Acropolis Archaeological Park [By permission; photo by author]   785 D  ionysos discovers Ariadne. Chania Archaeological Museum, near Venetian Agora private house, room B (middle third century AD) [By permission KE’ Ephoreia of Archaeological Antiquities of Chania; photo by author]   788 C  hania Archaeological Museum, near Plateia 1866 private house, triclinium mosaic (middle third century AD) [By permission KE’ Ephoreia of Archaeological Antiquities of Chania; photo by author]   789 Z  eugma, theatre. Mosaic of Zeus as a satyr and Antiope (middle third century AD) [By permission Zeugma Archaeological Museum]   791

List of Abbreviations and References ABV ANRW ARV ARV 2 Ausf.Lexicon BAPD CIL CVA Didyma DNP F.Delphes FGrH FIRA I.Magnesia I.Stratonikeia I.Thespiai IG IGSK IGUR ILS K-A K-G LBW

LDAB LGPN LIMC LSJ

MonIst

Beazley, J.D. 1956. Attic Black-Figure Vase-Painters (Oxford) Temporini, H. and Haase, W. (eds.) 1972–. Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt (Berlin – New York) Beazley, J.D. 1942. Attic Red-figure Vase-painters (Oxford) Beazley, J.D. 21963. Attic Red-figure Vase-painters (Oxford) Roscher, W.H. (ed.) 1884–1937 Ausführliches Lexicon der griechischen und römischen Mythologie, 7 vols. (Leipzig) Beazley Archive Pottery Database (Oxford) (www.beazley.ox.ac.uk/pottery/ default.htm) Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, 1863 – (Berlin) Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum, 1925– Rehm, A. 1958. Didyma, Vol. II: Die Inschriften (hrsg. von Harder, R.) (Berlin) Cancik, H., Schneider, H. and Landfester, M. (eds.) 1996–2003. Der Neue Pauly, 19 vols. (Stuttgart) Fouilles de Delphes, 1902– (Paris) Jacoby, F. 1923‒ . Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker (Berlin/Leiden) Riccobono, S. et al. (eds.) 1940‒1943. Fontes Iuris Romani AnteIustiniani, 3 vols. (Florence) Kern, O. 1900. Die Inschriften von Magnesia am Maeander (Berlin) Şahin, M.Ç. 1981–1990. Die Inschriften von Stratonikeia, Vols. I-II ½ (Bonn) Roesch, P. 2009. Les inscriptions de Thespies (édition électronique mise en forme par Argoud, G., Schachter, A. and Vottéro, G.) (Lyon) Inscriptiones Graecae, 1873– (Berlin) Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien, 1972– (Bonn) Moretti, L., 1968–1979. Inscriptiones Graecae Urbis Romae (Rome) Dessau, H. 1892–1916. Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, 3 vols. (Berlin) Kassel, R. and Austin, C. 1983–2001. Poetae Comici Graeci, 8 vols. (Berlin – New York) Kühner, R. and Gerth, B. 1898–1904. Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache, 2 vols. (Hannover) Le Bas, P. and Waddington, W.H., 1870. Voyage archéologique en Grèce et en Asie Mineure: Inscriptions grecques et latines recueillies en Grèce et en Asie Mineure, Vol. III  (Paris) Leuven Database of Ancient Books (www.trismegistos.org/ldab) Fraser, P.M. and Matthews, E. (eds.) 1987– . A Lexicon of Greek Personal Names (Oxford) Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, 1981– (Zürich) Liddell, H.G., Scott, R., Jones, H.S. and McKenzie, R. (eds.) 91996. A GreekEnglish Lexicon (with a revised supplement by Glare, P.G.W. and Thompson, A.A.) (Oxford) Monumenti inediti pubblicati dall’istituto di corrispondenza archeologica – Monuments inédits publiés par l’institute de correspondance archéologique (Rome)

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-205

XXVIII 

 List of Abbreviations and References

OCD ODB OLD P. Herc. P. Mich. P. Oxy. PA PAA Paral. P. Hib. PMG P. Ross. Georg. PSI RE RVAp SEG Schwyz.

SSR TrGF

Hornblower, S. and Spawforth, A. (eds.) 42012. The Oxford Classical Dictionary (Oxford) Kazhdan, A. (ed.) 1991. The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium (New York – Oxford) Glare, P.G.W. (ed.) 21996. Oxford Latin Dictionary (Oxford) Herculaneum Papyri, 1979– (Naples) Michigan Papyri, 1931– (Ann Arbor et al.) The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, 1898– (London) Kirchner, J.E. 1901–1903. Prosopographia Attica (Berlin) Traill, J. 1994–2012. Persons of Ancient Athens (Toronto) Beazley, J.D. 21971. Paralipomena: Additions to Attic Black-figure Vasepainters and to Attic Red-figure Vase-painters (Oxford) Turner, E.G. and Lenger, M.-Th. 1955. The Hibeh Papyri, Part II (London) Page, D.L. 1962. Poetae Melici Graeci (Oxford) Zereteli, G. and Krüger, O. 1925–1935. Papyri Russischer und Georgischer Sammlungen (Tiflis) Papiri Greci e Latini. Pubblicazioni della Società Italiana per la ricerca dei papiri greci e latini in Egitto, 1912– (Florence) Pauly, F.A. and Wissowa, G. (eds.) 1893–1980. Paulys Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft (Stuttgart – Munich) Trendall, A.D. and Cambitoglou, A. 1978. The Red-Figured Vases of Apulia, Vol. I: Early and Middle Apulian (Oxford) Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum, 1923– (Leiden) Schwyzer, E. 1939–1971. Griechische Grammatik, auf der Grundlage von Karl Brugmanns Griechischer Grammatik, Vol. I: Allgemeiner Teil. Lautlehre, Wortbildung, Flexion, Vol. II: Syntax und syntaktische Stylistik, Vol. III: Register, Vol. IV: Stellenregister (Munich) Giannantoni, G. 1983–1990. Socratis et Socraticorum reliquiae (Naples) Snell, B., Kannnicht, R. and Radt, S.L. 1971–2009. Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, 5 vols. (Göttingen)

Note: For abbreviations of periodicals refer to the list of L’Année philologique on the Internet (www.anneephilologique.com/files/sigles_fr.pdf )

References to Fragments Unless otherwise stated, dramatic fragments are cited in the following editions: Aeschylus Sophocles Euripides Minor tragedians Trag. adespota Comic poets

Radt, S. 22009. TrGF, vol. III (Göttingen) Radt, S. 21999. TrGF, vol. IV (Göttingen) Kannicht, R. 2004. TrGF, vol. V.1 and V.2 (Göttingen) Snell, B. and Kannicht R. 21986. TrGF, vol. I (Göttingen) Kannicht, R. and Snell B. 32007. TrGF, vol. II (Göttingen) Kassel, R. and Austin, C. 1983–2001. Poetae Comici Graeci, 8 vols. (Berlin – New York) (abbreviated K-A)

All other fragments are cited by name of their respective editor.

List of Metrical Symbols – k x a u p aa uu anap. anap. anac. ant. ba. cho. cr. cr. da. do. enop. ephym. ep. gl. hemiasc. hypodoch. ia. ibyc. ion. lec. mes. mol. phal. ph. reiz. sp. str. tr.

long/ heavy syllable short/ light syllable anceps (long or short) usually long syllable usually short syllable a missing syllable in the metrical unit (catalexis/ catalectic metron) two short syllables that can be replaced by a long (contraction) long syllable that can be replaced by two shorts (resolution) anapaestic metron anapaest in ‘proceleusmatic’ form anacreontic antistrophe bacchiac choriamb cretic cretic in ‘paeon’ form dactyl dochmiac enoplion ephymnion epode glyconic hemiasclepiad hypodochmiac iambic metron ibycean ionic metron lecythion mesode molossus phalaecian (= gl iap) pherecratean reizianum spondee strophe trochaic metron

kklkkl kkkkkkl kklklkll kll lkkl lkl lkkk or kkkl lkk xllkl various forms1

xxlkklkl xxlkkl lklkl xlkl lkklkklkl llkk or kkll lklalkl lll xxlkklklkll xxlkkll xlkklx ll lklx

Note: A preceding numeral (as in 2 cr.) indicates the number of metra (=2 cretics)8

1 See West 1982, 195. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-206

Author Biographies Andreas P. Antonopoulos is Assistant Professor of Greek Literature at the University of Ioannina. He is also the Director of the Greek Fragmentary Tragedians ONLINE project, based at the University of Patras and sponsored by the Hellenic Foundation for Research and Innovation (EL.ID.E.K.). His main research interests include Greek drama, textual criticism, literary papyrology, and digital Classics. In 2016 he co-organised with Menelaos Christopoulos the international conference ‘Satyr Play: Reconstructing a Dramatic Genre from its Remnants’, at the University of Patras. He is one of the founding members and acting secretary of THIASOS – The International Society of Greek Satyr Play.  At present he is preparing for publication an edition with full-scale commentary of Sophocles’ Ichneutai. Anton Bierl is Professor for Greek Literature at the University of Basel (since 2002). He served as Senior Fellow at Harvard’s Center for Hellenic Studies (2005–2011) and is Member of the IAS, Princeton (2010–2011). He is director and co-editor of Homer’s Iliad: The Basel Commentary and director of the series MythosEikonPoiesis. His research interests include Homeric epic, drama, song and performance culture, the ancient novel, Greek myth and religion. His books include Dionysos und die griechische Tragödie (1991); Die Orestie des Aischylos auf der modernen Bühne (1996); Der Chor in der Alten Komödie (2001); English revised edition Ritual and Performativity (2009); and the co-edited volumes Literatur und Religion I-II (2007); Gewalt und Opfer (2010); Ästhetik des Opfers (2012); Intende Lector: Echoes of Myth, Religion and Ritual in the Ancient Novel (2013); The Newest Sappho (2016) and Time and Space in Ancient Myth, Religion and Culture (2017). His new translation of Sappho with a commentary and detailed introduction is in print. T.H. Carpenter is the Charles J. Ping Professor of Humanities and Distinguished Professor of Classics Emeritus at Ohio University where he has also been the director of the Ping Institute for the Teaching of the Humanities. He is the author of many books and articles on Greek iconography including Dionysian Imagery in Archaic Greek Art (1987), Dionysian Imagery in Fifth Century Athens (1997) and Art and Myth in Ancient Greece (1991). Recently, in addition to his numerous articles on fourth century Apulia, he co-edited with K.M. Lynch and E.G.D Robinson The Italic People of Ancient Apulia: New Evidence from Pottery for Workshops, Markets and Customs (2014). Laura Carrara received her PhD from the Ca’ Foscari University of Venice (2012); after several years at the University of Tübingen and the Heidelberg Academy of Sciences and Humanity, she is now Rita Levi Montalcini Fellow and Senior Researcher at the Dipartimento di Filologia, Letteratura e Linguistica of the University of Pisa, where she is currently working on a project on Sophocles’ lost satyr plays and problems of genre definitions. Her publications on Greek Theatre include journal articles and reviews on satyr drama, fragmentary plays and attempts at reconstruction, besides a book-length critical edition with commentary titled L’indovino Poliido. Eschilo, Le Cretesi, Sofocle, Manteis, Euripide, Poliido (Rome 2014). Among her further research interests are topics of Late antique literature (the Chronicle of John Malalas, the Tübingen Theosophy) and natural catastrophes in ancient Greek and Latin literature.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-207

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 Author Biographies

Marco Catrambone has obtained a PhD in Classics (Greek Philology) from Scuola Normale Superiore, Pisa. His early research has been widely focused on Archaic Greek Poetry and especially on Greek drama in its various aspects, including textual transmission and criticism, stagecraft, characterization, and chorality. His current interests concern the empirical application of pragmatics and sociolinguistics, particularly politeness theory, Conversation Analysis, Gricean implicature, Speech Act Theory, gender-differentiated speech, and register studies, to the study of Greek dramatic production. His doctoral dissertation is devoted to an in-depth exploration of politeness dynamics in Sophocles’ stichomythia, with special attention to the conversations of female characters. Preliminary results of his research have been published in academic journals and presented on various occasions in France, Greece, Italy, the Netherlands, and the UK. He has recently co-authored with Luigi Battezzato the entry ‘The Tragic Chorus’ for Oxford Bibliographies Online. Nikos G. Charalabopoulos is Assistant Professor in Classics in the Department of Philology at the University of Patras. He is the author of Platonic Drama and its Ancient Reception (2012, Cambridge University Press). His research and teaching center on Plato, the philosophical dialogue, their reception in antiquity and Byzantium, and the Greek paraklausithyron. He is currently completing a monograph on the dream narratives in Plato. Menelaos M. Christopoulos is Professor of Ancient Greek Literature at the Department of Philology of the University of Patras. Born in Athens, he studied Ancient Greek Literature (MA University of Thessaloniki, PhD University of Paris 4-Sorbonne), Ancient Greek Philosophy (MA University of Paris 10-Nanterre) and music (piano, song, history of music). He has worked as Research Fellow (Academy of Athens), Assistant Professor of Ancient Greek Literature (University of Cyprus), Associate Professor of Ancient Greek Literature (University of Patras) and Professor and Coordinator of Ancient Greek Literature (Hellenic Open University). He is director of the Centre for the Study of Myth and Religion in Greek and Roman Antiquity (http://mythreligion.upatras.gr) and President of the Centre for Odyssean Studies (http://cods.upatras.gr). He has published several books and articles on Homeric and Archaic Epic, Greek Drama, Second Sophistic, Greek Myth and Religion. Paolo B. Cipolla is Associate Professor of Greek Literature at the University of Catania. In 2003 he published a revised version of the doctoral thesis, consisting in the critical edition, with Italian translation and commentary, of the fragments of satyr dramas by minor tragedians (Poeti minori del dramma satiresco, Amsterdam). Other works concern Aeschylean satyr drama (‘Il ‘Frammento di Dike’ (Aesch. fr. 281a R.): uno status quaestionis sui problemi testuali ed esegetici’, Lexis 28, 2010, 133–154; ‘Gli ‘oggetti misteriosi’ dei Θεωροὶ ἢ Ἰσθμιασταί’, in M. Taufer (ed.) Contributi critici sul testo di Eschilo. Ecdotica ed esegesi, Tübingen 2011, 233–49), tragic quotations in Athenaeus (‘Le citazioni dei tragici in Ateneo’, in Id., Studi sul teatro greco, Amsterdam 2006, 79–136), and, more recently, the marginalia of the Codex Marcianus of Deipnosophistae (Marginalia in Athenaeum, Amsterdam 2015). He is currently working at the fragments of Aeschylus’ satyr dramas; an edition with critical text, translation and commentary is expected to appear soon as a part of an editing project concerning the whole Aeschylean corpus, sponsored by the ‘Accademia dei Lincei’ and directed by Vittorio Citti.

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 XXXIII

James Diggle is Emeritus Professor of Greek and Latin in the University of Cambridge and a Fellow of Queens’ College, and was University Orator from 1982 to 1993. He is the editor of the Oxford Classical Text of Euripides (1981–1994). His other books are: The Phaethon of Euripides (1970); (with F.R.D. Goodyear) Flavii Cresconii Corippi Iohannidos Libri VIII (1970) and The Classical Papers of A.E. Housman (1972); Studies on the Text of Euripides (1981); The Textual Tradition of Euripides’ Orestes (1991); Euripidea: Collected Essays (1994); Cambridge Orations (1984); Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta Selecta (1998); Theophrastus, Characters (2004); (with R. Bittlestone and J. Underhill) Odysseus Unbound: The Search for Homer’s Ithaca (2005). He is a Fellow of the British Academy and a Corresponding Member of the Academy of Athens, and is Editor-in-Chief of the Cambridge Greek Lexicon (2021). George W.M. Harrison has devoted much of his career to the question of the performance of Seneca’s plays. He has edited or co-edited books such as Satyr Drama: Tragedy at Play (2005) Seneca in Performance (2000), Performance in Greek and Roman Theatre (2013), Brill’s Companion to Roman Tragedy (2015), and has contributed to Brill’s Companion to Seneca (2013). He is preparing parallel readers’ guides to the Octavia and to the Hercules Oetaeus and has begun work on a volume on Seneca and Plutarch. He is a founding member of the International Plutarch Society, and the founding Πρόεδρος of THIASOS – The International Society of Greek Satyr Play. Guy Hedreen is Amos Lawrence Professor of Art at Williams College. He is author of Silens in Attic Black-figure Vase-painting: Myth and Performance (1992), Capturing Troy: The Narrative Functions of Landscape in Archaic and Early Classical Greek Art (2001), and The Image of the Artist in Archaic and Classical Greece: Art, Poetry, and Subjectivity (2016). He has published essays on Dionysiac myth and ritual, choral poetry, drama, the Trojan War, primitive life, and the nature of visual narration. His awards include the Rome Prize, a Guggenheim Fellowship, and the Arlt Award for his first book. Lucy C.M.M. Jackson is Assistant Professor of Classics at Durham University. She teaches and works on the history and practicalities of theatre performance from ancient Greece to the modern era. Her first monograph, Song of the Chorus, an examination of the presence and representation of the chorus of drama in the fourth century BC, was published in 2019 by Oxford University Press. Her current research focuses on the translation of Greek drama into Latin during the sixteenth century in Europe. Agnieszka Kotlińska-Toma is Assistant Professor at the Institute of Classical, Mediterranean and Oriental Studies, University of Wroclaw, Poland. She is the author of Hellenistic tragedy: texts, translations and a critical survey (Bloomsbury Academics 2015). Her research interests focus on Hellenistic drama and poetry. She is the co-author of the first Polish translation of ​and commentary on the works of Callimachus (vol. 1–2, Wroclaw 2017), and has recently completed a monograph on political wit and allusion in Hellenistic comedy.   Ralf Krumeich is Associate Professor of Classical Archaeology at the University of Bonn; he has also taught at the Universities of Bochum, Münster, Freiburg, Hamburg and Munich. His research interests include ancient portraits and their contexts, theatrical iconography, and cultural contacts between the Greek, Roman and ‘Oriental’ cultures. His publications include Bildnisse griechischer Herrscher und Staatsmänner im 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr. (Munich 1997),

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 Author Biographies

Das griechische Satyrspiel (Darmstadt 1999, coedited with Nikolaus Pechstein and Bernd Seidensticker) and Die Akropolis von Athen im Hellenismus und in der römischen Kaiserzeit (Wiesbaden 2010, coedited with Christian Witschel). His ‘Habilitationsschrift’ Theaterbilder. Formen der Rezeption eines kulturellen Phänomens in der attischen und italischen Vasenmalerei des 6.−4. Jhs. v. Chr. is in preparation for publication. Together with Christian Witschel, he is currently working on a complete catalogue of the statue bases from the Athenian Acropolis in the Hellenistic and Roman imperial periods (in preparation for publication). Chiara Meccariello is Research Fellow at the University of Cassino, Italy, and Teaching Associate in Ancient History at the University of Göttingen, Germany. Her research interests include Greek drama and the ways in which it was read, summarised, commented upon, and taught at school in antiquity. She has published articles on Euripidean tragedy and worked extensively on tragic hypotheseis: her monograph Le hypotheseis narrative dei drammi euripidei. Testo, contesto, fortuna was published in 2014 (Roma, Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura), and her editions of Euripidean hypotheseis appeared in J. Brusuelas and C. Meccariello (eds.) The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, vol. LXXXI, London 2016, as ‘P. Oxy. 5283–5285’. Johanna A. Michels is affiliated with KU Leuven university and is editorial staff of the Corpus Christianorum Series Graeca. Her main research interests are the Bibliotheca of PseudoApollodorus, the mythographic tradition, and the many transformations of myth in the Postclassical and Byzantine period. Despite her focus on what is commonly conceived as the most traditional of mythographers, she often broadens her scope to multifarious texts that display mythographic qualities. Patrick O’Sullivan is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Canterbury (UC), New Zealand. He has published on many aspects of Archaic and Classical Greek literature and cultural history, and recently he has focused on ancient aesthetics and literary criticism, satyr play and tragedy, links between poetics and athletics, and atheism in ancient Greece.  Other publications include work on Greek and Roman art and their reception beyond antiquity. He has received awards for his research – including major research grants and Visiting Fellowships at Wolfson and Trinity Colleges in Cambridge – and has twice been voted Top Lecturer in the College of Arts at UC.  In 2008 he was involved as translator and actor in a full production of Euripides’ Cyclops, produced in Christchurch; and in 2013 he published a book (co-authored with Chris Collard) on Euripides’ Cyclops and Major Fragments of Greek Satyric Drama, through Oxbow. Riccardo Palmisciano is Associate Professor of Greek Literature at the University of Naples ‘L’Orientale’. His main areas of interest are: epic and lyric poetry of the archaic period, early dramatic performances, traditional poetry and its relationships with authorial poetry, myth as a traditional tale. He edited, with Matteo D’Acunto, the proceedings of the Conference Lo Scudo di Achille nell’Iliade. Esperienze ermeneutiche a confronto (2010), and published the monograph Dialoghi per voce sola. La cultura del lamento funebre nella Grecia antica (2017). Hollister Nolan Pritchett is Professor of Art History at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana. She completed her Ph.D. on Representations of children through stages of childhood development in Athenian art at Bryn Mawr College, Pennsylvania She has worked at the Tarsus Gözlükule Excavation (Tarsus, Turkey) as the Ceramic Supervisor, overseeing the pottery

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processing team and an international group of students. Her main fields of interest include Greek pottery with an emphasis on depictions of children (human, divine, and satyr) along with a special interest in the East Greek Wild Goat Style Pottery. Jordi Redondo is Professor of Greek Philology at the University of Valencia. His doctoral dissertation, under the supervision of Antonio López Eire, was a study of the literary language of the orator Antiphon and its effect on the development of Koine Greek. His main fields of research have been the history of the Greek language and the style of Classical rhetoric, and more recently historical syntax, Greek religion and the reception of Greek literature, especially in the Late Middle Ages. He has published editions of the orators Antiphon (2003–2004), Andocides (2006–2007) and Alcidamas (2014), as well as introductions to Greek Religion and Mythology (2006), Greek syntax (2009) and Greek literature (2011), and a monograph on the Greek sociolinguistics (2016). A recent book deals with Greek postcolonial literature in the Augustan age. He is now working on erotic literature and ethnography. An edition of Hesiod is in press. Richard Seaford is Emeritus Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Exeter.  His books include Commentaries on Euripides’ Cyclops (Oxford U.P., 1984) and on Euripides’ Bacchae (Aris and Phillips, 1996), as well as  Reciprocity and Ritual (Oxford U.P., 1994), Dionysos (Routledge, 2006), Money and the Early Greek Mind (Cambridge U.P., 2004), and Cosmology and the Polis (Cambridge U.P., 2012).  His selected papers will be published by Cambridge U.P. in 2019.  In 2009 he was Honorary President of the Classical Association (UK). His research has been funded by the Leverhulme Foundation and by the Arts and Humanities Research Council. Bernd Seidensticker is Emeritus Professor of Classics at the Freie Universität Berlin, and member of the Berlin-Brandenburg Akademie der Wissenschaften; PhD Hamburg (1968); ‘Habilitation’ Hamburg (1979). Main research interests: Greek and Roman drama and theatre; reception of antiquity. Major Publications: Die Gesprächsverdichtung in den Tragödien Senecas, Heidelberg (1969); Komische Elemente in der griechischen Tragödie, Göttingen (1982); Erinnern wird sich wohl noch mancher an uns, Studien zur Antikerezeption nach 1945, Bamberg (2003); Über das Vergnügen an tragischen Gegenständen, Studien zum antiken Drama, Leipzig-München (2005). Pavlos Sfyroeras is Professor of Classics at Middlebury College (Vermont, USA). In addition to several articles that he has published on a number of Greek poets, including Aristophanes, Euripides, Sophocles, and Pindar, his forthcoming book The Feast of Poetry: Sacrifice and Performance in Aristophanic Comedy (Harvard, Center for Hellenic Studies) combines his interests in poetic genres, both dramatic and non-dramatic, and ritual performance. He is currently working on a book-length project tentatively entitled Pindar and Athens: Epichoric Traditions of Mythmaking. Carl Shaw is Professor Greek Language and Literature at New College, the honors college of Florida. His scholarly interests lie broadly in the areas of Greek literature and culture, with a particular focus on drama and archaic performance. His monograph, Satyric Play: The Evolution of Greek Comedy and Satyr Drama, was released on Oxford University Press in 2014, and his book on Euripides’ Cyclops was published by Bloomsbury Press in 2018.

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 Author Biographies

Mali Skotheim is Assistant Professor at Ashoka University. She works on the performance of post-classical Greek drama and para-theatre. She has a PhD from Princeton University (2016), and has held the Rome Prize at American Academy in Rome (2015–2016) and the Solmsen Postdoctoral Research Fellowship at the Institute for Research in the Humanities at the University of Wisconsin-Madison (2017–2018). As a National Endowment for the Humanities Fellow at the American School of Classical Studies at Athens and the American Research Institute in Turkey (2018–2019), she is preparing a monograph on the performance of drama at Greek festivals in the Hellenistic and Roman periods. Niall W. Slater is Samuel Candler Dobbs Professor of Latin and Greek at Emory University. He focuses on the ancient theatre and its production conditions, prose fiction, and popular reception of classical literature. His books include Spectator Politics: Metatheatre and Performance in Aristophanes (Penn 2002), Reading Petronius (JHUP, 1990), and Plautus in Performance: The Theatre of the Mind (Princeton, 1985; 2nd revised edition 2000), as well as the Bloomsbury Companion to Euripides’ Alcestis (2013). His translations of various Middle and New Comedy poets are included in The Birth of Comedy: Texts, Documents, and Art from Athenian Comic Competitions, 486–280, edited by Jeffrey Rusten (The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011). With C.W. Marshall he is the co-editor of the series Bloomsbury Ancient Comedy Companions. He is currently working on fragments of Roman Republican drama as part of the new Loeb Fragmentary Republican Latin. Willeon Slenders is Assistant Professor of Ancient and Modern Greek at the Radboud University of Nijmegen, who for many years now has combined his academic work with a teaching position in secondary education. His fields of interest are Greek philology with an emphasis on linguistics, Greek drama and lyric. He has written several publications on satyr drama: ‘Intentional Ambiguity in Aeschylean Satyr Plays?’, Mnemosyne 45, 145–58 (1992); ‘Λέξις ἐρωτική in Euripides’, in: Harrison, G.W.M. (ed.) Satyr Drama. Tragedy at Play, 39–52 (2005); ‘The λέξις ἐρωτική in Sophocles’ Satyr Plays’, in: Lardinois, A.P.M.H., Van der Poel, M.G.M., and Hunink, V.J.C. (eds.) Land of Dreams. Greek and Latin Studies in Honour of A.H.M. Kessels, 133–45 (2006); Τραγῳδία παίζουσα. Taaleigen en stijl van het Klassiekgriekse satyrspel (diss. Nijmegen, 2007); ‘Sophocles’ Ichneutae or How to Write a Satyr Play’, in: Ormand, K. (ed.) A Companion to Sophocles, 155–68 (2012). Tyler Jo Smith is Professor of Classical Art and Archaeology in the McIntire Department of Art at the University of Virginia. A specialist and vase-painting and iconography, her research focuses on the relationship between performance and art in Archaic and Classical Greece. She is the author of Komast Dancers in Archaic Greek Art (Oxford, 2010) and co-editor (with D. Plantzos) of A Companion to Greek Art (Wiley-Blackwell, 2012).  She serves on the Editorial Advisory Board of the American Journal of Archaeology, the American editorial board of the Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum, and as a member of the Board of Delegates of the American Research Institute in Turkey. Her current research projects explore the visual and material manifestations of religion in Graeco-Roman art and the associations between art and alcohol in ancient cultures around the world.

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 XXXVII

Maurizio Sonnino is Associate Professor of ancient Greek Language and Literature at the University of Rome ‘Sapienza’. He is member of the editorial board of the review Seminari Romani di Lingua Greca. He has published several papers on Greek tragedy, comedy, satyr drama, and mime, with particular attention to fragmentary texts rescued from papyrus finds, as well as Aristophanic and Euripidean drama. He has also worked on ancient theory of comic drama, Ptolemaic papyri of Homer, and the History of Classical Scholarship. He is the author of the monographs Euripidis Erechthei quae exstant (Florence 2010), and Michel’Angelo Giacomelli. Aristofane, voll. I‒II (Rome 2017‒2018); the latter consists of the editio princeps with full commentary of the unedited 18th cent. manuscript written by the Italian scholar Michel’Angelo Giacomelli (1695‒1774), containing the most ancient Italian translation with philological notes of four comedies of Aristophanes. He is co-editor (with C. Pace) and contributor of the collection of papers La commedia attica: testo, teoria, immagini («SemRom» n.s. 8), Rome 2019. Oliver Thomas is Assistant Professor in Classics at the University of Nottingham. Besides satyr drama his areas of expertise include Aeschylus, Greek hymns (especially the Homeric Hymns) and Homer. He is the co-author with David Raeburn of The Agamemnon of Aeschylus: A Commentary for Students (Oxford: OUP, 2011) and he has recently published an edition of and commentary on the Homeric Hymn to Hermes (Cambridge: CUP, 2020). Paul Touyz is Assistant Professor of Classics at the University of Kansas. He works broadly on Greek literature, history, and reception. His current research focuses on the postclassical history of satyr drama and its place in ancient criticism. He has published previously on the ancient reception of Aeschylus as a satyric poet and on Goethe’s reading and appraisal of Aristophanes. Anna Uhlig is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of California, Davis. She is co-editor (with Richard Hunter) of Imagining Reperformance in Ancient Culture: Studies in the Traditions of Drama and Lyric (Cambridge, 2017) and (with Lyndsay Coo) of Aeschylus at Play: Studies in Aeschylean Satyr Drama, a themed issue of the Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies (2019), and author of Theatrical Reenactment in Pindar and Aeschylus (Cambridge, 2019). Pierre Voelke is ‘Maître d’enseignement et de recherche’ in Greek language and literature at the University of Lausanne. His main field of research is Athenian drama. He has published Un théâtre de la marge. Aspects figuratifs et congurationnels du drame satyrique dans l’Athènes classique (Bari 2001) and papers on satyr drama, Euripidean tragedy, ancient and new comedy, and classical tradition​.

Andreas P. Antonopoulos

Introduction: What is Satyr Drama? 1 The Other ‘Third’ When it comes to Greek drama – the first and great ancestor of modern theatre – many people nowadays are somewhat familiar with tragedy and comedy, even if simply by name. The luckier ones may have read (usually in translation) a play or two at school or in university, while some may even have attended one or more of the many modern reproductions-adaptations of plays, such as Euripides’ Medea or Aristophanes’ Lysistrata. Few people, however, are aware that in antiquity there was a third dramatic genre, known as ‘satyr drama’ – in Greek σατυρικὸν δρᾶμα,1 or simply σάτυροι. It was composed by the same playwrights as tragedy – the tragic poets – for the theatrical competition of the Great Dionysia festival in Athens.2 During the fifth and much of the fourth century BC, three tragic poets would compete there with a tetralogy each, consisting of three tragedies and one satyr drama. And although tragedy and comedy, in their developed forms that we know of today, were no longer a ‘song of (men dressed as) goats’ (τραγῳδία) and a ‘song of komasts’ (κωμῳδία), satyr drama always remained what its name suggests: a dramatic play with a chorus of satyrs (σάτυροι), the followers of Dionysos. Part-human and part-animal, these primitive hedonistic creatures are characterised by an unending appetite for revelling, dancing and drinking wine.3 To the satyrs of the chorus one needs to add their old father, Silenos, played by an actor; together they were present in every satyr drama, comprising therefore the basic component of the genre. Silens (σιληνοί) were basically the same type of creatures as satyrs, only different in origin: they were Attic-Ionic, while the satyrs Peloponnesian. At  same point during the sixth century BC these two groups 1 From the various English translations of this compound term, we find ‘drama’ preferable to ‘play’, as it is more accurate and draws attention to drama rather than just theatre, and ‘satyr’ (as an epithet) better than ‘satyric’, as it helps to avoid confusion with the more widely known epithet ‘satiric’ (from satire). 2 One must bear in mind that, unlike modern theatre, Greek drama had a religious and also a competitive dimension. In Athens all plays were performed during religious festivals in honour of Dionysos and chiefly as part of a competition (ἀγών) between rival poets. Apart from the ‘Great’ or ‘City Dionysia’ (Μεγάλα ἢ Ἐν ἄστει Διονύσια – end of March), new plays (but not satyr dramas) were presented in the ‘Lenaia’ (Λήναια – end of January), while the ‘Lesser’ or ‘Rural Dionysia’ (Μικρὰ ἢ Κατ’ ἀγροὺς Διονύσια – in December) probably hosted repetitions of old plays. 3 For the portrayal of satyrs in literature and art, a good starting point with bibliography is the relevant chapter by O’Sullivan, ‘General Introduction’, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 8–22. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-001

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 Andreas P. Antonopoulos

became assimilated,4 to the point that ‘σάτυρος’ and ‘σιληνός’ could be used as variant terms. And that is why in satyr drama they are members of one and the same family. Like tragedy, satyr drama dealt with heroic myths, but in a humorous and playful way imposed by the presence of the satyrs. So it is perhaps more accurate to speak of satyric adaptations of traditional stories as the basic stock for this genre. Lissarrague5 has cleverly summarised the ‘recipe’ for a satyr drama as follows: ‘Take one myth, add satyrs, observe the result’. Of the various stories most appropriate were those with happy endings, as for instance the rescue of Danaë and her baby-boy Perseus in Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi. Some plays even featured Dionysos himself on stage, as for example Sophocles’ Dionysiskos, which dealt with the god’s upbringing. But even in those plays in which Dionysos is not physically present, the satyrs constantly refer to their master and to the pleasures of his thiasos. Thus, Euripides’ Cyclops, in which play the satyrs are away from him and captive in a foreign land, starts with a complaint to the absent Dionysos (line 1, Ὦ Βρόμιε, διὰ σὲ μυρίους ἔχω πόνους, ‘O Bromius, labours numberless have I had because of you!’6), and is concluded with the joy of the prospective reunification with him (line 709, τὸ λοιπὸν Βακχίῳ δουλεύσομεν, ‘we shall … ever after serve in Dionysos’ train’7). This way, within Attic drama, satyr drama ‒ a type of theatre deeply rooted in and closely associated with the cult and ritual of Dionysos ‒ was the most Dionysiac component, the genre that always kept Dionysos at its epicenter. Written by the same poets as tragedy, apart from similar content, satyr drama inevitably had similar form with that genre: language, metre, and structure, point to tragedy, although in all three respects satyr drama takes more liberties and shows more flexibility than tragedy. With regard to the structure, for instance, Euripides’ Cyclops is similar to a tragedy with a prologue, parodos, five episodes followed by the equivalent choral songs (stasima), and finally an exodos. Nevertheless, as Seaford8 points out, these songs (the last two of which are astrophic) ‘resemble the songs of Old Comedy in their shortness, metrical simplicity, and tendency to accompany action’. In Sophocles’ Ichneutai the distinction between spoken and sung parts is more loose, with the frequent interruption of spoken lines by short astrophic songs and even with some strophic pairs being divided by spoken lines. What is more, the chorus of satyrs has the most important role in the action of the play; they are the 4 It was also then that their association with Dionysos was consolidated; see Seaford 1984, 6. 5 Lissarrague 1990b, 236. 6 Translation by Kovacs 1994a, 61. 7 Translation by Kovacs 1994a, 143. 8 Seaford 1984, 46.

Introduction: What is Satyr Drama? 

 3

ones who follow the tracks of Apollo’s stolen cows, reaching the cave of Cyllene and, eventually, unveiling the identity of the thief (little Hermes).9 Finally, from a theatrical point of view, one should also note that satyr drama had the same actors and choreuts as the preceding tragedies of the tetralogy. It is most interesting that it also featured the same characters (gods and heroes), this time next to Silenos and the satyrs. This must have made an impression on the audience, especially in these cases where there was a thematic link between satyr drama and the tragedies, as for instance in Aeschylus’ Theban tetralogy of 467 BC; after watching three tragedies narrating the sufferings of the House of Labdacus (Laius, Oedipus, Septem contra Thebas), the spectators would very much enjoy to see an Oedipus surrounded and teased by a bunch of satyrs in the satyric Sphinx.10 Nevertheless, there was a fundamental difference with tragedy: laughter. A relevant comment is made by Pseudo-Demetrius in his treatise De Elocutione (169): (sc. εἰσὶ) γέλωτος τέχναι καὶ χαρίτων, ἐν σατύρῳ καὶ ἐν κωμῳδίαις. τραγῳδία δὲ χάριτας μὲν παραλαμβάνει ἐν πολλοῖς, ὁ δὲ γέλως ἐχθρὸς τραγῳδίας· οὐδὲ γὰρ ἐπινοήσειεν ἄν τις τραγῳδίαν παίζουσαν, ἐπεὶ σάτυρον γράψει ἀντὶ τραγῳδίας. There are arts of laughter and charms, like satyr drama and comedy. As for tragedy, it admits charms in many instances, but laughter is an enemy of tragedy; one could not even invent a playful tragedy, for he would write a satyr drama instead of a tragedy.

From that comment, the phrase ‘τραγῳδία παίζουσα’ has become famous as a quick definition for satyr drama. Although, it cannot be taken for word (and apparently it was not intended as a definition by the author of De Elocutione), it nevertheless captures a basic truth: satyr drama had a lot of similarities with tragedy, and a big difference – one that it shared with comedy. So satyr drama had similarities with comedy too. The most apparent were, of course, the humorous mood11 and the happy ending. In the linguistic level 9 Generally on the language of satyr drama, see the discussions by López Eire 1996 and 2003; Griffith 2006; Redondo 2003 and 2015a; the doctoral thesis (in Dutch) of Slenders 2007, which is currently being expanded for an English edition. Specific linguistic and stylistic aspects are treated in this volume’s contributions by SLENDERS, REDONDO and CATRAMBONE. With regard to metre, see Seaford 1984, 45–7; Seidensticker in Krumeich et al. 1999, 16–17; Cerbo 2015; the chapter by JACKSON in this volume. 10 It is regrettable that very little survives from this play (fr. 235–7), which apparently dealt with the defeat of the monster by Oedipus. 11 Nevertheless, there is a different kind of humour, which instantly becomes evident when one reads Euripides’ Cyclops vis-à-vis, for instance, Aristophanes’ Acharnenses. Like the satyrs, satyr drama represents a primitive, pre-urban culture, while Old Comedy mocks the polis and its institutions.

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(λέξις), it is worth noting the presence of colloquialisms and of obscenities, albeit less frequent than in comedy.12 The obscenities were also less vulgar, but one should not forget the visual level (ὄψις): like the comic actors, the satyrs of the chorus had a visible phallos. Finally, in terms of content, and during the fourth century BC, satyr drama became increasingly influenced by comedy, incorporating the ‘break’ of theatrical illusion and the practice of ὀνομαστὶ κωμῳδεῖν.13 It is perhaps due to these similarities that, according to Eustathius (ad Od. 18.349), the ancients14 regarded satyr drama as standing half-way between tragedy and comedy: ἔστι γὰρ κατὰ τοὺς παλαιοὺς σατυρικοῦ ἴδιον τὸ μέσον εἶναι τραγικοῦ καὶ κωμικοῦ.

There is some truth in this view, but equating tragedy and comedy and placing them as the two limits of the spectrum is rather hyperbolic. As a genre, satyr drama was closer to tragedy, with which it shared, not only the same playwrights and the same cast, but also similar origins.15

2 The Evidence Tyche was not so benevolent with this genre as with tragedy and comedy. Out of hundreds of satyr dramas that were produced in antiquity, only one has come down to us complete, Euripides’ Cyclops (with 709 lines), and that simply by chance; it was copied in a manuscript as part of an alphabetical list of Euripidean plays. If one compares 32 complete tragedies from the ‘Great Three’ (7 under the name of Aeschylus,16 7 of Sophocles and 18 of Euripides17), 11 comedies from Aristophanes (Old Comedy), and one complete comedy  – the Dyscolus  – from Menander (New Comedy),18 one can easily understand why satyr drama is so less known than its two siblings.

12 For more details on colloquialisms, see the chapter by SLENDERS in this volume. 13 Conversely, in the same period we even have comedies with satyrs, like Timocles’ Ikarioi Satyroi; on this topic, see Storey 2005, 201–18. Generally on the similarities of satyr drama with comedy, see the reference work by Shaw 2014. 14 Eustathius does not give a time-frame with regard to the ‘ancients’, nor does he cite his sources. 15 See below on § Origins and History. 16 The authorship of Prometheus is disputed. 17 The authorship of Rhesus is disputed. 18 We have large portions of 6 other comedies by him.

Introduction: What is Satyr Drama? 

 5

It is also noteworthy that until the nineteenth century, apart from the Cyclops, we only had some small fragments from other satyr plays, preserved by other ancient authors. It was in the 1900’s that our knowledge of satyr drama would become significantly enlarged with the great papyrological discoveries in the ancient city of Oxyrhynchus in Egypt. The team headed by Grenfell and Hunt gradually brought to light, among other things, significant portions of lost satyr dramas, roughly 420 lines of Sophocles’ Ichneutai19 (now the second best preserved play after the Cyclops), 90 lines of his Inachos,20 100 lines for each of Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi21 and Isthmiastai or Theoroi,22 20 lines of his Prometheus Pyrkaeus,23 as well as smaller fragments of other plays. With all textual sources combined (the Cyclops, the testimonia and the papyrus fragments), it is estimated that today we know with certainty of roughly 75 satyr dramas (ranging from a few hundred lines to a few words, or even a mere title), while for 25 more cases ‘the Satyrspielqualität is probable or possible, but uncertain’.24 To the above material one should also add the visual evidence. There is a huge corpus of vase-paintings and other artifacts with satyrs, which are now scattered at various museums and collections around the globe. For a great number of them we can say with certainty, or with a high degree of probability, that they were inspired by satyr dramas.25 The most famous example – and justly so – is the so-called ‘Pronomos Vase’,26 an Athenian red-figure krater of c. 410 BC (Figure 27.1),27 which depicts the entire cast of a satyr drama. This is a unique ‘message in a bottle’, which provides us with useful data on the production of such a play.28

19 Published as P. Oxy. 1174 (in 1912) + P. Oxy. 2081a (in 1927). 20 P. Tebt. 692 (in 1933) + P. Oxy. 2369 (in 1956). 21 PSI 1209 (in 1934) + P. Oxy. 2161 (in 1941). 22 P. Oxy. 2162 (in 1941). 23 P. Oxy. 2245 (in 1952). 24 So Seidensticker, ‘Philologisch-literarische Einleitung’, in Krumeich et al. 1999, 4; for a detailed list of plays see pp. 661–2 (this has great utility, as does the list of play-characters on pp. 663–5). 25 Webster 1967a made a first attempt to collect these monuments. Note also, that in their edition of the most extant satyric fragments, Krumeich et al. 1999 have included a short discussion of the visual evidence for each play. Undoubtedly this rich material has a growing importance for our understanding, not just of the fragmentary plays, but also of the genre as a whole; key aspects of it are discussed throughout the present volume, culminating with seven specialised studies in the final chapter. 26 Named after the aulete Pronomos on it. 27 Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale 81673. 28 See below on § Production.

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3 Origins and History Like those of tragedy, the origins of satyr drama are unclear, and yet somehow connected with one another. The earliest and most detailed information on this topic comes from Aristotle’s Poetica. In this treatise on poetry, the philosopher virtually ignores satyr drama, except for a short, but critical passage, where he discusses the early stages and the development of tragedy: γενομένη δ’ οὖν ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς αὐτοσχεδιαστικῆς … ἀπὸ τῶν ἐξαρχόντων τὸν διθύραμβον … κατὰ μικρὸν ηὐξήθη προαγόντων ὅσον ἐγίγνετο φανερὸν αὐτῆς. καὶ πολλὰς μεταβολὰς μεταβαλοῦσα ἡ τραγῳδία ἐπαύσατο, ἐπεὶ ἔσχε τὴν αὑτῆς φύσιν … ἔτι δὲ τὸ μέγεθος. ἐκ μικρῶν μύθων καὶ λέξεως γελοίας διὰ τὸ ἐκ σατυρικοῦ μεταβαλεῖν ὀψὲ ἀπεσεμνύνθη, τό τε μέτρον ἐκ τετραμέτρου ἰαμβεῖον ἐγένετο. τὸ μὲν γὰρ πρῶτον τετραμέτρῳ ἐχρῶντο διὰ τὸ σατυρικὴν καὶ ὀρχηστικωτέραν εἶναι τὴν ποίησιν, λέξεως δὲ γενομένης αὐτὴ ἡ φύσις τὸ οἰκεῖον μέτρον εὗρε. μάλιστα γὰρ λεκτικὸν τῶν μέτρων τὸ ἰαμβεῖόν ἐστιν (Poetica 1449a). Having originated in improvisation … from the lead-singers of the dithyramb … it slowly evolved, as people developed each of its elements that came to light. And having undergone many changes, tragedy stopped (i.e. changing), when it acquired its own nature … (These) also (included) its size: from small myths and ridiculous language – for it developed from the satyric (?) – it assumed a solemn form lately. And also its metre became iambic from tetrameter. For at first they were using the tetrameter, as its poetry was satyric and more dance-like. But when spoken lines were added, nature itself found the proper metre; for iambic is the most suitable of metres for speech.

This statement by Aristotle has caused a great amount of discussion among scholars.29 For if by ἐκ σατυρικοῦ he means ‘from satyr drama’, tragedy would be presented as emerging from that genre. But this seems to be in contradiction, a) with Aristotle’s earlier observation that tragedy originated from the dithyramb, and b) with other sources, according to which satyr drama was introduced to the dramatic games after tragedy. These include Horace’s Ars Poetica 220–4, Zenobius’ Epitome 5.40, and also the information in Suda Π 2230 that the first to write satyr dramas was Pratinas of Phleious (πρῶτος ἔγραψε Σατύρους), a poet who flourished later than Thespis, hence after the introduction of tragedy in the Great Dionysia.30 Nevertheless, these ‘contradictions’ are not so hard to cure.

29 On this subject, see also the contribution of PALMISCIANO in this volume. 30 Apparently he competed against Choerilus and Aeschylus sometime, during the 70th Olympiad (500/496 BC), and he must have passed away by 467 BC, when his son Aristias came second in the Great Dionysia with his father’s works.

Introduction: What is Satyr Drama? 

 7

There are two possibilities: (a) That by ἐκ σατυρικοῦ Aristotle did not refer to satyr drama itself, but to a satyric kind of performance, from which both tragedy and satyr drama evolved. This view is espoused by most people nowadays, who translate σατυρικόν in this passage as ‘the satyr-play-like’, ‘the satyresque’, ‘a satyric element’,31 or likewise. Seaford has convincingly raised the possibility that Aristotle here meant that tragedy evolved from the dithyrambs that were sung by choruses of satyrs.32 According to Suda A 3886, Arion from Methymna, a poet, who flourished during the 38th Olympiad (628‒624BC), was the ‘first to sing (i.e. to compose) a dithyramb and to give a name to this song of the chorus and to introduce satyrs speaking in metre’.33 An improvised form of dithyramb must have existed already, but he is credited as an important innovator, who not only gave an artistic form to dithyramb, but also presented it performed by a chorus of satyrs. Another important information comes from Aristotle’s pupil Chamaeleon. In his (lost) work on Thespis, the first actor (Περὶ Θέσπιδος, fr. 38 Wehrli),34 he mentioned that poets were originally competing with one another with Dionysiac performances called σατυρικά, and later they started writing tragedies and turned to other (nonDionysiac) myths and stories.35 (b) That Aristotle did mean ‘satyr drama’ with ἐκ σατυρικοῦ. But this is not necessarily contradicted by his earlier observation on the dithyramb. Aristotle does mention that tragedy went through many changes. Thus, dithyramb – satyr drama – tragedy, could be different stages (or turning points) in a long evolutionary process.36 Besides, the creation of a new genre out of an older one, does not mean that the latter was replaced. Each time, old and new genre could go side-by-side. In the case of dithyramb, satyr drama and tragedy, this reality is highlighted by their

31 So for instance, O’Sullivan, ‘General Introduction’, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 22–3. 32 See Seaford 1976, 209–21, and 1984, 10–12. 33 λέγεται … πρῶτος χορὸν στῆσαι καὶ διθύραμβον ᾆσαι καὶ ὀνομάσαι τὸ ᾀδόμενον ὑπὸ τοῦ χοροῦ καὶ Σατύρους εἰσενεγκεῖν ἔμμετρα λέγοντας. The pioneer role of Arion in the development of dithyramb is also attested by Herodotus (1.23): Ἀρίονα τὸν Μηθυμναῖον … διθύραμβον πρῶτον ἀνθρώπων τῶν ἡμεῖς ἴδμεν ποιήσαντά τε καὶ ὀνομάσαντα καὶ διδάξαντα ἐν Κορίνθῳ. 34 Chamaeleon is also the author of the only attested treatise on satyr drama, Περὶ Σατύρων, which is likewise lost, with the exception of a few fragments (fr. 37a‒c Wehrli). 35 τὸ πρόσθεν εἰς τὸν Διόνυσον γράφοντες τούτοις ἠγωνίζοντο, ἅπερ καὶ Σατυρικὰ ἐλέγετο· ὕστερον δὲ μεταβάντες εἰς τὸ τραγῳδίας γράφειν κατὰ μικρὸν εἰς μύθους καὶ ἱστορίας ἐτράπησαν, μηκέτι τοῦ Διονύσου μνημονεύοντες. 36 Cf. Sutton 1980a, 2.

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co-existence in the framework of the Great Dionysia.37 Nor is there any conflict with the accounts of Horace and Zenobius: they allude to the institution of satyr drama in the dramatic contest, not to its invention. In other words, the fact that satyr drama was introduced to the Great Dionysia after tragedy, does not mean that it had not existed already, nor that it was younger than tragedy. The history of the performance of comedy is comparable: it was introduced in the Great Dionysia almost fifty years after tragedy in 486 BC, while in the Lenaia around 440 BC, almost a decade earlier than tragedy. With regard to Suda Π 2230 on Pratinas, the fact that he is reported as the first ‘to write’ satyr dramas, does not mean that this genre had not pre-existed as an improvised kind of performance; this ‘write’ does not mean anything else than artistic form, composition.38 Even if there was a conflict among these sources – perhaps more accurately, isolated comments – with Aristotle’s account, it would be safer to follow him, not only because he is much closer to the early phase of drama,39 but most important because he is the first literary critic and did a thorough investigation of the then existing sources so as to write his treatise. To sum up, there is no way to determine what exactly Aristotle had in mind, although we can narrow it down to two possibilities. And in either case, one thing is for sure: that satyr drama and tragedy had similar origins, which explain why they were written by the same poets. The first landmark in the history of satyr drama was without doubt its introduction to the programme of the Great Dionysia. As already mentioned, this happened after tragedy – the first form of theatrical performance to be instituted at the festival, traditionally by Thespis in the 61st Olympiad (= 536‒532 BC),40 during the tyranny of Peisistratus. But the exact date is unknown. A relevant anecdote is preserved by the paroemiographer Zenobius (Epitome 5.40). When the (tragic)

37 Dithyramb contest in the first day of the festival, tragic contest (with tragedy and satyr drama) in the last three days. 38 Cf. earlier on Suda’s account on Arion. 39 He flourished in the mid-fourth century BC (384–322 BC), almost 150 years after the installation of tragedy in the Great Dionysia. All other sources are much later: Horace lived from 65 BC to 8 AD, the paroemiographer Zenobius flourished at the time of Hadrian (early second century AD), while the Byzantine lexicon of Suda was compiled around the tenth century AD. 40 According to Suda Θ 282 on Θέσπις (ἐδίδαξε δὲ ἐπὶ τῆς πρώτης καὶ ξʹ ὀλυμπιάδος). The validity of this date has been questioned; see esp. West 1989a. Nevertheless, a more reliable source, the Marmor Parium (=TrGF I, T2), places the first activity of Thespis in roughly the same period, sometime between 538 BC and 528 BC (the relevant entry is not fully preserved, and according to West 1989a, 253, n. 13 the following restorations are possible: 538, 537, 536, 535, 534, 533, 531, 530, 529 or 528 BC).

Introduction: What is Satyr Drama? 

 9

poets abandoned Dionysiac myths and instead started to write stories on Ajaxes and Centaurs, the spectators complained crying out the famous phrase Οὐδὲν πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον (‘Nothing to do with Dionysos!’). Thus, satyr drama was introduced to the festival so as to preserve the Dionysiac element: Διὰ γοῦν τοῦτο τοὺς Σατύρους ὕστερον ἔδοξεν αὐτοῖς (sc. τοῖς ποιηταῖς) προεισάγειν, ἵνα μὴ δοκῶσιν ἐπιλανθάνεσθαι τοῦ θεοῦ. For this reason they (i.e. the poets) later decided to introduce41 satyr dramas, so that they might not seem as forgetting the god.

If this account is true – it certainly seems plausible –, it suggests that some time (perhaps several years) must have lapsed between 536/2 BC (the traditional terminus post quem), the gradual ‘abandonment’ of Dionysos by the tragic poets, and finally the introduction of satyr drama. Here we can have some help from Attic art: it is not without relevance that, although satyrs were long before depicted in Attic vase-painting, from about 520 BC there appear scenes with them in choral activity, or in foreign (unprecedented for the satyrs) mythological settings. This change points to influence from theatrical performances around the same time.42 So it is conceivable to assume that satyr drama entered the Great Dionysia around 520 BC. It is likewise possible that this entry was associated with the arrival at Athens of Pratinas of Phleious, the first (known) composer of satyr dramas.43 The next important landmark was the reorganisation of the Great Dionysia and the new rule of the ‘tetralogy’, which most probably took place close to 502/1 BC.44 In detail the programme of the festival was now as follows: the first day was devoted to dithyramb, with a competition of ten choruses of men, one each from the ten tribes of Athens.45 The last three days were assigned to the contest of the tragic poets: three tragic poets that were granted a chorus by the Eponymous Archon, would compete with a tetralogy consisting of three tragedies and

41 προεισάγειν of the original refers to satyr drama as a prelude to the tragedies, a practice which actually begun later, in the mid-fourth century BC (see below). Apparently Zenobius’ account is based on a later (post-classical) source; so also O’Sullivan, ‘General Introduction’, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 23. 42 So, for example, Buschor 1943–5, 73 and 82; Seaford 1984, 13; and Hedreen 1992, 125–8. 43 On the potential role of Pratinas in this, see Seaford 1984, 13–14. 44 As inferred by a list, known as the Fasti, preserved on a inscription of second half of the fourth BC (IG II2.2318). The first entry of this list seems to refer to 502/1 BC, as persuasively argued by Capps 1943. 45 These had fifty members each. From 470 BC each tribe would also send a chorus of teenage boys (παῖδες) for the dithyrambic competition.

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one satyr drama.46 It seems, therefore, that before this reorganisation there was no fixed analogy between tragedies and satyr dramas, and thus a poet may have participated in the (tragic) contest with more than one satyr drama each time. This would explain the output of Pratinas, who is reported by Suda Π 2230 to have written fifty plays, thirty-two of which were satyric.47 From the reorganisation of c. 502/1 BC on (and up to the reformation of the programme in c. 342 BC)48 satyr dramas comprised to one-fourth of the total production of a tragic poet for the Great Dionysia:49 this remains an impressive figure, which meant that hundreds of new satyr dramas were put on stage in Athens. It is easy to estimate that for the about 160 years that the tetralogy system lasted, up to 480 such tetralogies (and consequently up to 480 satyr dramas) may have been presented in Athens.50 Nevertheless, from the records of the various productions (didascaliae),51 we know with certainty the specific titles for only ten cases (five by Aeschylus, three by Euripides, and two by the minor poets):52 (1) 472 BC: Phineus, Persae, Glaucus Potnieus, Prometheus (Aeschylus)53 (2) 467 BC: Laius, Oedipus, Septem contra Thebas, Sphinx (Aeschylus)54 (3) 467 BC: Perseus, Tantalus, … Palaistae (Pratinas, posthumously)55 46 Another day was added in 486 BC for the competition of comic poets (five poets with one play each), which was positioned between dithyramb and the tragic competition. 47 If he had produced all of his plays under the rule of the tetralogy, his 18 tragedies would have required only 4.5 satyr dramas! This leads to the conclusion that many of his satyr dramas were presented before the reorganisation of c. 502/1 BC. From his very production only a few fragments and testimonia survive. The most famous is fr. 3 (= Athen. 14.617b) (sometimes called a ‘hyporchema’), apparently an entry-song by the chorus of satyrs; see the chapter by SEAFORD in this volume. 48 See below. 49 No satyr dramas were presented in the Lenaia. In the (lesser) tragic contest that was established there around 440–430 BC, two tragic poets competed with two tragedies each (the number of poets increased to three around 364/3 BC). 50 What is more, new satyr dramas continued to be presented in the Great Dionysia even after 342 BC, albeit one play per year and without competition. 51 The official records do not actually survive, but their content is known through the ancient hypotheseis of dramatic plays and through other literary sources; see Sansone 2015, 5. 52 In the following list the satyr dramas are marked in bold. 53 Our source is the ancient hypothesis of the Persae (= TrGF I, DID C2). 54 See Hypoth. ad Aesch. Sept. and P. Oxy. 2256. fr. 2 (= TrGF I, DID C4). 55 These were presented by his son Aristias, who came second after Aeschylus (see previous entry in the list); see Hypoth. ad Aesch. Sept. and P. Oxy. 2256. fr. 2 (=TrGF I, DID C4 ). After the death of a poet, any plays of his that were left behind, could be staged by another poet from his family; that was also the case, for instance, with Sophocles’ Oedipus Coloneus, which was presented posthumously at the Great Dionysia of 401 BC (Sophocles died in 406/5 BC) by the poet’s grandson, Sophocles the Younger, and won the first prize (see Hypoth. II ad Soph. OC). With

Introduction: What is Satyr Drama? 

(4) (5) (6) (7*) (8) (9) (10)

 11

Sometime between 465 and 459 BC: [Supplices, Aegyptioi], Danaides, Amymone (Aeschylus)56 unknown date: Edonoi, Basssaridae, Neaniskoi, Lycurgus (Aeschylus)57 458 BC: Agamemnon, Choephoroi, Eumenides, Proteus (Aeschylus)58 438 BC: Cressae, Alcmaeon, Telephus, Alcestis (Euripides)59 431 BC: Medea, Philoctetes, Dictys, Theristae (Euripides)60 415 BC: Oedipus, Lycaon, Bacchae, Athamas (Xenocles)61 415 BC: Alexander, Palamedes, Troiades, Sisyphus (Euripides)62

To get an idea of the wording of these records, we quote here the one referring to the competition of 467 BC, noteworthy in that Aristias participated with the plays of his deceased father Pratinas (case 2): ἐδιδάχθη (sc. ἡ τραγωδία Ἑπτὰ ἐπὶ Θήβας) ἐπὶ Θεαγενίδου ὀλυμπιάδι οη'. ἐνίκα Αἰσχύλος Λαΐῳ, Οἰδίποδι, Ἑπτὰ ἐπὶ Θήβας, Σφιγγὶ σατυρικῇ, δεύτερος Ἀριστίας ταῖς τοῦ πατρὸς αὐτοῦ τραγῳδίαις Περσεῖ, Ταντάλῳ, < >, Παλαισταῖς σατύροις, τρίτος Πολυφράσμων Λυκουργείᾳ τετραλογίᾳ. (The tragedy Seven against Thebes) was presented at the time of Theagenides (i.e. the Eponymous Archon), during the 78th Olympiad [i.e. c. 467 BC]. Aeschylus won with Laius, Oedipus, Seven against Thebes, and the satyric Sphinx. Aristias came second with the tragedies of his father Perseus, Tantalus, [title missing], and the satyric Palaestae. Polyphrasmon came third with a Lycurgeian tetralogy.

Despite their small number, these known tetralogies with their respective didascalic notices provide us with useful information. First of all, we are told that the satyr dramas (specifically designated as such63 in all cases, except nr. 1) were

regard to the present didascalic notice (quoted after the list) for the competition of 467 BC, note that the title of one of Pratinas’ tragedies has been lost; alternatively, as Sansone 2015, 5, n. 5 notes, it is possible that ‘only two tragedies were staged in this posthumous production’. 56 See P. Oxy. 2256. fr. 3 (= TrGF I, DID C6); the first two titles have been supplemented with a high degree of probability by Snell. 57 See Schol. ad Ar. Thesm. 135. 58 See Hypoth. ad Aesch. Ag. and Schol. ad Ar. Ran. 1124 (= TrGF I, DID C7). This is the last production of Aeschylus in Athens. After that he went to Sicily and died at Gela in 456/5 BC. 59 See Hypoth. ad Eur. Alc. (=TrGF I, DID C11). 60 See Hypoth. ad Eur. Med. (=TrGF I, DID C12). 61  Xenocles won the first prize that year, while Euripides (see next entry in the list) came second; see Ael. VH 2.8 (= TrGF I, DID C14). 62 See Ael. VH 2.8 (=TrGF I, DID C14). 63 Either with the epithet σατυρικός being attached to the title (see e.g. above Σφιγγὶ σατυρικῇ), or with the noun σάτυροι appended (e.g. Παλαισταῖς σατύροις).

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presented last, after the three tragedies of their respective tetralogy.64 As Shaw65 notes, ‘by placing satyr plays at the end of the tetralogy … the Athenians gave satyr drama a certain pride of place. Not only was it the last play staged before judging, but it capped the entire day’s theatrical experience and reincorporated Dionysiac elements into the festival after a trilogy of tragedies that (often) had ‘Nothing to do with Dionysos’’. Furthermore, as is evident from this list, Aeschylus was certainly an important innovator, as he seems to have established a thematic link between satyr drama and the preceding tragedies. With the exception of the production of 472 BC (case 1), we see that in all other tetralogies by him in the list (cases 2, 4, 5 and 6). And it is noteworthy that while satyr drama was presented last, it did not have to continue the story of the three tragedies. As Seaford66 notes, ‘its theme is chosen rather for its suitability to the genre: the story of the Sphinx [case 2] for example, which is ideal for a satyr-play67 … belongs chronologically between the first and the second tragedies’. Perhaps it is due to this thematic link with the tragedies, and, without doubt, because of the quality of his writing (we can get idea from the remnants of his Diktyoulkoi and his Theoroi or Isthmiastai), that in antiquity Aeschylus was considered the best writer of satyr dramas.68

64 Cf. Sansone 2015, who has argued for satyr drama as a prelude to the three tragedies (cf. below on the reorganisation of the programme from 342 BC on). But there is no reason why one should question the consensus of the didascalic notices, which all list satyr drama in the final place. Sansone (on pp. 6–9) has acknowledged that the sequence given for the three tragedies in cases 6 (undoubtedly), 2 and 10 (most likely), seems faithful to the order in which they were performed in the Great Dionysia; and he implies that is this also probable for cases 4 and 5, in which likewise the tragedies were probably thematically related to one another. First of all, it makes sense that this should be extrapolated also for the remaining cases, namely the ones which do not seem to have thematic coherence. These listings, as Sansone notes, ‘appear to derive from the … official records’, which would be expected to give a most faithful account of the detailed programme of each competition; in other words, it would certainly matter for the officials who compiled the original records, to list the plays in exactly the same order that the plays were performed each time. Furthermore, if some at least (most likely all) of these didascalic notices are giving an accurate internal sequence of plays for the tragic trilogy, it seems most natural that they would also be faithful in recording the place of satyr drama in relation to the three tragedies. As for Zenobius’ comment (τοὺς Σατύρους ὕστερον ἔδοξεν αὐτοῖς προεισάγειν), not only is he a much later source, but also his account seems to reflect a later practice attested from 342 BC on (see below). 65 Shaw 2018, 20. 66 Seaford 1984, 23. 67 The famous riddle, as well as the defeat of the monster (which presumably took place in this play), are among the favourite topoi of the genre (see below on § Typical themes). 68 See, for instance, the testimonies of Paus. 2.13.6 and Diog. Laert. 2.133.

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After Aeschylus, it appears that gradually satyr drama became thematically detached from the tragic trilogy (which likewise lost its internal coherence).69 What is more, case 7 in the above list is marked with an asterisk for in that year (438 BC) Euripides took part in the Great Dionysia with four tragedies, with the relatively light in content Alcestis replacing the satyr drama. This is the only known case of a tragedy replacing satyr drama. Nevertheless, and provided that the source is sound, this incident might suggest that around 438 BC satyr drama had started to become dispensable. In any case, Euripides’ Cyclops, which apparently belongs to the end of the century,70 suggests – with its apparent marginalisation of the satyric chorus and its strict, quasi-tragic structure – that by that time satyr drama had lost some of its original features, under the influence (and pressure?) of tragedy. The importance of satyr drama was further diminished in Athens in the course of the fourth century BC, culminating around 342 BC. A didascalic inscription starting with that year (IG II2.2320) shows that the programme of the Great Dionysia had undergone one more reorganisation; this time satyr drama was in effect removed from the tragic contest, albeit not from the festival itself. More specifically, the programme (concerning the tragic poets) was now as follows: first, one satyr drama was presented (without competition) by one of the three poets; then an ‘old tragedy’71 was staged by one of the three protagonists; finally the three poets competed with three tragedies each. The removal of satyr drama from the actual competition meant a significant reduction in the number of satyr plays in the Great Dionysia (one play a year instead of three) and, conversely, an expansion of satyr drama beyond the boundaries of Athens.72 More importantly, the poets were now free to ‘play’ even more with an anyway ‘playful’ genre. From about this time satyr drama enters a phase of experiments and innovation. Thus, Chaeremon, a poet who flourished in the mid-fourth century BC, wrote a Kentauros, probably a satyr drama,73 whereby he ‘played’ with various metres. This caught the attention of Aristotle, who described the play as μικτὴν ῥαψῳδίαν ἐξ ἁπάντων τῶν μέτρων (‘a mixed recitation of all 69 An apparent exception to this was Euripides’ tetralogy for the competition of 415 BC (case 10). 70 Most scholars argue for a date between 412 BC and 408 BC; see Seaford 1982; Wright 2006; Shaw 2018, 109–16. 71 Already in the programme from 386 BC. This was a repetition of a tragedy by one of the three great poets of the fifth century BC. It is noteworthy that within twenty years from the deaths of Euripides and Sophocles, their tragedies (along with those of Aeschylus) had already become classic. The old tragedy (παλαιὰ τραγῳδία) was staged by one of the three protagonist actors. 72 See below. 73 Only a few fragments survive (fr. 9a–11). On this play, and generally on satyr drama in the fourth century BC, see the chapter of SLATER in this volume.

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metres’, Poet. 1.1447b).74 Moreover, there is a very interesting papyrus fragment of Chaeremon (P. Hib. 2.224 = fr. inc. 14b), which might belong to this play:75 in this the beginnings of six hexameter lines form an acrostic with the poets own name (ΧΑΙΡΗΜ[). Other poets present innovations, which suggest that from the fourth century BC satyr drama was strongly influenced by comedy. Astydamas the Younger, a remote descendant of Aeschylus, active from about 372 BC until after 340 BC, has provided us with an extraordinary breaking of theatrical illusion. Ιn the only surviving fragment from his satyric Herakles (fr. 4 = Athen. 10.411a) he presents his views on the skills of a good playwright, and he does so using a playful gastronomic metaphor: ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ δείπνου γλαφυροῦ ποικίλην εὐωχίαν τὸν ποιητὴν δεῖ παρέχειν τοῖς θεαταῖς τὸν σοφόν, ἵν᾿ ἀπίῃ τις τοῦτο φαγὼν καὶ πιών, ὅπερ λαβὼν χαίρει , καὶ σκευασία μὴ μί᾿ ᾖ τῆς μουσικῆς. But the clever poet should provide the spectators with a rich feast, just like that of a dainty dinner, so that anyone may eat and drink whatever he likes before he leaves, and the entertainment76 does not consist of a single recipe.

Such a meta-poetic comment (apparently self-referential) would be out of place in fifth century satyr drama, but easily calls to mind the parabasis of Old Comedy.77 Another comic characteristic taken on-board by later satyr drama was the practice of ridiculing contemporary figures by name (ὀνομαστὶ κωμῳδεῖν). Perhaps the earliest example that we have is from Python of Catane (late fourth century BC), who reportedly accompanied Alexander the Great on his campaigns and wrote the satyr drama Agen, so as to mock Alexander’s embezzling treasurer Harpalus. Only one fragment survives (fr. 1 = Athen. 13.595d-596b), almost certainly from the prologue of the play, whereby not just Harpalus himself is 74 Nevertheless, in another passage (Poet. 24.1460a) he comments negatively on Chaeremon’s choice: ἔτι δὲ ἀτοπώτερον εἰ μιγνύοι τις αὐτά, ὥσπερ Χαιρήμων (‘it is even more unsuitable if one mixes these (i.e. dactylic hexameter with iambic trimeter and trochaic tetrameter), as did Chaeremon’. 75 So Turner, in Turner and Lenger 1955, 224. 76 Literally ‘the music’. 77 Not least because it is written in the Eupolidean metre. See the discussion of this passage by Shaw 2014, 133–4, who also cites a striking parallel from the comic poet Metagenes (late fifth century BC) and his Philothytes (fr. 15): κατ’ ἐπεισόδιον μεταβάλλω τὸν λόγον, ὡς ἂν/ καιναῖσι παροψίσι καὶ πολλαῖς εὐωχήσω τὸ θέατρον (‘From one episode to another I change the plot, so that I may treat the spectators with new and many side-dishes’).

Introduction: What is Satyr Drama? 

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mentioned (line 14), but also the courtesans Pythionice (line 8) and Glycera (line 17), for whose sake he spent a lot of Alexander’s stolen money. It is noteworthy that the play was possibly staged at a military camp in or near Babylon, between 326 BC and 324 BC.78 The same practice is also adopted later by two Hellenistic playwrights, who flourished in Alexandria during the first part of third century BC. They both belong to a circle of tragic poets known as the ‘Pleiad’ that was supported by the Ptolemaic court. The one is Lycophron from Chalcis. In his satyr drama Menedemos (fr. 2–3) he ridiculed a contemporary philosopher by the same name (a fellow Euboean from Eretria), for the austerity of his life and his stingy symposia. The other is Sositheus, probably a native of Alexandria. Diogenes Laertius (7.173) narrates that he was kicked out of the theatre when in a play he mocked the stoic philosopher Cleanthes of Assus, and what is more, while the latter was present at the performance. Despite that, Sositheus seems to have been appreciated by his contemporaries for his role in the revival of satyr drama. Indicative of this is a funerary epigram by Dioscorides (AP 7.7007), in which he is praised as worthy of Pratinas from Phleious and is credited as restoring satyr drama to its ancient ethos. In addition, the remnants of Sositheus’ Daphnis or Lityerses (esp. fr. 2) speak for his innovation and creativity as a satyric playwright, for in that play he combined elements from bucolic poetry, then in high fashion.79 After this Alexandrian revival and from the second century BC onwards, we do not have any literary remains from satyr drama. Nevertheless, our inscriptional records (victory lists and, to a lesser degree, dedications and lists of prizes), show that it was still popular and continued to be performed throughout the Hellenistic and much of the Roman Imperial periods.80 These records provide us with very interesting data. First of all, satyr drama was performed at festivals held over a wide geographical range: the attested locations include, apart from Attica, Boeotia (Thespiae, Thebes, Orchomenus, Tanagra, Acraephium),81 Locris (Delphi), the Aegean Islands (Delos, Samos), and even Asia Minor 78 For more details and further bibliography, see Collard, ‘Python’, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 448–51, n. 4. 79 On these, see Xanthakis-Karamanos 2002, 242–4. 80 On the inscriptional records for later satyr drama, see the chapter of SKOTHEIM in this volume. 81 Esp. with regard to the existence of many records from Boeotia, SKOTHEIM notes the following: ‘the concentration of evidence for satyr drama in Boeotia is more likely due to epigraphic habit (i.e. Boetians had a strong tradition of keeping records), as well as chance survival, than a special relationship of the region with satyr drama … Boeotia also benefitted from its proximity to Attica in the availability of performers … which may have contributed to the large number of musical and dramatic festivals there’.

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(Teos and Magnesia on the Maeander). These festivals featured a much more extensive programme of spectacles than the Great Dionysia or the Lenaia in Classical Athens. Apart from the usual dramatic performances, they included a variety of other competitions: musical, poetic, and, some of them, even athletic ones. For instance, an inscription from 80‒50 BC (IG VII.420) referring to the festivals Amphiaraea and Romaia at Oropus, records the names of victors in the following categories: – trumpeter – herald – prose encomium – epic encomium – rhapsode – epic poet – aulete – lyre player – singer to the lyre – poet of satyr drama – actor of old tragedy – actor of old comedy – poet of new tragedy – actor of new tragedy – poet of new comedy – actor of new comedy …82 What is noteworthy about satyr drama in these festivals is that it was completely detached from tragedy. Thus, we have different listings for the victors of each genre, with the first being labeled as ποιητὴς σατύρων and the latter as ποιητὴς τραγῳδίας.83 This is an important deviation from Classical (Athenian) practice, whereby, as we have seen, satyr drama was inseparable from tragedy. And while in the programmes of the various festivals we find re-productions of old tragedies

82 The list goes on with sixteen athletic events, including running, wrestling, horse-riding, pentathlon, et al., by boys (ἀγένειοι), teens (παῖδες) and men (ἄνδρες). 83 As e.g. in the above mentioned IG VII.416, where the poet Philoxenides son of Philip from Oropus won the satyric contest, while the Theban Protarchus son of Antimenes won the tragic one. Nevertheless, the existence of two different contests did not hinder some poets from winning both prizes. For instance, in a victory list for the Romaia in Magnesia on Maeander sometime after 150 BC, Theodorus son of Dionysius is mentioned both as the victor for tragedy and the victor for satyr drama (see Kern 1900, 69, nr. 88.A.a =TrGF I, DID A13.1).

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and old comedies (staged by ‘star’ actors), as well as new plays, it seems that satyr drama was (almost) always newly written.84 Finally, in most cases satyr drama opened the dramatic competition. This order possibly reflects the later Attic practice,85 rather than a higher status. Skotheim86 has demonstrated that in these festivals, among the winning poets of the three dramatic genres, those of satyr drama usually received the lowest prize amount; this strongly suggests that in the hierarchy of importance satyr drama still came third behind tragedy and comedy.87 Other sources, as well as archaeological evidence, suggest that satyr drama even went outside the boundaries of the Greek world reaching Rome, although in this case too we have no literary remains.88 Roman knowledge of and interest in satyr drama, is documented, for instance, by Horace AP 226–4789 (on satyric style) and Vitruvius 5.6.9 (on stage-setting). Nevertheless, it seems that among the Romans satyr drama never attained the prestige and popularity that it had with the Greeks. The (known) history of satyr drama ends in the second half of the second century AD, when we have the latest evidence for its performance: the last known playwright was Lucius Marius Antiochus of Corinth, victor at the festival of the Mouseia in Thespiae, sometime between 161 AD and 169 AD (I.Thespiai 177. 51–2).90

4 Function(s) If the origins of satyr drama have prompted a debate among scholars, even more so has its function. Already during antiquity different views had been formulated as to the purpose of its inclusion to the Great Dionysia, which have found modern 84 The only known exception is a competition of c. 255/4 BC in Athens (festival unknown), which included old comedy, old tragedy and old satyr drama (three plays for each category), preserved on a small fragment of a victory list; see Mette 1977, 149 and also Csapo and Slater 1994, 42. 85 Namely, the staging of a single satyr drama before the three competing tragic tetralogies at the Great Dionysia, from about 342 BC. 86 See her chapter in this volume. She quotes and analyses an elaborate prize list from Sarapieia in Tanagra, dating to c. 80 BC (Manieri 2009, nr. Tan.2). 87 The same is suggested by the staging of old tragedies and old comedies, but not old satyr dramas. 88 On this topic, see the chapter of HARRISON in this volume. 89 Note that in line 235 he refers to himself as a ‘writer of satyr dramas’ (‘satyrorum scriptor’). 90 It is noteworthy that the same person won two more prizes that year: that of poet of new comedy (ποιητὴς καινῆς κωμῳδίας, lines 39–40) and of actor of new tragedy (ὑποκριτὴς καινῆς τραγῳδίας, lines 45–6). Thus, in this victory list, L. Marius Antiochus stands out as a multitalented person across all three genres, and what is more, in both roles, of poet and of actor.

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advocates, while also new proposals have been added in modern times, with a focus on the continuing appeal of the genre.91 Of the various proposed functions, the most plausible are the following: (a) That satyr drama helped to restore the Dionysiac element that tragedy had forsaken over time. As already mentioned, the paroemiographer Zenobius (5.40) in his explanation of the famous phrase ‘Ουδὲν πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον’, maintained that the introduction of satyr drama in the festival was prompted by the spectators’ complaint against tragedies on non-Dionysiac myths. This way satyr drama would ensure (and remind) the connection between the dramatic competition and its festival, which celebrated Dionysos and his cult. Apart from Dionysos himself, who must have appeared on stage in various plays, as Seidensticker rightly remarks, ‘it is mainly the stereotypical chorus of the satyrs and their old father Silenos, who impersonate and represent the Dionysiac world in all its facets: music and dance, wine and sexual license, as well as freedom or liberation from many different forms of physical and psychological bondage’.92 Building upon this theory, O’Sullivan93 has recently proposed that the inclusion of satyr drama into the festival contributed to the holistic portrayal of an ambivalent god as Dionysos; while tragedy would reflect his destructive side and terrifying power, satyr drama would represent his joyful nature. Even if one sets this aside, joy and merrymaking is an essential element of any feast to this day. It would be hard to imagine the joyful element missing from stage during Athens’ most important festival after the Panathenaia. This is even more conceivable for the early phase of the Great Dionysia: from the introduction of satyr drama around 520 BC until that of comedy in 486 BC (more or less three decades), satyr drama would be the only source of fun and laughter in the dramatic contest. (b) That the purpose of satyr drama was to provide entertainment and relaxation after the emotional tension created by the preceding tragedies. This view originates with the writings of Late Antiquity theorists. Diomedes (late fourth – early fifth century AD) argues in his Ars Grammatica (1.491 Keil) that ‘the tragic poets introduced … the satyrs … so that amidst the serious tragic affairs the spectator

91 See the relevant discussions by Sutton 1980a, 159–79; Seaford 1984, 26–33; Seidensticker, ‘Philologisch-literarische Einleitung’, in Krumeich et al. 1999, 34–9; Seidensticker 2005, 48–9; Griffith 2002, 197–203; O’Sullivan, ‘General Introduction’, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 25–8. 92 Seidensticker 2005, 49. On the liberation from psychological bondage, see also below on theory § c. 93 O’Sullivan 2013, 28.

Introduction: What is Satyr Drama? 

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might be amused by the jokes and the teases of the satyrs’.94 A similar account is given by Marius Victorinus (fourth century AD), who actually uses the verb ‘might be relaxed’ (relaxetur) (2.4, p.110 Gaisford).95 Many modern critics have also embraced this view, starting from Schlegel in 1826,96 who focused on the relaxation resulting from the light-hearted epilogue of the tetralogy. This idea is especially appealing in cases of thematically coherent tetralogies, where heroes that were engaged in serious affairs in the tragedies, were afterwards placed in the light circumstances of satyr drama. But one does not need to go as far as Sutton,97 who argued that ‘by presenting as humorously incongruous and inappropriate what tragedy has just represented as serious and consequential, the satyr play insinuates that the emperor has no clothes’. Such view would have the tragic poets undermine their own work, with which they aimed to educate the audience,98 as much as to win the prize of the contest.99 The case is rather (as Seidensticker100 puts it) that ‘after the tragic worldview, the satyr-play offers and uncomplicated, optimistic look at human life’.101 Finally, this function is supported by analogies from other cultures, where serious dramatic performances are combined with playful ones: for instance, satyr drama has been compared to

94 ‘ … tragici poetae … Satyros induxerunt … ut spectator inter res tragicas seriasque Satyrorum iocis et lusibus delectaretur’. 95 So also in the ninth century AD lexicon of Photius (Σ 502, on σατυρικὰ δράματα): πρὸς διάχυσιν (‘for relaxation’). 96 See Schlegel 1966, 128–9. 97 Sutton 1980a, 165–6. 98 Theatre performances were considered part of the citizens’ education (παίδευσις), for which reason the Athenian state (possibly at the time of Pericles) introduced the so-called θεωρικά, grants paid to the poorer citizens so that they might be able to attend theatre. It is also important that in the official records and other sources the dramatic poets are presented as ‘teaching’ (διδάσκειν) the equivalent plays, and conversely the dramatic plays are presented as ‘being taught’ (διδάσκεσθαι) by the poets; similarly the staging of plays is described as διδασκαλία. 99 The fact that tragedy, rather than satyr drama, played the most important role in winning the prize is proven by the 3:1 ratio within the tetralogy. 100 Seidensticker 2005, 48 and 54, n. 4. 101 Seidensticker further explains that in the framework of satyr drama the poets chose and adapted stories, which did not cancel or weaken, but rather counterbalanced the representation of death in the preceding tragedies. An interesting suggestion made by him is that satyr drama, not only did not ridicule the problems of the preceding tragedies, but in contrast it emphasised them through the juxtaposition with light-hearted elements. Thus, for example, ‘in Aeschylus’ Oedipodeia (see above on tetralogy nr. 2) the satyr-play’s representation of Oedipus’ greatest success, his victory over the Sphinx, deepens the effect of his fall’.

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the exodium after Roman tragedy (most often an Attelan farce), as well as to the Japanese kyōgen comic interludes to the serious Nō plays.102 (c) That satyr drama preserved memories of the pre-urban world, and/or of the countryside. This is a modern approach to the genre and it is certainly worth considering. Seaford103 locates the special appeal of satyr drama with the thiasos of the satyrs; these extraordinary creatures belong to the wild and represent an ancient, pre-polis world,104 and thus they take the audience outside the confines of the contemporary civilised society. Others have similarly argued that satyr drama was a return to the simple life of the countryside and to rustic values.105 One way or another – or better, in both ways, satyr drama could function as a nostalgic escape from the complications of the polis, and such function would even be conceivable as the driving force for its creation: ‘just as literary pastoral poetry was a product of unprecedently urban Alexandria, so satyric drama was [we would say, may have been] created out of the urbanisation of Athens and then recreated in Alexandria’.106 These three functions are not mutually exclusive. In fact, a complex phenomenon as is satyr drama is likely to have had multiple functions and to have served a variety of purposes.107 In other words, the fact that it entered the Great Dionysia to satisfy one or the other cause, does not mean that it did not acquire additional, or even different functions in the course of time. Certainly the first two theories are valuable tools for our understanding of satyr drama’s inclusion to the festival, as well as of its role there, while the tetralogy system was in force (namely up to the reformation of mid-fourth century BC). Thus, it is not hard to imagine (with

102 See Seaford 1984, 12 and Sutton 1980a, 7. The latter case (from Japanese theatre) is especially noteworthy, not only due to the geographical distance from the Greek world, but also because a Kyōgen piece would tell the same story with the preceding episode of the Nō play, but in a comic and sometimes even farcical tone. The analogy with the thematically coherent Greek tetralogies is striking. For more details on the similarities with Japanese theatre, see the chapter by PALMISCIANO in this volume. 103 Seaford 1984, 30–3. 104 As Seaford 1984, 33 notes, ‘The satyrs belong … to the very point indeed at which culture is created out of nature: when wine is for the first time ever extracted by a god from the grapes, or the sound of the lyre from a dead tortoise, they are there as the first to enjoy the invention’ (the  reference is, respectively, to Soph. Dionysiskos (fr. 172) [wine] and to his Ichneutai [lyre]). See also below on § Typical themes of satyr drama, one of which is inventions. 105 See e.g. Lassere 1973, and Lissarrague 1990b. 106 Seaford 1984, 31. See above on the Alexandrian revival of the genre (§ Origins and History). 107 Recent approaches to satyr drama take a similar stance on the issue of its function; so e.g. Seidensticker 2005, 48–9 and O’Sullivan, ‘General Introduction’, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 27–8.

Introduction: What is Satyr Drama? 

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Seidensticker)108 that ‘the (Athenian) magistrates wanted to introduce an element that took into account both the light-hearted aspects of the cult and the spectator’s need to amuse themselves after the harrowing experience of the tragedies’. And gradually, as the task of entertainment was more and more taken over by comedy, and the Dionysiac origins of drama became more and more forgotten, satyr drama was confined to a single prelude to the tragic contest. But it was still there  – an honorary tribute to Dionysos in a festival devoted to him. The third theory – if not relevant, too, with the early phase of the genre – seems a sine qua non tool for the explanation of the (again) growing appeal of satyr drama and its expansion to so many other festivals during the Hellenistic and Roman Imperial periods,109 most of which were not just distant from Athens, but most importantly had ‘Nothing to do with Dionysos’.110 As the known world turned into a smaller place, centralised and cosmopolitan, dominated by large empires and enormous urban centres (Alexandria, Antioch, Pergamon, Rome), the nostalgia for a simple and free life in nature became more widespread, and so seems satyr drama, a chief-proponent (alongside bucolic poetry) of such a life.

5 Production Although textually satyr drama is by far the least documented of the three dramatic genres, when it comes to its production we are fortunate to have a unique representation of an entire theatrical cast on the famous Pronomos krater (c. 410 BC, Figure 27.1).111 By just looking at this vase-painting, we obtain useful information on almost every important staging aspect of the genre. What little is left out, can be supplemented from the textual remains of satyr drama and from other sources.

5.1 End-piece of a Tetralogy In the lower zone and at the centre of side A, the vase features (seated) the poet Demetrios holding a scroll, the aulete Pronomos (after whom it was named) playing a double aulos, and also a standing young man holding a lyre (labeled

108 Seidensticker 2005, 48. 109 See above on § Origins and History. 110 An exception was the Dionysia in Teos; on the various festivals hosting satyr drama performances, see the chapter by SKOTHEIM in this volume. 111 For a detailed description of the vase, see Mannack 2010, 5–13.

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Charinos), probably the choregos.112 They are surrounded by eleven choreuts dressed as satyrs, and in the upper zone by three actors, one of whom is dressed as Silenos . In fact this is the cast not only of a satyr drama, but of an entire tetralogy. The artist has ‘captured’ the moment of the tragic contest award, just after the last play,113 satyr drama, had been staged114 and the judging of the contest had taken place: most of the cast wear victory crowns (from ivy), while the scene is framed with choregic tripods, likewise symbolic of a victory.115

5.2 The Dionysiac Element At the centre of the upper zone (side A), the artist has incorporated a religiousmythological scene with the patron of the festival (and of the satyrs), Dionysos. He is seated on an elaborate couch and holds with his left arm a female figure, presumamby his beloved Ariadne. Next to them there is a winged Himeros (‘Desire’), and after him a female figure holding a mask, apparently a personification of tragedy. The reverse side (side B) has an entirely mythological decoration, a komos scene, again with Dionysos. This time he is marching arm-in-arm with a female companion (apparently Ariadne again), while a winged Himeros or Eros flies towards them. The couple is surrounded by four (mythological)116 satyrs and two maenads. The two sides of the vase have so many similarities and visual analogies,117 that they function like the two sides of the same coin: in the first Dionysos is imagined as present at the centre of a theatrical thiasos (and at the time of the award), and in the second he is the leader of a divine one. What is more interesting is that the two sides (as well as side A internally) are not demarcated in any way, but rather form a continuum. The artist has skillfully blended the real with the imaginary world, consciously emphasising the links of theatre, and especially satyr drama, with Dionysiac ritual and myth. In addition, his composition is indicative of how much a satyric production could spark to the imagination of the spectators and attests for satyr drama as the most Dionysiac spectacle of the festival. 112 See Wilson 2010. 113 Apparently of the last and wining tetralogy. 114 It is characteristic that one of the choreuts (named Νικόληος) still has his mask on and is dancing. 115 Griffith 2010, 51 notes that ‘it would presumably be customary for a tragic troupe of performers to be seen, or imagined, as celebrating its victorious achievement with the choreuts still dressed as half-naked, phallic satyrs  – even as the main actors and aulete would retain their same ornate, long-sleeved ‘look’ throughout all four plays’. 116 To distinguish from theatrical satyrs, namely choreuts dressed as satyrs. 117 On these, see Lissarrague 2010b, esp. 44–6.

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5.3 Characters and Costumes The Chorus of Satyrs Satyr drama had a fixed chorus of satyrs,118 after whom the genre was named. Seidensticker119 has made an interesting comparison with tragedy. This genre every time featured different choruses in similar roles, while, conversely, satyr drama always had its chorus made up of satyrs, but every time in new roles (which often gave the titles of the relevant plays): for instance, net-haulers (Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi), trackers (Sophocles’ Ichneutai), Isthmian contestants (Aeschylus’ Isthmiastai), reapers (Euripides’ Theristai), et al.120 The Pronomos vase depicts eleven choreuts dressed as satyrs, which led some to assume that the person playing Silenos was the coryphaeus, with the total chorus numbering twelve. Nevertheless, there is already a satyr-choreut on the vase who stands out as a chorus-leader (in the left side of the lower zone),121 not half-naked like the other choreuts, but wearing an elaborate costume. In addition, it is known that the members of the chorus of tragedy had been increased from twelve to fifteen already by Sophocles, well before this vase was made.122 Hence, it is expected that a satyr drama, which employed the same chorus as the preceding tragedies, should have the same number of choreuts; as Collinge123 has cleverly put it, is it conceivable that after the three quarters of the tetralogy, three124 members of the chorus were told to go home? One possible solution to the numbering problem posed by the Pronomos vase is to assume that the artist has not pictured the entire chorus, but ‘has supplied eleven choreuts simply to give an impression of a satyric chorus, whose number in actual performance is more likely to have been fifteen rather than twelve in the light of Sophocles innovation’.125 Even more appealing than that is to consider the playful nature of this vase, which blends the real with the mythological world; in this framework it is plausible that the artist hinted at a total number of fifteen chorus members by combining the satyr-

118 For a detailed study on the satyric chorus, see Seidenticker 2003, 100–21. 119 Seidensticker, ‘Philologisch-literarische Einleitung’, in Krumeich et al. 1999, 17–18. 120 On satyrs engaged in new technai, see the chapter by ANTONOPOULOS in this volume. 121 So e.g. Seidensticker 2003, 104–5, with useful remarks on the size of the satyric chorus. 122 See Vita Soph. 22–3 τοὺς δὲ χορευτὰς ποιήσας ἀντὶ ιβʹ ιεʹ (= TrGF IV, TA1.). 123 Collinge 1959, 30–2. 124 In the (hypothetical) case that Silenos is included among the choreuts. 125 So O’Sullivan, ‘General Introduction’, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 7. Note also with Seidensticker 2003, 104, that ‘vase-paintings are far from being realistic mimesis. The vases that seem to have been inspired by satyr play show one or two, sometimes five or seven satyrs’.

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choreuts of side A with the four mythological satyrs of side B.126 In other words, he playfully made up a chorus of fifteen by mixing actual choreuts with the mythological creatures that they impersonated. The vase also offers important information on the outfit of the chorus. The basic element of the mimesis – across all three dramatic genres – was the mask (προσωπεῖον), which covered the entire head. The second century AD grammarian Pollux (4.142) distinguishes four basic types of satyric masks, corresponding to different ages: (a) Silenos (Σειληνὸς πάππος), (b) the grey-haired satyr (σάτυρος πολιός), (c) the bearded (young) satyr (σάτυρος γενειῶν), and (d) the beardless satyr (σάτυρος ἀγένειος).127 The satyrs’ masks found on the Pronomos krater, as well as on other vases,128 correspond to the third type: young face, balding forehead, black hair and beard (somewhat shaggy), stubby nose and pointed horse-ears. This type is also alluded to in satyric texts; thus, for instance, in Sophocles’ Ichneutai 366–8 Cyllene describes the satyrs as young men with a blossoming beard and a balding head (νέος … ἀνὴρ π[ώγ]ωνι θάλλων … παύου τὸ λεῖον φαλακρόν … πιτνάς). With the exception of the coryphaeus,129 the choreuts on the vase are naked save for a hairy loincloth, known as perizoma.130 Attached to the perizoma are a phallos in the front, and a horse-tail at the back. Finally, all of them are barefoot. One of the choreuts on the Pronomos vase is pictured as still dancing, apparently the so-called sikinnis (σίκκινις). This was the characteristic dance of satyr drama according to the fourth century BC music theorist Aristoxenus of Tarentum (fr. 106 Wehrli), just as emmeleia was of tragedy and kordax of comedy. Given the paucity of the remains of the genre it is difficult to fully reconstruct the choreography of this dance. Nevertheless, a few terms for specific dancing movements have been preserved by ancient authors, which in combination with the satyric texts

126 So, for instance, Csapo and Slater 1994, 70. 127 In fact there should have not been big differences between these various types, but rather small variations; as Pollux further comments τἆλλα ὅμοια τὰ πρόσωπα, πλὴν ὅσοις ἐκ τῶν ὀνομάτων αἱ παραλλαγαὶ δηλοῦνται, ὥσπερ καὶ ὁ Παπποσείληνος τὴν ἰδέαν ἐστὶ θηριωδέστερος (‘the masks are alike in all respects, except for the variations indicated by their names, e.g., the Papposilenos is more bestial in appearance’; transl. by Csapo and Slater 1994, 400). 128 E.g., on an early fourth century BC krater by the Tarporley painter, now in Sydney, Nicholson Museum 47.05 (Figure 27.30). 129 Mannack 2010, 8, describes his costume as follows: ‘its consists of a sleeveless top decorated with hippocamps across the chest and spirals and spiral hooks below; a mantle with a broad black stripe at the hem is slung over the right shoulder and across his body’. 130 περίζωμα < περί + ζώννυμι = ‘worn around (one’s waist)’. This type of shorts, in principle aiming at animalistic mimesis, was not always hairy; for instance, in the Tarporley krater (Figure 27.30) the perizoma is decorated with wheel-like ornaments.

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and relevant archaeological material can give us some idea as to the general character of this dance.131 For instance, the choreut on the Pronomos krater is apparently practicing a movement known as ποδῶν ῥιπὴ ἢ διαρριφή (‘leg-throwing’),132 which is often shown on vases.133

Silenos In addition to a fixed chorus, satyr drama also featured a character who was present in every play: Silenos (in Greek Σιληνός, or Σειληνός), who is the father of the satyrs.134 In the texts he exhibits similar characteristics with his sons, shares the same adventures and, like them, he is part of the Dionysiac thiasos; nevertheless, he often acts independently, sometimes even in confrontation to them. His unique relationship with the members of the chorus has caused controversy among scholars, as to whether he functioned as a coryphaeus or as an independent actor. The truth lies somewhere in between – though not concurrently. It is conceivable to assume with Collinge135 that in the course of the fifth century BC the role of Silenos developed from chorus-leader to dramatic character. Indeed, it seems plausible that the addition of a third actor by Sophocles played an important role in this development; the added actor could have been allotted to Silenos in satyr dramas. In any case, Silenos functions as an independent actor in Sophocles’ Ichneutai, and the same applies to Euripides’ Cyclops. In the Ichneutai, for instance, while Silenos is the one to ‘sell’ the tracking services of his family to Apollo (48–63), he stays behind (where the actors play) and leaves the satyrs do all the ‘dirty’ job in the orchestra. Moreover, as he is further away, Silenos does not hear the ψόφος (of the lyre), which terrifies his sons, and pours out a long string of insults and accusations for their cowardice, boasting at the same time of his own bravery (145–68). He then briefly joins them in the orchestra, supposedly so as to encourage them in the tracking (173–202). But when he listens to the sound himself, he leaves the stage in terror, proving a worse coward than

131 For a detailed overview of the pictorial evidence, see Seidensticker 2003, 110–17, and for an examination of the satyric texts, see JACKSON in this volume. 132 For the term, see e.g. Pratinas fr. 3.15 (= Athen. 14.8). 133 See Seidenticker 2003, 112. 134 Both Silenos and the satyrs refer to their kinship in the texts: see e.g. (by Silenos) Soph. Ichn. 153 τοιοῦ[δ]ε πατρός, ὦ κάκιστα θηρίων, Lyc. Menedemos fr. 2.1 παῖδες κρατίστου πατρὸς ἐξωλέστατοι, (by the Satyrs) Eur. Cycl. 272–3 εἰ δ’ ἐγὼ ψευδῆ λέγω,/ ἀπόλοιθ’ ὁ πατήρ μου, and Ichn. 203 πάτερ, τί σιγᾷς; 135 Collinge 1959, 30–3; among others, he is followed by Seidensticker 2013, 105.

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his sons (203–9). It is also important that, like Cyllene in the same play (who is played by an actor), Silenos converses in trimeters with the chorus, namely with the coryphaeus;136 actually he repeatedly addresses the coryphaeus (and collectively the chorus) in the second singular: 124 τίν’ αὖ τέχνην σὺ τήν[δ’ ἄρ ἐξ]ηῦρες, 127 κεῖσαι πεσών, 172 σε προσβιβῶ λόγῳ, 175 σ’ ἀπευθυνῶ, and 206–7 ἀυτὸς σὺ … ζήτει τε κἀξίχνευε. The role of Silenos on the Pronomos vase is likewise assigned to an actor. The man playing him is depicted in the upper zone, conversing with the actor playing Heracles, while in the lower zone one of the choreuts is clearly designated as the coryphaeus by his elaborate costume. In addition, Silenos’ mask and costume are easily distinguishable from those of the choreuts. The mask is that of an old person,137 with white hair and beard (which are long and shaggy), as well as wrinkled skin. He wears a full-body costume covered with white tufts (likewise pointing to old age), known as mallotos chiton (μαλλωτὸς χιτών,138 ‘fleecy chiton’). This garment, which (like the satyrs’ perizoma) aimed at animalistic mimesis,139 resembles the tights of the animal choruses of comedy, and it is possible that the two were related, or at least had a similar line of development.140 On the Pronomos vase, in particular, the outfit of Silenos is supplemented by a panther-skin hanging from his right shoulder, which is emblematic of Dionysos and his thiasos141 and also visually comparable to the lion-skin of Heracles next to him. Finally, like the satyrs of the chorus, Silenos is bare-foot.

136 Note also that in the papyrus (P. Oxy. 1174) the lines of Silenos are clearly marked as different from those of the chorus; thus, the first line of the parodos (64) is prefixed with XO(ΡΟΣ) ΣΑΤΥ(ΡΩΝ), while the first line of the trimeters following it (79) with ΣΙΛΗΝΟ(Σ). 137 See above on the categories of satyric masks distinguished by Pollux 4.142. 138 On the term see esp. Dion. Hal. Ant.Rom. 7.72, with reference to the outfit of Silenoi in Roman satyric choruses. 139 Note that according to Pollux 4.142, Silenos was supposed to look even more bestial than the satyrs (τὴν ἰδέαν … θηριωδέστερος). Certainly this costume, which in contrast to the satyrs’ perizoma covered the entire body, helped to fulfill this target (as well as to differentiate him from the satyrs). 140 For details on the mallotos chiton, also found on other vases (see e.g. Figure 27.17, Polion’s bell krater, New York, Met. Museum 25.78.66, and other examples in KRUMEICH’s chapter in this volume), see Simon 1982, 142–4. 141 Note, for instance, that a living panther is included in the Dionysiac composition on the reverse of this vase, and also that the satyrs are often equipped with panther-skins on vases (see e.g. Figures 27.21 and 27.22).

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Other characters Next to the (fixed) satyric family, satyr drama – like tragedy – featured mythical characters. It seems, however, that only a small number of them appeared in any individual play; in Euripides’ Cyclops, for instance, only Odysseus and Polyphemus appear.142 And in cases of thematically coherent tetralogies, it is likely that the heroes of the tragedies reappeared in the satyr drama. One interesting example would be Oedipus in the Sphinx, the last play of Sophocles’ Theban tetralogy. Based on the textual and visual remains of the genre, Seidensticker143 has concluded that satyr drama showed preference to certain types (as well as to specific characters): (a) ‘ogres’: the satyrs were usually at their service.144 The most famous example is that of Polyphemus in Euripides’ Cyclops. Other characters belonging to this type include Sciron, Bousiris and Amycus. (b) good heroes: these often confronted the ogres and liberated the satyrs. This category includes two variants: (b.1) ‘the strong ones’,145 who would defeat the ogre by force. This role was chiefly played by Heracles, a favourite hero of satyr drama (also shown on the Pronomos vase). The same sub-category may have included, for instance, heroes like Theseus, Perseus and Jason. (b.2) ‘the cunning ones’,146 who would defeat the ogre with their cleverness and tricks. For instance, in Euripides’ Cyclops Odysseus neutralises Polyphemus by getting him drunk and blinding him. In the same group belong, among others, Sisyphus, who cheated Death twice, and the famous thief Autolycus. (c) gods: satyr drama often brought them on stage. Apart from its patron, Dionysos (as in Sophocles’ Dionysiskos), it featured Hermes, Apollo, Poseidon, as well as lesser deities, Prometheus, Proteus, Glaucus, Cyllene, and others. (d) beautiful women: these were often pursued by the hedonistic satyrs. A characteristic example is ship-wrecked Danaë, who is claimed as a bride by Silenos and the satyrs in Aesch. Diktyoulkoi. It is interesting that the satyrs would not hesitate to harass even goddesses, like Hera, Iris and Amymone. Usually a hero or a god would come to these women’s rescue, like Dictys, Heracles, Poseidon, and others. 142 Note that (at least from the time of Sophocles, and perhaps even earlier) one of the actors’ places was reserved for Silenos. This unavoidably limited the number of other characters. 143 Seidensticker, ‘Philologisch-literarische Einleitung’, in Krumeich et al. 1999, 25–8. 144 See below on the motif of satyric servitude and liberation. 145 Seidensticker has labeled this type as ‘der starke Hans’. 146 ‘Der listige Schlauberger’, according to Seidensticker.

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As expected, these characters had the same masks and costumes as in tragedy. This is evident from their representations on vase-paintings.147 The Pronomos vase, in particular, (in addition to Silenos) features two actors playing dramatic characters, on either side of the divine composition in the upper zone.148 The one on the right (standing next to Silenos) plays Heracles. Apart from the name ΗΡΑΚΛΗΣ inscribed next to him, he has the usual attributes of this hero: a heavy club, quiver and bow, lion-skin hanging from his right shoulder, and a bearded man’s mask with a lion’s head on top. As for the costume, he wears a knee-length sleeved chiton and a sleeved top, while his chest is covered by a corselet. Finally, he has greaves on his legs and wears ‘shoes with upturned toes’.149 Unlike him, the other actor, on the left side of Dionysos, does not have a character’s name inscribed, and it is also difficult to identify him by means of his costume. He wears an elaborate sleeved chiton and a mantle, both richly decorated, and has soft shoes on his feet. His mask has long black hair and beard. Some scholars have thought that the elaborate costume points to an oriental king (such as Laomedon), although such an identification has been seriously questioned.150 In any case, the actor clearly has a mask and a costume, which could as well belong to a tragic hero.

5.4 Scenic Setting This is perhaps the only aspect of a satyr drama’s production that the Pronomos vase cannot help us with; what this vase depicts is a thiasos’ victory in a dramatic competition, not a scene from a play. Nevertheless, useful information on this topic can be gleaned by Vitruvius, a first century BC Roman architect and military engineer (serving under Caesar), famous for his treatise De Architectura. He distinguishes three types of theatrical scenes, one for each of the three dramatic genres; the tragic, the comic, and finally the satyric, for which he notes the following (5.6.9): Satyricae (scanae) vero ornantur arboribus, speluncis, montibus reliquisque agrestibus rebus in topeodis speciem deformatis.151

147 To the point that Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 180, has concluded that it is ‘justifiable to use representations of actors in a satyric context as evidence for tragic dress’. 148 For an overview of each actor’s outfit, see Mannack 2010, 7 and 9, and for a detailed discussion, Wyles 2010. 149 So Wyles 2010, 237. 150 Wyles 2010, 241–8. 151 The transmitted text has ‘topoedi’ and ‘deformati’. For the correction ‘topoedis’, see OLD s.v. ‘topoedes’; for ‘deformatis’, see Brink 1995, 272–3, n. 17.

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The satyric scenes are decorated with trees, caves, mountains and other rustic things designed to give landscape appearance.152

Although Vitruvius is a later source, his description is in agreement with scenic indications preserved in the satyric texts of the fifth century BC. Thus, we know that in Sophocles’ Ichneutai the action takes place on Mt Cyllene in Arcadia (37), outside the cave of the homonymous nymph. The place is described as a ‘rocky hill’, which is ‘green, wooded, and full of wild beasts’ (lines 221–2 χλοερὸν ὑλώδη πάγον ἔν[θ]ηρον).153 Similarly Euripides’ Cyclops is set on Mt Aetna in Sicily (19), outside the ‘rocky cave’ of Polyphemus (82 ἄντρα … πετρηφερῆ). Apart from rocks (43 σκοπέλους), the scene was decorated with grass (45 ποιηρὰ βότανα), while near the cave there were buckets of water for the Cyclops’ sheep (46–8 ὕδωρ ποταμῶν ἐν πίστραις κεῖται πέλας ἄντρων).154 This setting originates with the traditional location of the satyrs in the mountains and generally in the countryside. In their earliest preserved mention in literature, Hesiod fr. 10a.17–19 Merkelbach-West, the satyrs are said to have been born together with the mountain nymphs (and the Kouretes), and similarly the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite (261–2) has the silens as mating together with mountain nymphs inside caves. Various other passages provide similar information,155 but even more noteworthy are attested names of satyrs inspired by mountains: Ὀρείμαχος (‘the one fighting on the mountains’) and Ὀροχαρής (‘the one rejoicing on/with the mountains’), both of which appear on an attic red-figure amphora, the famous name vase of the Berlin Painter (Berlin, Antikensammlung F2160, 500–490 BC),156 and in all likelihood also Οὐρίας (‘the one of/from the mountains’ ?) occurring at Sophocles’ Ichneutai 184.157 Inevitably there were exceptions to this traditional scenic setting, which had to do with the increasing presence of satyrs in non-Dionysiac myths over the 152 Many thanks are due to James Diggle and Michael Lipka for their advice on the text and translation. 153 On the representation of the hill, note the following: ‘Depending on the date of the play, there are two possibilities with regard to the hill: either (a) there was a construction at the edge of the orchestra representing a hill, or (b), if – as is likely – a back-scene had already come into use, this scene was made to represent a hill, with its middle entrance coinciding with the mouth of the cave. In either case one should imagine a wooden construction, against which the satyrs did their ‘jumpings and kickings’ (line 219), forcing, with their loud noise, Cyllene to come out of the cave’ (Antonopoulos 2010, 38–9) 154 See Seaford 1984, 91. Generally on the setting of satyr dramas, see the discussion by Voelke 2001, 37–44. 155 See esp. Eur. Cycl. 68–71 and Pratinas fr. 3.3–4. 156 = ARV2 196.1; BAPD 201809. For a list of satyrs’ names found on vases, see Kossatz-Dessmann 1991. 157 On this see Antonopoulos 2014c, 60–1.

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course of the fifth century BC. As various satyr drama plots moved the satyrs from their natural rustic habitat to the polis, and had them engaged in novel, nonDionysiac activities,158 the stage also had to be adapted in accordance with the satyrs’ new surroundings. For instance, in Aeschylus’ Isthmiastai the action takes place in front of Poseidon’s temple in Isthmia,159 while it is likely that in plays like Sophocles’ Oineus (?) or Euripides’ Eurystheus the skene depicted a palace.160

6 Typical Themes Modern scholars who have surveyed Euripides’ Cyclops and the fragmentary plays, have often underlined the existence of recurrent typical themes in satyr drama.161 What is more, it has been noticed that these themes were often combined with one another in the various plays. Some of the most common are the following: (a) Dionysos and his thiasos: satyr drama is the most Dionysiac of the three dramatic genres, celebrating par excellence Dionysos and his cult. Dionysos himself was often included among the characters of plays, as for instance in Sophocles’ Dionysiskos and Aeschylus’ Isthmiastai. Paradoxically, however, his presence was even more emphatic in satyr dramas where he was not physically present on stage, as he was constantly in the mouths and the heart of the satyrs. In Euripides’ Cyclops, for instance, where they have been deprived of their master and live as slaves of Polyphemus in a foreign land, the satyrs long for their happy time with Dionysos and the thiasos (including their favourite Nymphs and the Bacchants) and cannot wait to return to him; most indicative of these feelings is the epode with which they close their entry-song (parodos) to the orchestra (lines 63–75): οὐ τάδε Βρόμιος, οὐ τάδε χοροὶ Βάκχαι τε θυρσοφόροι, οὐ τυμπάνων ἀλαλαγμοί, οὐκ οἴνου χλωραὶ σταγόνες κρήναις παρ’ ὑδροχύτοις

158 On this topos see the chapter by ANTONOPOULOS in this volume. 159 See the chapter by SONNINO in this volume. 160 See Seidensticker, ‘Philologisch-literarische Einleitung’, in Krumeich et al. 1999, 12, n. 67. 161 See esp. Guggisberg 1947, 33–45; Sutton 1980a, 145–59; Seaford 1984, 33–44; Seidensticker, ‘Philologisch-literarische Einleitung’, in Krumeich et al. 1999, 28–32; Voelke 2001, 378–81; O’Sullivan, ‘General Introduction’, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013 28–39 (see also the very useful ‘index of motifs and characters’ on pp. 509–12).

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οὐδ’ ἐν Νύσᾳ μετὰ Νυμφᾶν ἴακχον ἴακχον ᾠδὰν μέλπω πρὸς τὰν Ἀφροδίταν, ἃν θηρεύων πετόμαν Βάκχαις σὺν λευκόποσιν. ὦ φίλος ὦ φίλε Βακχεῖε ποῖ οἰοπολεῖς ξανθὰν χαίταν σείεις; There is no Bromius here, no choruses either, no thyrsos-wielding Bacchants, no rapturous cries from drums, no bright drops of wine beside the rushing waters of springs. Nor can I sing with the Nymphs on Nysa the song ‘iacchos! iacchos!’ to Aphrodite, whom I pursued, flying along with the white-footed Bacchants. O my friend, O my friend Bacchos, where are you, wandering, separated from your followers, are you shaking your golden hair?162

(b) favourite activities of the satyrs: these are deeply-rooted in the satyric-Dionysiac mythology and include, among others, playing music, dancing, singing, drinking wine, revelling, making love. They are often mentioned in combination with the satyrs’ participation in the thiasos, as for instance in Euripides’ Cyclops 63–75 (quoted above), as well as independently. There is a multitude of such references in the texts,163 and likewise the satyrs are frequently portrayed in their various favourite habits on vase-paintings and other artifacts. For instance, on the basis of the visual evidence Seidensticker164 has underlined the importance of dance in satyr drama; he notes that ‘vase-paintings usually portray members of satyr choruses in some kind of movement: running or jumping, hopping or dancing, just as if they cannot control their legs and feet. Compare with him, for example, an Apulian bell-krater attributed to the Tarporley Painter (Figure 27.30; early fourth century BC),165 depicting three satyr-choreuts, one of which (on the right) has just started dancing, as soon as he has put on his mask. (c) servitude and liberation: in several plays the satyrs were enslaved by an ‘ogre’ and afterwards set free with the help of a hero, who defeated him. After

162 Translation by O’Sullivan, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 81. 163 For a detailed study of various satyric activities, see Voelke 2001, 91–259. 164 Seidensticker 2003, 110–11. 165 Sydney, Nicholson Museum 47.05; Trendall – Cambitoglou 1978, 3/15.

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their liberation, the satyrs were reunited with their favourite god, Dionysos. Their captivity could function as an excuse for their presence in non-Dionysiac myths and environments. The most famous example comes from Euripides’ Cyclops, where the satyrs are ship-wrecked in Sicily and become enslaved by Polyphemus. At the end of the play, the ogre is blinded by Odysseus and the satyrs are set free. Other plays possibly employing this theme were Sophocles’ Amykos, Herakles, Euripides’ Skiron, Bousiris, Eurystheus, Ion’s Omphale, et al. Aeschylus’ Isthmiastai and Sophocles’ Ichneutai are interesting cases, for in these plays the satyrs seem willing to escape from their – otherwise enjoyable – service to Dionysos.166 Seaford167 locates the origins of this theme to ‘a sacred story’ (ἱερός λόγος) of the Dionysiac mysteries, ‘in which the imprisonment and miraculous liberation of Dionysos (perhaps also of his followers) … was an important element’. This story was dramatised in Euripides’ Bacchae, where not only Dionysos, but also the Theban maenads were imprisoned by Pentheus and then liberated. (d) new technai: the adaptation of the satyrs in non-Dionysiac plots unavoidably included their engagement in all sorts of novel (for them) occupations and activities.168 These were often imposed on them by a master (a combination of two themes in this case): for instance, in Euripides’ Cyclops the satyrs are forced to graze Polyphemus sheep, while their father Silenos has to take care of his household. Other activities were willingly taken up by the satyrs, such as athletics in Aeschylus’ Isthmiastai and other plays. These new technai of the chorus in practice defined its role in the various plays, and hence it is no wonder that they were often reflected in the title: apart from the Isthmiastai (‘The Isthmian Contesters’), note, for example, Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi (‘The Net-Haulers’), Sophocles’ Ichneutai (‘The Trackers’), and Euripides’ Theristai (‘The Reapers’). This theme had become so common that in the Ichneutai Silenos, unable to explain his son’s strange behaviour, assumes that the satyrs have once again adopted a new techne (124–5 τίν’ αὖ τέχνην σὺ τήν[δ’ ἄρ’ ἐξ]ηῦρες, τίν’ αὖ/ πρόσπαιον … ;, ‘What is this art that you have invented again? What new (art) again … ?’169). (e) paidotrophia: Silenos and the satyrs were often assigned the upbringing of heroic or divine infants, including Dionysos himself. Seaford170 ascribes this topos to ‘an ancient popular belief in Silenos as a protector and educator of children’, and also links it with the potential paedagogic role of Silenos and the satyrs in the Dionysiac mysteries and the celebrations of the Anthesteria. Such 166 On this see Antonopoulos 2010, 57–60. 167 Seaford 1984, 43. 168 On this theme, see also the chapter by ANTONOPOULOS in this volume. 169 Translation by Antonopoulos. 170 Seaford 1984, 40 with bibliography.

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a role is ascribed to these mythical creatures also in art. Several vase-paintings depict satyric families, consisting of grown-up satyrs, nymphs or maenads and satyr-children.171 An indicative example is an Athenian red-figure bell-krater attributed to the Yale Painter (c. 475–425 BC)172 with a child-satyr in the middle of his parents, a satyr and a maenad; the satyr is holding his son’s arms, while carrying him on his left leg – a well-known play-posture with little children to this day. Several satyr dramas were concerned with this theme, including Aeschylus’ Dionysou Trophoi, Diktyoulkoi, Sophocles’ Dionysiskos, Herakleiskos, Timesitheos’ Zenos Gonai, and other plays. Perhaps one of the most affectionate scenes in Greek literature comes from Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi, where Silenos (most likely),173 in an effort to win over Danaë, holds baby Perseus in his arms and describes the pleasures that he will have growing up with him as a dad (fr. 47a.802–20): ὦ φίντων, ἴθι δε[ῦρο   ποππυσμός (stage-direction) θάρσει δή· τί κινύρη̣[; δε̣ῦρ’ ἐς παῖδας ἴωμεν ωσ.[ ἵ̣ξῃ παιδοτρόφους ἐμά[ς, ὦ φίλος, χέρας εὐμενής, τέρψῃ δ’ ἴκτ̣ισι κα[ὶ] ν̣ε̣βρο̣[ῖς ὑστρίχων τ’ ὀβρί̣χοι̣σ̣[ι] κοιμήσῃ δ̣ὲ τρίτ̣ος ξὺν μητρὶ [καὶ π]ατρὶ τῷδε.

(str.)

ὁ πάπα[ς δ]ὲ παρέξει τῷ μικκῶ[ι] τ̣ὰ γελ[οῖ]α̣ καὶ τροφὰς ἀνόσ̣ους, ὅπως̣ π[ ἀλδων αὐτὸς ε ….[.]…[ χαλᾷ νεβροφον.[.]π̣οδ[ μάρπ̣των θῆρας ἄν̣ευ δ[ θῶσθαι μητρὶ παρέξεις̣ κ]η̣δεστ̣ῶν τρόπον οἷσιν [.]ν̣τροπος πελατεύσεις.

(ant.)

O my little darling, come (here). (Silenos makes a clucking sound) Be brave! We are you grizzling?

171 On the portrayal of satyr children in Athenian vase-painting, see the chapter by PRITCHETT in this volume. 172 Ancona, Museo Archeologico Nazionale 105; BAPD 7241; Krumeich et al. 1999, pl. 23b. 173 See Were-De Haas 1961, 64. Alternatively these lines could have been spoken by members of the satyric chorus; see Harrison 1943, 20.

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Let’s go over to my boys, (so?) you can come (at once?) to my nurturing, kindly arms, my dear, and delight in martens and fawns and baby porcupines, and make three in a bed with your mother and father here. And papa will give the little one lots of fun and healthy nourishment, so that when you’re grown up yourself … on hoofed foot that kills fawns you’ll seize hold of wild beasts without … and provide your mother with feasts like your kinsmen, whom you’ll approach as a foster-brother.174

Apart from the satyrs, the nymphs were traditionally credited with paidotrophia, as for instance Amalthea, who reportedly raised baby Zeus.175 It is also relevant that the nymphs were closely associated with the satyrs, often being considered the female members of the satyric family.176 Hence, it is no wonder that in Sophocles’ Ichneutai the nursing of Hermes, whose mother Maia is ill, has been entrusted to a nymph, Cyllene.177 She describes her role as follows (lines 272–6): [........] χερσὶ ταῖς ἐμαῖς ἐγ̣ὼ̣ τρέφω· [...... γ]ὰρ ἰσχὺς ἐν νόσῳ χειμάζεται· [......]α̣ καὶ ποτῆτα καὶ κοιμήματα [πρὸς σπ]αργάνοις μένουσα λικνῖτιν τροφὴν [ἐξευθ]ετίζω νύκτα καὶ καθ’ ἡμέραν. … I’m nursing (him) in my arms, for (his mother’s) strength is buffeted by storms of sickness. His (food) and drink and bedding, (as well as) his swaddling, his cradle-care, – these I stay and (set in order) night and day.178

174 Translation by Collard, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 263–5. 175 See esp. Hyg. Fab. 139. 176 See e.g. Soph. Oineus(?) fr. 1130.7, where the satyrs introduce themselves as παῖδες νυμφῶν (‘sons of the nymphs’). 177 In the Homeric Hymn to Hermes he was raised by his own mother. 178 Translation by Collard, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 366–7.

Introduction: What is Satyr Drama? 

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(f) heuremata: as already mentioned, satyrs were at home in the wild and belonged to an archaic, pre-urban time. In this capacity, in the imagination of the Greeks they were present at the beginnings of civilisation and technology. It is no wonder therefore that satyr drama often staged various inventions and creations and featured the satyrs’ reactions and amazement at them. Thus, these primitive creatures witnessed the invention of the lyre in Sophocles’ Ichneutai, and possibly also of the syrinx in Sophocles’ Inachos (fr. 269c.7), fire in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Pyrkaeus (fr. 207), wine in Sophocles’ Dionysiskos (fr. 172), some ἀθύρματα (‘toys’) newly made with adze and anvil in Aeschylus’ Istmiastai (fr. 78c.50–1179), certain speaking and moving statues made by Daedalus in Euripides’ Eurystheus (fr. 372), the first woman in Sophocles’ Pandora, et al. In the Ichneutai, for instance, the satyrs are at first terrified by the unknown to them sound of the lyre, coming from the interior of the cave (lines 142–4). Nevertheless, later, and after relevant information has been revealed by Cyllene, they celebrate the creation of the new musical instrument, speaking of ‘a fine voice … spreading over the place, and brilliant images of tone blooming upon the land’ (329–31).180 Noteworthy are also two interesting cases from Euripides’ Cyclops. The first is the heurema of wine; the satyrs are already familiar with it in the play, but not Polyphemus, who is the one to display the primitive man’s reaction upon first contact with the goods of civilisation (line 523 ff.).181 The other is the escape plan that Odysseus has devised. Upon hearing the details, the satyrs cry out (lines 464–5): ἰοὺ ἰού· γέγηθα, μαινόμεσθα τοῖς εὑρήμασιν. Wow! Wow! I rejoice; we are driven frantic by (the) inventions!182

The immediate reference is, of course, to Odysseus’ plan  – in effect a mental invention. Nevertheless, the satyrs’ excessive joy and the plural that they are using (τοῖς εὑρήμασιν), suggest that they are alluding to the topos.183 Besides the

179 For an overview of the various objects that have been proposed, see Collard, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 269. 180 Translation by Collard, in O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 371. 181 Polyphemus is suitable for this role, because (like the satyrs) he lives outside the boundaries of civilised society. His ignorance of wine, in particular, is also dictated by the plot, whereby Odysseus’ escape plan involves getting him drunk, so as to blind him. 182 Translation by Antonopoulos. 183 So already Seaford 1984, 190.

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fact that after the first singular γέγηθα, the coryphaeus switches to the first plural μαινόμεσθα, makes the last sentence sound like a general statement: the satyrs are always fond of εὑρήματα. For Seaford,184 this theme (as well as anodoi) ‘derives from a pre-dramatic celebration by the Dionysiac thiasos of revelations associated with their cult (musical instruments? mask? wine? anodos?)’, which had to do with the initiation process. Finally (g) anodoi: these were marvelous emergences of certain figures from the ground, or even from the sea. Like the heuremata, these, too, caused the amazement of the satyrs and were probably linked with the initiation process of the Dionysiac thiasos. Thus, it is likely that the satyrs were startled by Glaucus’ emergence from the sea as half-man and half-fish in Aeschylus’ Glaukos Pontios (fr. 25e), by Sisyphus’ return from the underworld in Aeschylus’ Sisyphos Drapetes (fr. 230), and likewise. There are also several vase-paintings capturing the satyrs’ vigorous reactions to anodoi; one of them, an Athenian red-figure stamnos attributed to the Eucharides painter (figure 27.10a-b; 500 BC–490 BC),185 depicts three theatrical satyrs, who carry mallets, being overwhelmed by a goddess rising from the ground.

184 Seaford 1984, 41–3. 185 Paris, Louvre CP 10754; see the relevant discussion by KRUMEICH in this volume.

Part I: Genre

Riccardo Palmisciano

1 Satyrikon and the Origins of Tragedy ἡ δὲ τραγῳδία ἐστὶν παλαιὸν ἐνθάδε, οὐχ ὡς οἴονται ἀπὸ Θέσπιδος ἀρξαμένη οὐδ᾽ ἀπὸ Φρυνίχου, ἀλλ᾽ εἰ θέλεις ἐννοῆσαι, πάνυ παλαιὸν αὐτὸ εὑρήσεις ὂν τῆσδε τῆς πόλεως εὕρημα. [Plat.] Min. 321a.1–4

For many decades, scholars have debated the origins of tragedy.1 Especially following Nietzsche’s publication of The Birth of Tragedy in 1872, theses, suggestions and arguments of every kind have been proposed on the topic. We might be tempted to question whether our sources of information provide sufficient data to reach a commonly agreed understanding, or even, perhaps, to consider the question an unsolvable riddle.2 In this paper I will attempt to simplify the problem as far as possible and to offer some considerations about the elements that can contribute to a coherent vision on the origins of tragedy. By deliberate choice, the point of view will be limited to dramatic performances in Attic culture.3 The presence of dramatic performance can be documented in other regions of Greece as well. But to consider all of the evidence comprehensively would complicate the general picture without benefit, especially since most of the evidence outside of Attica is not contemporary with the Attic evidence, and as such it concerns more the further development of the genre than its origins. Regional, or even local, peculiarities deserve adequate and specific attention.4 The first step will be a new reading of a passage well known to everyone concerned with this topic: chapter 4 of Aristotle’s Poetica, the most ancient account of the origins of tragedy. Aristotle’s words have often been rejected as inconsistent.5 The main basis of criticism is that the philosopher could not have had access to reliable information and that the problem was as obscure for him as it is for us, because he was already two centuries removed from the issue he considered. 1 A detailed review of the different positions regarding the origins of tragedy can be found in Ziegler 1937, 1899–962; Del Grande 1962, 293–335; Patzer 1962, 39–88; Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 89–131; Else 1965, 9–31; Lesky 1972, 17–48; Latacz 1993, 17–77. 2 For a witty description of the actual state of the question, see Griffith 2013b, 257–8, under the eloquent title Obscurum per obscurius. 3 I follow Else 1965, 32: ‘The cardinal fact remains that Athens in the sixth century BC is the only place in the world that has ever given birth to tragedy’. 4 On regionalism and satyr drama, see SLATER in this volume for late Classical period and Skotheim and Harrison for the Roman Empire. 5 Among others, Nilsson 1951, 609–13; Cantarella 1936; Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 128–9; Patzer 1962, 70–85; Else 1957, 156–7; Scullion 2002, 102–10. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-002

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According to this line of reasoning, therefore, Aristotle’s statements are ambiguous and confused, if not contradictory. In response to these arguments it is possible to object that Aristotle seems to be well aware of the limits of his sources of information. As Bywater remarked,6 Aristotle candidly recognizes the difficulty in tracing the changes that occurred in comedy, yet the case of tragedy is somewhat different (Aristotle, Poetica 1449a. 37–b 2): αἱ μὲν οὖν τῆς τραγῳδίας μεταβάσεις, καὶ δι᾽ ὧν ἐγένοντο, οὐ λελήθασιν· ἡ δὲ κωμῳδία διὰ τὸ μὴ σπουδάζεσθαι ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἔλαθεν, καὶ γὰρ χορὸν κωμῳδῶν ὀψέ ποτε ὁ ἄρχων ἔδωκεν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐθελονταὶ ἦσαν· Now, while the stages of tragedy’s development, and those responsible for them, have been preserved, comedy’s have not been, because it was not originally given serious attention: the archon first granted a comic chorus at quite a late date; before that, the performers were volunteers.7

Even if we consider Aristotle’s description as trustworthy we must admit that his words are not easy to understand, for a reason already noted by scholars: the origins of tragedy are not the main focus of Aristotle’s discussion. In chapter 4 of Poetica the philosopher attempts to demonstrate that poetry is a natural phenomenon and that it corresponds to the particular nature of human intellectual processes. Aristotle’s aim is to demonstrate the organic nature of literary forms, which are affected by the same natural process of birth, growth, maturity and decline that can be observed in living organisms.8 Chapter 4 of Aristotle’s Poetica, then, is only marginally concerned with the origins of tragedy, on which we can read only a short summary written in the sketch-like style adopted by Aristotle in all his esoteric works (Aristotle, Poetica 1449a.9–13). The following is Aristotle’s account: γενομένη [scil. tragedy] δ᾽ οὖν ἀπ᾽ ἀρχῆς αὐτοσχεδιαστικῆς – καὶ αὐτὴ καὶ ἡ κωμῳδία, καὶ ἡ μὲν ἀπὸ τῶν ἐξαρχόντων τὸν διθύραμβον, ἡ δὲ ἀπὸ τῶν τὰ φαλλικὰ ἃ ἔτι καὶ νῦν ἐν πολλαῖς τῶν πόλεων διαμένει νομιζόμενα – κατὰ μικρὸν ηὐξήθη προαγόντων ὅσον ἐγίγνετο φανερὸν

6 Bywater 1909, 135; see also Depew 2007, 127–8. 7 Translation by Halliwell 1987, 36. 8 Among others, Else 1957, 126–7, 152–7, 161–2 (‘a logical construction rather than a genuine history’); Halliwell 1986, 256 (and 42–62 for Aristotle’s idea of art in general): ‘Aristotle is far less concerned with history on the contingent and documented level than with insights into the essential relationship between genres as this can be discerned from the point of view of a philosophical understanding of poetry’; Smethurst 1989, 5: ‘Aristotle is less interested in questions of performance than he is in a theoretical discussion of the nature of poetry, especially dramatic poetry’.

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αὐτῆς· καὶ πολλὰς μεταβολὰς μεταβαλοῦσα ἡ τραγῳδία ἐπαύσατο, ἐπεὶ ἔσχε τὴν αὑτῆς φύσιν. καὶ τό τε τῶν ὑποκριτῶν πλῆθος ἐξ ἑνὸς εἰς δύο πρῶτος Αἰσχύλος ἤγαγε καὶ τὰ τοῦ χοροῦ ἠλάττωσε, καὶ τὸν λόγον πρωταγωνιστεῖν παρεσκεύασεν· τρεῖς δὲ καὶ σκηνογραφίαν Σοφοκλῆς. ἔτι δὲ τὸ μέγεθος· ἐκ μικρῶν μύθων καὶ λέξεως γελοίας διὰ τὸ ἐκ σατυρικοῦ μεταβαλεῖν ὀψὲ ἀπεσεμνύνθη, τό τε μέτρον ἐκ τετραμέτρου ἰαμβεῖον ἐγένετο. τὸ μὲν γὰρ πρῶτον τετραμέτρῳ ἐχρῶντο διὰ τὸ σατυρικὴν καὶ ὀρχηστικωτέραν εἶναι τὴν ποίησιν. At any rate, having come into being from an improvisational origin (which is true of both tragedy and comedy, the first starting from the leaders of the dithyramb, the second from the leaders of the phallic songs which are still customary in many cities), tragedy was gradually enhanced as poets made progress with the potential which they could see in the genre. And when it had gone through many changes, tragedy ceased to evolve, since it had attained its natural fulfilment. It was Aeschylus who first increased the number of actors from one to two, reduced the choral parts, and gave speech the leading role; the third actor and scene-painting came with Sophocles. A further aspect of change concerns scale: after a period of slight plots and humorous diction, it was only at a late stage that tragedy attained dignity by departing from the style of satyr-plays, and that the iambic metre replaced the trochaic tetrameter. To begin with, poets used the tetrameter because the poetry had more of the tone of a satyr-play and of dance.9

His account seems to put at the very origins of tragedy two different elements: dithyramb and satyrikon, ‘satyr play’ or ‘satyr play-like performance’.10 All attempts to take Aristotle’s words at face value have required considerable effort in identifying and clarifying the link between these two poetic genres. In general, the mention in Suda of the performance of a dithyramb by a satyr-like chorus at the time of Arion (Suda A 3886, s. v. ’Aρίων: ... καὶ σατύρους εἰσενεγκεῖν ἔμμετρα λέγοντας) has been considered enough to fill the gap between these two otherwise distinct genres: tragedy, it would seem, developed from the performances of dithyrambs by choruses dressed as satyrs.11 Scholars who support this view consider the sat­

9 Translation by Halliwell 1987, 35. 10 See Seaford 1984, 11, for a careful discussion of the adjective σατυρικόν in Aristotle’s text; see also below and n. 16. 11 The existence of choroi performed by satyrs with goat features, from which the word τραγῳδία derived, had been already proposed by Welcker 1826, 240, on the basis of Etym. M. 764.6 τραγῳδία. ... ἢ ὅτι τὰ πολλὰ οἱ χοροὶ ἐκ σατύρων συνίσταντο, οὓς ἐκάλουν τράγους, later by Wilamowitz 1907, 81–4; Brommer 1959, 5; Webster in Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 34–5, 114–6; Depew 2007, 127–8 (Depew’s chapter is a thorough analysis of Aristotle’s theoretical frame). I will not consider the vexata quaestio regarding the existence of goat-like satyrs (the so-called Peloponnesian satyrs) as this question is addressed by TOUYZ in his contribution to this volume. The evidence does not allow us to demonstrate the development of the Attic satyr (with equine features) from the goat-like satyrs of the Peloponnesian tradition (see Hedreen 1992, 163). It is probable, however, that since the Attic silenoi were hairy they were sometimes compared to goats. That said, there is no trace of goat features in the Attic iconography of satyrs. In the

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yrikon mentioned by Aristotle as a matter of little importance: since we know little or nothing about satyr drama in the archaic age and because it seems impossible that at its very beginnings satyrikon could have been similar to satyr drama of the classical period, the contribution of satyrikon to the birth of tragedy must therefore be limited to the presence of satyrs in dithyrambic performances. I find this reconstruction of the genesis of tragedy difficult to believe, for reasons that will be evident below. The question of the origins of tragedy would be simpler without the requirement of reconciling a twofold origin. If the genres of tragedy (with its ancestor, that is satyrikon) and dithyramb were indeed so closely connected, they would have had more in common than the sporadic presence of a chorus of satyrs, observed only in a performance delivered outside Athens, that is, probably, Corinth, where Arion was active. In Classical times, the differences between tragedy and dithyramb were much more evident than their similarities, and dithyramb as a genre was well distinguished from tragedy,12 as we can infer from 1) the performance of dithyrambs was separate and took place in single-day competitions; 2) the authors of the dithyrambs were different from those of tragedies and were not considered important enough to be mentioned by name in the official Fasti13; 3) the chorus for dithyrambs was composed of fifty men or boys, the chorus of tragedy of twelve (later fifteen) men. This difference displays the particular importance of the musical element and the prevalence of the choral element in dithyrambic performance; 4) the structure of dithyrambic poetry was the same as that of every choral genre, that is, there was no specific relationship to the structure of tragedy, and other performative genres per se; 5) satyrs and satyric performances were almost completely absent in dithyrambs. The presence of men dressed as satyrs in the dithyrambic chorus was extraordinary. In contrast, satyr drama was a necessary element of the tetralogy and the chorus was always composed of satyrs. This is one of the most distinctive features of the genre; 6) dithyramb was a serious genre and there is no trace of comic elements in dithyrambic performances. On the contrary satyr drama was considered by Pseudo-Demetrius, De elocutione 169 a kind of ‘mocking tragedy’, τραγῳδία παίζουσα. This definition suits well to the features of satyr drama in Classical period and displays the possibility to combine

absence of goat-like satyrs, therefore, it is impossible to demonstrate that the word τραγῳδία originally meant ‘song of the goats’. It remains that τραγῳδία alludes to the sacrifice of a goat during the festivals (the best examination of this possibility is Burkert 1966). 12 Also, the word dithyramb is not frequent in Greek tragedy: see Battezzato 2013, 94–5. 13 IG II2. 2318 (= T95 Ieranò) gives only the name of the tribe and the choregos who won the boys’ dithyrambic contest, and the name of the tribe and the choregos who won the dithyrambic contest reserved for adults.

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serious and comic elements in dramatic performance. A possibility unknown to dithyramb. Dithyramb and tragedy, however, did share one common feature, more evident in pre-classical times, and it is exactly to this feature that Aristotle is referring: their performative technique. The information Aristotle provides in chapter four of the Poetica appears more coherent and instructive if we split the chapter into two sections, each dedicated to a different topic: in the first section the philosopher discusses the drama’s technical execution; in the second, the content of the drama. According to Aristotle, the drama which later evolved into tragedy was first a form of improvisation performed with a technique that required the dynamic exchange between a solo-singer (ἔξαρχος, or ἐξάρχων) and the chorus. Aristotle considers improvisation as natural for an early stage of a genre’s development, yet even this rough dramatic form possesses the essence of mimetic action thanks to the interaction between soloist and chorus. When Aristotle mentions dithyramb he does not say that dithyramb led to tragedy, otherwise he would have said that tragedy derived ἀπὸ τοῦ διθυράμβου. He says, rather, that the performance of the drama which later evolved into tragedy was quite similar to that of the dithyramb, particularly regarding the interaction between chorus and soloist.14 It is for this reason that he says ἀπὸ τῶν ἐξαρχόντων τὸν διθύραμβον. This feature of the dithyramb is well attested both in the archaic period, such as in Archilocus fr. 120  W.2 and in the fifth century BC, as, for example, in the kind of execution required for Bacchylides’ Dithyramb 18, but it is not exclusive to this genre: threnoi used a similar kind of performance, with solo-singers leading the performance and eliciting a response from the chorus, often in the form of a refrain.15 Neither is it possible to affirm that dithyramb had a particular mimetic character, since mimesis is present whenever gesture and dance accompany choral performance. We might even imagine that Aristotle chose the dithyramb to explain the origins of dramatic performance for practical reasons: his students 14 Very eloquent, in this regard, is the Commentarium in Aristotelis Artem Rhetoricam, p. 176 Rabe (Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca 21.2, Berlin 1896) = T46 Ieranò οἱ δὲ εἶπον διθύραμβα τὰ ἔχοντα ἐρωτήσεις καὶ ἀποκρίσεις. According to some ancient scholars, the presence of questions and answers was enough to consider a song as a dithyramb. 15 For a detailed discussion of the performative technique of the θρῆνος see Palmisciano 2017, 62–76, 163–5, 274–80. θρῆνος, indeed, was not an appropriate example, because the performance of this kind of song in public spaces was forbidden in Athens from the time of Solon. The verb ἐξάρχειν and the function of the ἔξαρχος are also linked to other lyrical genres. In the Pseudohesiodean Scutum the verb is applied to a generic song performed by the Muses: [Hes.] Scut. 205–6 θεαὶ δ᾽ ἐξῆρχον ἀοιδῆς / Μοῦσαι Πιερίδες. Plutarch associates the verb ἐξάρχειν with the paean: Plut. Lyc. 22.5 ἅμα δὲ ἐξῆρχεν [scil. ὁ βασιλεύς] ἐμβατηρίου παιᾶνος. For more general usages see Else 1957, 157–8.

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would have all understood his reference to the dithyramb, as it was without doubt the best known genre of choral lyric in Athens. There would have been no need to mention each and every genre that shared the same performative technique: one good, instantly intelligible example would have been enough to explain the subject matter. One good example taken from the world of choral performance was necessary, however, because in the fifth-fourth century BC the performance of a satyr drama was very different from the simple improvisations of the archaic satyrikon. Technical execution, then, is the sole focus of the first part of chapter 4 of Poetica, and even in the sentences that follow, Aristotle speaks only of the increasing number and role of the actors and the diminishing role of the chorus in tragedy, up to its final development in Sophoclean tragedy. It is only after the section devoted to the origins of tragedy’s technical execution that Aristotle shifts his focus to the content of tragedy, with the significant words τὸ μέγεθος. Once more, Aristotle underlines the physical features. At its early stages, the dramatic form that led to tragedy was a small performance of satyric nature. Not really a satyr drama, which is a more sophisticated form, but a drama in which satyrs or satyr-like characters were always present.16 The subject matter of these plays was a mythos, that is, a mythical story, and the language was comic (ἐκ μικρῶν μύθων καὶ λέξεως γελοίας), as the presence of satyrs required.17 Furthermore, the metre adopted was the trochaic tetrameter, a form suited to a play in which dances performed by satyrs were prevalent (τὸ μὲν γὰρ πρῶτον τετραμέτρῳ ἐχρῶντο διὰ τὸ σατυρικὴν καὶ ὀρχηστικωτέραν εἶναι τὴν ποίησιν).18 If my reading of this passage of Poetica is correct, Aristotle is saying that tragedy developed from dramatic performances in which satyrs or satyr-like characters performed a mythical story with the same interaction between solo-leader and chorus as that found in choral songs such as archaic dithyramb. Is it possible, then, to verify Aristotle’s account on the basis of whatever information (if any) we may have regarding satyrikon in the seventh-sixth century BC? In recent decades the contribution made by black-figure representations to the history of Greek drama in the archaic age has been explored in depth, beginning

16 Hedreen 1992, 166: ‘On the one hand, he did not write satyrikon drama, or write the article, to satyrikon, or write satyroi, all common means of referring to satyr-play; it is informative, though not decisive, that Aristotle used the adjective’. 17 For a fuller discussion of this point, see slenders in this volume. 18 Aristotle seems well informed on this topic if he can speak of the metrical features of early dramatic performance with such precision. As a matter of fact, trochaic tetrameter cannot be considered the distinctive meter of classical dithyramb, yet it is exactly the meter of Archilochus’ poem (fr. 120 W.2) in which he claims his ability to lead (exarchein) the dithyramb.

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with the ground-breaking work of Guy Hedreen.19 Iconographic material can provide a substantial aid in filling the gaps in the literary sources, and we can say that we are now better informed about the origins of satyrikon than before. Black-figure representations discussed by Hedreen20 has made it possible to me to restore the plot of a satyr play about Perseus’ adventures in the mythical land of the Pygmies.21 The source is a signed masterpiece by the Attic painter Nearchos: a small aryballos now displayed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art of New York (MMA 26.49) dating to 570–550 BC. The depictions on the aryballos allow us to reconstruct a play in which Perseus and his divine helper Hermes watch, or are involved in, a battle between cranes and the Pygmies, while a chorus of men, dressed like hairy satyrs turn their backs to the battle and devote themselves to masturbation (Figure 1.1).

Figure 1.1: Choral masturbation of men dressed as satyrs. Attic black-figure aryballos handle plate, by Nearchos (570–550 BC). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 26.49.

19 Hedreen 1992, in particular pp. 125–78; see also hedreen in this volume. After Hedreen’s book it is difficult to deny that performances of men dressed as satyrs were current in Athens before the end of the sixth century BC; contra, Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 52, n. 49 (with the reply by Hedreen 2007, 188, n. 31). 20 Hedreen 1992, 125–78. 21 Palmisciano 2014b.

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It is quite surprising to discover that all the elements of the play represented on this vase build a system quite similar to that of classical satyr play: a mythical plot, serious and comic action mixed together, the contrast between heroic or divine temper and comic characters, and choral performance. The iconography of the aryballos, according to my reading, is a graphic representation of a sa­ tyrikon performed many years before Pratinas’ activity. The exceptional value of Nearchos’ aryballos consists in the fact that it depicts men dressed like satyrs as choral characters in a play with a mythical plot. Other images can further support the existence of comic, or satyr-like, characters involved in serious or even tragic contexts. A protoattic krater (dated 660–50  BC),22 known as the ‘Oresteia krater’, displays under the handle a monkey-like figure, wearing a short skirt and handling round shaped objects of an unknown nature23 (Figure 1.2). On the opposite side, under the second handle, two men dressed like the monkey figure dance and show off their bottoms,24 a behaviour quite similar to that of padded dancers (Figure 1.3). The most interesting feature of this vase is that the comic action of the dancers (including a monkey or monkey-like figure) deeply contrasts with the scene depicted on the body of the vessel, which represents the killing of a man by another man in the presence of a woman. This tragic scene is probably connected to a heroic myth, as the wealthy garments clearly demonstrate. Despite the difficulty in offering more precision regarding the relationship between ‘tragic action’ and ‘comic dance’ in this vessel, we can affirm that the simultaneous presence of comic and tragic modes of expression is a distinctive feature of some forms of dramatic performance in Attica in the seventh century BC. Outside Attica another interesting and very ancient vase is a Corinthian aryballos displaying padded dancers involved in dramatic action (Figure 1.4).25 One of the dancers is wearing an artificial hook-like foot.26 The character, who may be the god Hephaestus, is assisted by another padded dancer who supports the first dancer’s handicapped leg. While doing so, this second dancer’s 22 Once Berlin, Antiquarium A 32; now lost. Beazley 1986, pl. 8, 5; CVA Berlin (1) pl. 18–21. The krater is now lost and is known only through photographs and sketches. 23 Beazley 1986, 8: ‘He is not an ape, but perhaps a wild man of the woods, a Pilosus, a kind of proto-satyr or proto-Silenos, solitary, uncompanionable, repelling intruders with stones; but one cannot be sure’. 24 According to Alan Boegehold, apud Morris 1984, 61, n. 94 the two figures represent a pair of slaves throwing the audience fruit or small cakes in a comic production. 25 Paris, Musée du Louvre S 1104; CVA 9, pl. 33, 1–6; Trendall-Webster 1971, I 3; Seeberg 1971, 74–6; Steinhart 2007, 208–9, fig. 80–3; Walsh 2009, 144–5, 160 and the catalogue at p. 298 (25.45). 26 Wannagat 2015, 64 is sceptical about the artificial nature of the dancer’s foot.

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Figure 1.2: Monkey-like figure, with a short skirt handling round shaped objects of unknown nature. Protoattic krater (known as the ‘Oresteia krater’), (660–650 BC); detail of the handle. Once Berlin, Antiquarium A 32; now lost.

prominent bottom pushes against a large head rising up from the ground. This head is usually interpreted as the anabasis of a god, most likely Dionysos. The Corinthian painting confirms the existence of dramatic performances in which mythical plots were performed by disguised men in costume even outside Attica. It also confirms the presence of a foil, playing the scene straight (in this case the god Dionysos and probably Hephaestus) involved in, or better put, the victim of, comic action. It indicates that padded dancers and satyrs are interchangeable, since they can both be performers of comic action in serious contexts, but it also demonstrates the existence of regional, not to say local, traditions, with specific features. The function of the padded dancers’ performance is quite similar to that of satyrs, but not exactly the same. Iconographic sources, then, seem to support our reading of Aristotle’s Poetica. They confirm the existence in the archaic age of dramatic forms in which comic and serious actions were mixed together in a way quite similar to that displayed by satyr drama in Classical times.

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Figure 1.3: Men performing a comic dance. Protoattic krater (known as the ‘Oresteia krater’), (660–650 BC); detail of the handle. Once Berlin, Antiquarium A 32; now lost.

This reconstruction can also explain data that has been problematic for scholars. By this I mean the fact that Pratinas from Phleious, the first author known to have written satyr plays, was credited with fifty plays, distributed between thirtytwo satyr plays and eighteen tragedies.27 In my opinion, this is compelling evidence that before the rule which obligated each poet to compose three tragedies and a satyr play, satyr plays were performed independently. This seems to be the sole possibility in the earliest period of Greek theatre.28 The entry in Suda titled

27 Suda Σ 2230, s.v. Πρατίνας . He competed with Aeschylus in the years 499–496 BC and was credited as the creator of satyr drama (but see Patzer 1962, 37; Hedreen 1992, 165, and below). The figures mentioned in Suda probably derive from Callimachus’ Πίνακες (see West 1989a, 252). For an ingenious attempt to explain the numbers concerning Pratinas’ production see PickardCambridge 1927, 93, n. 3, who does not exclude that it was possible to stage satyr plays without tragedies before the tetralogy system was established. 28 It is difficult to verify if there had been a period in which single tragedies were staged, followed by a satyr drama, or if the tetralogy system appeared from the beginning. The latter possibility seems less likely.

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Figure 1.4: Padded dancers; the left figure’s hook-like foot is artificial. Early Corinthian alabastron, lower frieze (620–595 BC). Paris, Musée du Louvre S 1104.

‘nothing to do with Dionysos’ is very eloquent in this regard (Suda ο 806, s.v. Οὐδὲν πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον = TrGF I, T18): Ἐπιγένους τοῦ Σικυωνίου τραγῳδίαν εἰς τὸν Διόνυσον ποιήσαντος, ἐπεφώνησάν τινες τοῦτο· ὅθεν ἡ παροιμία. βέλτιον δὲ οὕτως· τὸ πρόσθεν εἰς τὸν Διόνυσον γράφοντες τούτοις ἠγωνίζοντο, ἅπερ καὶ σατυρικὰ ἐλέγετο· ὕστερον δὲ μεταβάντες εἰς τὸ τραγῳδίας γράφειν, κατὰ μικρὸν εἰς μύθους καὶ ἱστορίας ἐτράπησαν, μηκέτι τοῦ Διονύσου μνημονευόντες· ὅθεν τοῦτο καὶ ἐπεφώνησαν. καὶ Χαμαιλέων ἐν τῷ περὶ Θέσπιδος τὰ παραπλήσια ἱστορεῖ. When Epigenes the Sicyonian made a tragedy in honour of Dionysus, they made this comment; hence the proverb. A better explanation. Originally when writing in honour of Dionysus they competed with pieces which were called satyric. Later they changed to the writing of tragedy and gradually turned to plots and stories in which they had no thought for Dionysus. Hence this comment. Chamaeleon writes similarly in his book on Thespis.29

According to Suda and its source, the peripatetic Chamaeleon, student of Aristotle, satyrikon came first, before tragedy, as the only genre with which poets

29 Translation by Webster in Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 125.

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competed in the contests in honour of Dionysos.30 The presence of satyrs was itself a guarantee of the drama’s Dionysian character, not because there was an exclusive link between satyrs and Dionysos in Greek mythology, but because satyrs themselves are Dionysian, fond of wine, dance and sex and praising Dionysos whenever possible, as in Euripides’ Cyclops.31 When, in a later period, playwrights began to compose tragedies as a dramatic genre separate from satyr dramas, the link with the god Dionysos became less visible and more external. The last utterance regarding μύθους and ἱστορίας is not entirely correct, as I will show later (see below n. 47), but the essential information, that is, the fact that satyr drama preceded tragedy, is coherent with all the documents mentioned in this paper and with our reading of chapter 4 of Aristotle’s Poetica. Let us now turn to another difficult question: how could so serious and noble a genre as tragedy derive from a kind of performance in which mocking satyrs displayed their funny, lazy and lewd way of life?32 It is untenable that tragedy was invented by a single author, as ancient tradition explicitly attests. That the sources point to Thespis as the creator of tragedy has a relative value as a statement of fact.33 It could be that Thespis was the earliest playwright whose name was known, or the first remembered victor in a dramatic contest. Perhaps the credit he is assigned belongs more to innovations he introduced. But in general terms, as it is easy to demonstrate from the poetic genres in the oral phase of the Greek culture, no single individual among the ancient poets can be credited with inventing any genre.34

30 It is probable that Chamaeleon follows the path traced by his master, Aristotle. In this case, our reading of Poetica 4 and our consideration of the role of satyrikon in the question of the origins of tragedy would be confirmed. 31 Wine was unknown in the land of the Cyclops, and for this reason the satyrs ceased to dance (v. 124). When Odysseus brings them wine, however, the link with Dionysos is restored (139–40) and their desire to dance and have sexual intercourse is reborn (156, 169–71, 179–87). 32 This question has often been considered impossible due to the gulf separating the noble tragedy from the comic, even obscene, actions performed by satyrs. This is probably the reason for the general disregard of the possibility that satyrikon was the generative nucleus of the tragedy. See, for example, Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 126; Patzer 1962, 70; Else 1965, 15–16. 33 The ancient sources disagree on the name of the first tragedian: Thespis is the most mentioned (see TGrF 1 T1–24), but also Epigenes (see Suda Θ 282, s.v. Θέσπις = TrGF I, T1) and Arion are candidates (for the latter see Joh. Logoth. ad Hermog. π. μεθ. δειν. = TrGF I, T9, on the basis of Solon’s authority). 34 For more detailed arguments on this topic see Palmisciano 2014a. Staying with a genre often mentioned in this paper, that is, dithyramb, it is impossible to believe the ancient sources that explicitly state that Arion from Methymna invented the genre, which was already practiced before Arion: Hdt. 1.23 (= T47 Ieranò); Suda Α 3886, s.v. ’Aρίων (= T48 Ieranò).

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The process that led to the dramatic form known as tragedy is described in very few words in Greek sources. Aristotle’s account is the most detailed. Horace’s sketch in the topic (Ars Poetica 221–30) provides some further information,35 but is of limited relevance to our discussion, and still other sources preserve isolated details, but the sum of the evidence is too disparate to yield a coherent picture. Some aid could derive from different literary traditions better preserved. What offers some hope is comparison with Japanese tradition, in particular with Nō theatre,36 even though it is independent of Greek drama in time and place.37 Comic performance is thought to be the genesis of all genres of dramatic spectacle in Japanese theatre. According to Kojiki, the most ancient chronicle in Japanese literature (712 AD), when the goddess Amaterasu, queen of the sky, was angry for being mocked by her brother Susanowo, she escaped from the world of light and chose a dark cave as a home.38 The result was that the light disappeared from the sky and a thick darkness spread over the world. It was thanks to the noble Amenouzume that things changed, because the young goddess performed a comic dance upon an overturned tub, making a lot of noise with her feet and revealing to everyone her genitalia. Seeing this spectacle, all the gods laughed loudly, and this laugh provoked Amaterasu to look outside the cave. When the goddess did so she was caught by the other gods and taken out of the cave, bringing light back to the world. Amenouzume’s dance was considered the origin of Japanese theatre.39 The similarities between this tale and the story of Demeter awakening from his deadly sadness, as told in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, are quite striking. Also as in the Greek myth, it is thanks to the obscene performance 35 Horace seems to consider satyr drama as a later addition to tragedy, but it is possible that he is referring to the phase in which the tetralogy system was established and satyr drama, put at the end of the tetralogy, could be considered a comic appendix to tragedy; see also Seaford 1984, 11, who considers Horace’s and Aristotle’s positions not contradictory. On this point Horace reflects in his thinking about Greek drama what was true of Roman performance where a tragedy was followed by a short, comic skit (exodium). 36 This is not the first attempt to compare Greek theatre and the Nō tradition (for a summary of the critical debate and an introduction to the theme see Lesky 1963; Smethurst 1989, 3–21; Smethurst 2013, 1–4; Lämmle 2013, 105, n. 50). The works on this topic usually concentrate on the similarities between Nō and classical tragedy. Only Takebe 1960 focuses on the origins of tragedy, underlying the analogous development of tragedy and Nō from a comic and improvisational performance. A parallel also used by Lesky 1963, 39, 40–1. 37 Another interesting parallel has been proposed by Seaford 1976, 210–1, who mentions ‘the institution of the grotesque, comic and lively ‘antimasque’ as an integral part of the English Court Masque’. 38 Villani 2006, 47–9. 39 For criticism of this mythical tale and its relationships with the ritual elements of Japanese theatre see Ruperti 2015, 22–5.

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of a young girl (Amenouzoume, Iambe) that the goddess came back to life, bringing with her an element essential to life on Earth (light in the tale of Amaterasu, grain in the myth of Demeter). The story of Amaterasu demonstrates that comic performances with ritual meaning can give origin to a dramatic genre, as was the case of satyrikon. Japanese tradition is also a precious source of information regarding a more theatre-oriented parallel. In the first four decades of the 15th century AD Zeami Motokiyo published about twenty treatises on Nō theatre, describing and explaining all the elements that compose this highly contemplative dramatic form. His knowledge was based on the deep experience of his father Kan’ami,40 one of the most famous Nō actors and directors. His work has earned a high reputation and it is still esteemed in modern scholarship on Japanese theatre. Among other topics, Zeami thoroughly discussed the origins of Nō. In a very surprising way, he finds the very beginnings of Nō performances in the sarugaku, that is, the ‘music, or dance, of the ape’, a comic genre which was eclectic in forms and themes, but strongly unified in the farcical treatment of its story.41 Furthermore, Zeami refers to the story of Amaterasu mentioned earlier and describes it as the most ancient sarugaku.42 According to Zeami, Nō developed from the sarugaku.43 Here, too, at the origins of a serious genre we find a comic performance whose main characters acted in a way quite similar to that of animals.44 Similarities with Nō theatre go further, because even when Nō plays became a serious matter, each of the play’s episodes was followed by an episode in which the same story was told in a comic, even farcical, tone. These comic episodes were called kyōgen which is also the name for the actors who perform it. They learned their art in schools independent from those of the actors who dedicated themselves to the serious parts of the Nō. At the end of an episode, the kyōgen addresses one of the main actors and talks about the story just performed. The kyōgen’s version is a distorted tale that

40 The true name of Kan’ami was Yūzaki Saburō Kiyotsugu. He received the protection of the shōgun Yoshimitsu and is considered the founder of one of the five traditional schools of Nō. He died, as reported by his son Zeami, in 1384, at the age of fifty-one. 41 Zobel 2007, 304–6. 42 Zeami in Sieffert 1966, 109–10. 43 As Ortolani 1990, 55 says: ‘Zeami refers to his art as simply sarugaku, and it was common to hear the word sarugaku used by nō artists to refer to their art until recently’. Sarugaku is already a more formal kind of spectacle compared to the more folkish sengaku, from which sarugaku derives, see Ortolani 1990, 55–61. For a review of the different views on the origins of Nō see Ortolani 1990, 85–93. 44 We cannot but remember the apish character displayed in the Oresteia krater.

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contrasts with the serious tone of the previous episode.45 The alternation between serious and farcical episodes in the same story continues throughout the drama, which consists of a prelude, jo, a central development, ha, and a final episode, kyū. The ha is composed of five episodes, the first four of which are each followed by a kyōgen. The final result can be described in the following scheme.46

Scheme of a classic Nō play HA = Development N3 N2

N4

N5

N1

JO = Prelude K1

K2

K3

K4

KYŪ = Final episode

N = serious treatment K = comic treatment

Figure 1.5: Scheme of a classic Nō play.

The alternation between serious and comic treatments of the story also occurred in Greek theatre during the Classical period. When playwrights composed a tetralogy on a specific theme, the satyr drama staged at the end of the performance offered a comic treatment of an episode from the same myth. However, in a less visible way, that occurred even when playwrights composed four plays without a thematic connection. The role of satyr drama was always to represent the mythos ‘upside down’. Thanks to the information preserved in Japanese literature, the development of Greek tragedy appears less isolated. The example of Nō theatre demonstrates

45 Recent scholarship pays more attention to kyōgen, which is increasingly considered an essential element of the Nō spectacle, against the previous tendency to disregard kyōgen as a minor genre; see Sieffert 1966, 21; Ruperti 2015, 91–5. 46 I borrow this scheme from Prof. Matteo Casari’s presentation at the University of Naples ‘L’Orientale’, 20 May 2011, on the topic ‘Sacred laughter: the obscene origin of nōgaku’.

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that it is possible for a comic, or even farcical, performance to be the origin of the most refined and intellectual of artistic expressions. In both Nō theatre and Greek tragedy, it is almost impossible to speak of a ‘birth’ of the more serious form that drama later assumed. In both cases, the link with the original form of the drama remains visible. Rather than a divorce between the serious treatment of a tale and the comic one, we must talk of the different weight that either element assumed in later developments. Returning to Greek theatre, our last question concerns the period in which the satyrikon developed into a new genre. Unfortunately, we do not know when the first tragedies were performed. It is commonly supposed, on the basis of Suda Θ 282, s.v. Θέσπις (= TrGF I, T1), that Thespis staged a tragedy in the years 535–532 BC, but this is not at all certain. As a matter of fact, the Suda says only that Thespis staged a play (ἐδίδαξε) in those years, but does not provide further details. We find the same lack of precision in the Marmor Parium47 confirming that in the same years indicated by the Suda, Thespis won a dramatic competition with a goat for a prize. In this case as well, nothing is said about the kind of play Thespis put on stage: the text’s author speaks, in general terms, of drama: ἐδίδαξε [δρ]ᾶ [μα ἐν ἄ]στ[ει.48 So it is possible (and in my opinion probable) that the first representation of a tragedy (by Thespis or another poet) took place after 535–532 BC, and that is only the most ancient date we know of for the celebration of a dramatic contest. Regarding Thespis, a few clues lead to the conclusion that he also composed plays of a jovial, or even comic, nature. In Aristophanes’ Vespae (1476–81), Xanthias recounts Philocleon’s behaviour inside the house during a symposium. The old man, intoxicated with wine, is enjoying the symposium and dancing old dances from Thespis’ plays in order to demonstrate how much better the old poets were. The general atmosphere of the symposium described in Vespae does not correspond to the performance of a true tragic chorus. Another passage, from Plutarch’s Life of Solon (29.6–7), is more explicit. The old lawgiver, fond of hearing new things, went to see Thespis acting himself, according to the ancient custom.49 After the play Solon asked Thespis if he was not ashamed to tell so many lies before so many people. Thespis replied that there was no harm in acting and saying such things for the sake of amusement (μὴ δεινὸν εἶναι τὸ μετὰ παιδιᾶς λέγειν τὰ τοιαῦτα καὶ πράσσειν). Solon’s reaction to Thespis’ performance seems more appropriate to a comic spectacle than a serious one. Perhaps the passage 47 Marmor Parium ep. 43 = FGrH 239 A43 = TrGF DID D 1A. 48 Nor in the case of Choerilus can we know with precision the nature of his plays: the scant information we possess about him never mentions tragedy (TrGF II, T1–10). 49 If we can rely on Plutarch’s account, Thespis was active in Athens already in the years before 561/560 BC, when Peisistratus came to power.

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from Life refers to the kind of satyric performance that we find at the very origins of tragedy. If it is not clear when the first tragedy was performed, it is also difficult to determine when the tetralogy system was established. If a dramatic contest took place in Athens already in the years 535–532 BC it is almost certain that the City Dionysia was reformed after the expulsion of the Peisistratids and as part of Cleisthenes’ reforms. This can be demonstrated by the dithyrambic competition, strongly connected to the establishment of the phyle system. It is not by chance that the first record of the winner of the dithyrambic contest dates to 510/9 BC, 509/8 BC, or even 508/7 BC.50 Nor it is by chance that the official record of dramatic competitions, that is the Fasti, probably begins with the year 502/1 BC, and in any case not many years before then.51 Ancient sources converge in identifying the last years of the sixth century BC as the period in which dramatic festivals were reformed in Athens. It is likely under the strong influence of the democratic system that the previous dramatic forms developed into a new kind of spectacle, in which dialogue, philosophical thought, and civic education became increasingly prevalent. It is probably in those years that theatre became the most important site of civic education for Athenians. One of the main consequences of this deep transformation was the separation of the serious treatment of a story from the satyrs’ comic inventions. If in 494 BC Phrynichus could stage Μιλήτου Ἅλωσις (The Capture of Miletus), a play based on historical events that provoked the public’s painful, not to say hysteric, reaction, we can claim that already at the beginning of the fifth century tragedy had acquired its new profile and was clearly distinct from satyr drama, staged after the tragic performances as the final play in a tetralogy. To summarize, tragedy appeared in the final years of the sixth century BC as the result of the separating out of serious and comic functions which were previously mixed together in the unique dramatic form practiced at the time, that is, the satyrikon. After the theatrical reform of the last decade of the sixth century 50 Marmor Parium ep. 46 = FGrH 239 A46 = T91 Ieranò mentions Hypodicus from Chalcis’ victory in the first men’s dithyrambic contest under the archon Lysagoras (510/9 BC or 509/8 BC). I agree with Jacoby (see 2. D, Kommentar zu nrr. 106–261, 692) that the introduction of male choruses is a result of Cleisthenes’ reforms. So, too, the possibility advanced by Wilamowitz, that the right name in the inscription is Isagoras, archon in the year 508/7 BC, should not be discarded (contra Pickard-Cambridge 1953, 104; Osborne 1993, 31). There is no conflict between this victory and the tradition that points out Lasus of Hermione as the first to introduce dithyramb in contest under Peisistratus (Suda Λ 139, s.v. Λάσος = T58a Ieranò): Marmor Parium speaks of the first victory under democracy, as rightly says Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 47; but see Ieranò 1997, 239–41, for a summary of different views on this question. 51 See Pickard-Cambridge 1953, 103–5.

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BC, satyr drama did not disappear but was kept separate as an adjunct to tragedy and performed at the end of the tetralogy. The link between tragedy and satyr play was still strong and viable, since, unlike dithyramb, satyr drama and tragedy had in common almost everything: author, number of members of the chorus, argument, structure and language. The most visible difference concerns the seriousness of the tragic, as opposed to the comic character of satyr drama. Even after the reform of the dramatic festivals, however, each author composed and presented four plays as an integral corpus that sometimes dealt with the same themes in four different episodes, the last of which was distinct by the presence of a comic code of expression.52 In the case of connected tetralogy, satyr drama appears to be an organic element of a larger whole; it was the recapitulation that displayed an upside down treatment of the same myth treated seriously in the previous tragedies.53 Even when playwrights began to compose four distinct plays without a thematic connection, satyr drama served the same function, showing how to face a tragic situation with the jovial attitude of the satyrs. The preservation of the satyr drama in the tetralogy demonstrates that it was impossible to remove the memory of the previous dramatic performances. Far from being a relic of the past or a comic pause after watching tragic spectacles, satyr drama represented the necessary complement of tragedy, an opposite way of telling mythical narratives. To close the circle, some final remarks about the quotation that opens this article. Perhaps the words of the unknown author of Minos represent only a patriotic claim of Athens’ primacy in the invention of tragedy, against similar claims 52 See Lämmle 2013, 85–92, the best attempt to demonstrate that satyr drama was an organic element of tetralogy. The existence of single titles for connected tetralogies demonstrates that the four plays were considered an homogeneous unit. See, for example, the Oresteia and Lycurgeia of Aeschylus, the Lycurgeia of Polyphrasmon, the Pandionis of Philocles, and the Oedipodeia of Meletus. Already with Sophocles connected tetralogies had become rare and then completely disappeared (see Pickard-Cambridge 1953, 81–2). A further proof that it was still strong in the early times the link between tragedy and satyr drama. 53 For this reason mythoi and historiai have always been connected with satyr drama. For the same reason it is hard to believe that the function of the satyrikon was to relax the audience after the tragic spectacles, as already affirmed in ancient times. A comic spectacle of whatever nature would have produced the same effect. In a very different way, the comic effects of the satyr dramas are of a very particular nature. As I have already attempted to demonstrate (Palmisciano 2008), serious and even tragic elements are present in classical satyr drama as well, as the example of Euripides’ Cyclops displays. Satyr drama, then, is not simply a comic spectacle that aims to provoke laughter. It is an attempt to demonstrate how to preserve a comic (better to say jovial) attitude even in the serious circumstances that a mythical story proposes. I agree with Lämmle 2013, 24: ‘Das Satyrspiel ist das Gefäss, das sich die Tragiker bereitstellen, um ihr tragisches Schaffen der komischen Reflexion zu unterziehen’.

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from different regions.54 If the thesis affirmed in this work is correct, however, this passage becomes a sort of summary of the argument here presented. We must only consider the word τραγῳδία in the Platonic quotation as referring to the long process that began in the Attic region with the performance of myths by satyrs in the satyrikon, and ended with the democratic reform of the dramatic festivals that introduced tetralogy and the choregic system in Athens.

54 See Arist. Poet. 1448a.30–5, who mentions the Dorian and Peloponnesian claims to have invented tragedy.

Paul M. Touyz

2 Putting the ‘Goat’ into ‘Goat-song’: The Conceptualisation of Satyrs on Stage and in Scholarship A theory advanced in the 19th century and popular well into the 20th, held that τραγῳδία, understood as ‘song sung by goats’, or ‘goat-song’, took its name from a putative chorus of goat-satyrs. The theory has come under increasing strain, not least because ancient evidence for it has been seriously doubted. In this chapter, I revisit the evidence for ancient goat-satyrs to argue that, even if the etymology is not explicitly articulated in our earliest sources, changes in the conception of satyrs from equine to caprine creatures make the existence of an ancient theory of ‘goat-song’ likely. The purpose of this study is not to revive an outmoded theory about the historically accurate origins of drama. Rather, I hope to draw attention to the ways in which ancient scholarship and criticism acted as a site for the reception of satyr drama and tragedy, shaping how the two genres and their relationship were conceptualised.

1 Satyr Drama and the Origins of Tragedy Satyrs and satyr drama occupy a privileged position in ancient and modern accounts of the origins of tragedy. This is intuitive, since satyr drama and tragedy were performed together at the City Dionysia in the fifth century. The theory also relies fundamentally on the authority of Aristotle. In his sketch of the development of tragedy in Poetics 4, he infamously appears to give two contradictory accounts. At 1449a 10–11, he claims that tragedy developed from dithyramb, but, at 1449a 20, he states that tragedy arose ἐκ σατυρικοῦ. The literature attempting to overcome this problem is vast, and much hangs on the interpretation of σατυρικοῦ, which will be discussed more fully below.1 But whether we take it

1 Csapo and Miller 2007, 1–38, offers a thorough survey of the current state of the question of the origins of drama. Pickard-Cambridge 1927 and the second edition of 1962, edited, expanded, and with translations of the Greek and Latin, by Webster, collect most of the literary sources. A better sense of the debate over the Aristotelian account specifically can be found in Burkert 1966; Lesky 1972; Scullion 2005. For the place of satyr drama in the debate, see Seidensticker in Krumeich et al. 1999, 6–12; Lämmle 2007, 356–67; Lämmle 2013, 99–106. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-003

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to mean ‘the satyr-like’, ‘the satyr-drama-like’, or just ‘satyr drama’, Aristotle appears to assert that satyrs were somehow implicated in the origins of tragedy. A popular view that emerged in the 19th century argued that the relationship between satyrs and early tragedy was evidenced in the etymology of τραγῳδία. Proposing the etymology of ‘goat-song’, that is, ‘song sung by goats’, Welcker argued that the name reflected the origins of tragedy in a choral performance by men costumed as goat-like satyrs.2 So popular was the theory, that even Nietzsche and Wilamowitz found themselves in broad agreement.3 The etymology fit Aristotle’s ἐκ σατυρικοῦ and found explicit confirmation in scattered reports from late antique and Byzantine lexica about the origins of tragedy.4 The theory of ‘goat-song’, although once the opinio communis, was never without critics.5 A deep-set bias against believing that serious tragedy could have grown out of satyric mummery predisposed many to reject it.6 More significantly, several other ancient etymologies of τραγῳδία survive, of which the meaning ‘song for the goat-prize’ is both better attested and linguistically more plausible.7 In addition, the archaeological evidence suggests that satyr drama, in its classical form, developed only after tragedy, according well with the tradition that named Pratinas of Phleious (fl. 500 BC) its inventor.8 Finally, scholars are increasingly aware of the ways in which ancient authors can misrepresent or invent evidence. Taken together, these difficulties have encouraged alternative approaches that focus instead on the archaeological remains and comparative studies.9 In English-language scholarship, serious criticisms aimed directly at the theory of satyric ‘goat-song’ were laid out comprehensively by Pickard-Cambridge in 1927. The nail in the coffin came with Burkert’s seminal paper of 1966, the

2 Welcker 1826, 240. As Lämmle 2007, 360–1 notes, ‘goat-song’ can also be interpreted figuratively, as suggested by Winkler 1985. 3 Wilamowitz 1907, 81–84; Nietzsche 1988, 55–6, 62 and section 8 generally, with Schmidt 2012, 179–81, 186–8. A standard history in support of ‘goat-song’ is Lesky 1972, 17–48. Bibliography given by Burkert 1966, 88, n. 2; Seidensticker in Krumeich et al. 1999, 6–9. 4 See Lämmle 2007, 356–67 for discussion and references. 5 See Burkert 1966, 88, n. 2 for bibliography. More recently, Scullion 2005. 6 Eg. Burkert 1966, 91. See Seidensticker in Krumeich et al. 1999, 7. 7 Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 164–5; Burkert 1966, 91–3. Lesky 1972, 32–3 responds to Burkert’s linguistic arguments. The distinction between goat-prize and sacrifice is debatable. Burkert 1966, 93, saw no essential difference. Scullion 2005, 36, critical of ritualistic approaches to tragedy, prefers to distinguish the two senses; cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 165 and 173. 8 O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 23–4, with further references. 9 See Csapo and Miller 2007, 1–38. For criticism of ancient accounts, see, eg.: Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 128–9; Pohlenz 1965 (1927); Lesky 1972, 28–30; West 1989a; Scullion 2002 and 2005; Depew 2007.

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relevant points of which were adapted and built upon by Scullion in 2005.10 First, most versions of the ‘goat-song’ theory require a chorus of goat-satyrs, yet archaic and classical satyrs are not goat-like, but equine.11 Even if there is abundant evidence that the conception of the satyr changed to allow caprine variants after the Classical period, critics argue that this change came too late to have any impact on the development of tragedy.12 By extension, then, critics contend that the etymology ‘goat-song’ is a later invention. The argument is made most forcefully by Scullion. Ruling out the possibility that Aristotle knew of goat-like satyrs, Scullion emphasises the lack of any explicit mention of the etymology of τραγῳδία in Poetics as proof that etymological argument was not at issue in the ancient debate.13 What little other explicit evidence we have for a theory of ‘goat-song’, namely a gloss from Hesychius and the report of the Etymologicum Magnum s.v. τραγῳδία, can therefore be dismissed as either the invention of late commentators based on classical satyr drama, or as confused recapitulations of Peripatetic scholarship.14 Though the substance of this criticism regarding the historical origins of tragedy is likely correct, a problem is that the exclusive focus of modern scholarship on origins risks obscuring the place of these reports in the history of ancient criticism. Underlying modern concerns is the idea that satyr drama possessed a stable generic identity, founded in no small measure on the mythical figure of the satyr. Later developments in the conception of the satyr are therefore understood as deviations from the classical norm, and hence have nothing to do with ancient perceptions of either satyr drama or the origins of tragedy. However, even in Classical Athens, the costume and character of satyr drama, together with the iconography of satyrs, changed. By dismissing the later sources as ill-founded or irrelevant, we miss the dynamic nature of performance and its continued development beyond the Classical period, as well as the relationship of satyr drama to contemporary conceptions of the satyr. Above all, by concentrating on origins, we overlook the ways in which ancient criticism and scholarship, already distanced 10 Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 149–74; Burkert 1966; Scullion 2005. 11 Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 149–50; Burkert 1966, 90–1; Scullion 2005, 29. Webster in PickardCambridge 1962, 113–8 argues for the association of satyrs and goats, but cf. p. 114. 12 Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 149, is aware of later evidence for goat-satyrs on stage, but does not seem to take them into consideration when he discusses ancient theories. Cf. Webster in Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 114–5, who interprets the furry perizoma in fifth-century depictions of satyric choruses as evidence of a close association with goats in the early fifth century. See further below. 13 Scullion 2005, 30. Cf. Burkert 1966, 95–6, n. 19, and 93–4 for ancient testimonia for his preferred ‘goat-prize’ etymology. 14 Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 153–4; Burkert 1966, 89–90; Scullion 2005, 29.

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from their object of study, spoke to contemporary concerns and preconceptions about the history of drama. In trying to recuperate an ancient theory of ‘goatsong’, my claim, then, is not that dramatic satyrs were originally goat-like, but that the later metamorphosis of equine satyrs found counterparts on the stage and in ancient accounts of dramatic history.

2 Caprine Satyrs on the Classical Stage The iconography of satyrs in the Archaic and Classical periods varies, but they are chiefly depicted with an equine tail, pointed animal ears, and long beard.15 The iconography of stage satyrs in general does not depart from the mythical model: tails are equine, masks are bearded and slightly balding.16 Nonetheless, arguments have been made for the presence of goat-like satyrs in the chorus of satyr drama on the basis of three groups of evidence: 1) references to satyrs as goats in the fragments; 2) the costume of the chorus and Silenos; 3) the iconography of satyrs in vase-painting. I agree that this evidence cannot prove the existence of early goat-satyrs, but suggest here that it highlights developments in the conception of satyrs that could affect or reflect the way they were presented on stage. Several fragments from satyr drama appear to identify the chorus as goats. In Aeschylus’ Prometheus Pyrkaeus (fr. 207), a satyr is compared to a goat as he approaches the recently revealed flame: τράγος γένειον ἆρα πενθήσεις σύ γε. Like a goat, you’ll bemoan your beard!17

At Sophocles’ Ichneutai 364–5, Cyllene reproaches the satyrs as they advance on her: ἀ[λλ’] αἰὲν εἶ σὺ παῖς· νέος γὰρ ὢν ἀνὴρ π[ώγ]ωνι θάλλων ὡς τράγος κνηκῷ χλιδᾷς· But you’re always a child. For, being a young man, You, in your bloom, revel in your yellow beard, like a goat.

15 Simon 1997. Contrast with Pan, who can have a satyr’s head and body, but must have a goat’s horns and tails for identification: Boardman 1997, 924, 933–4. The beard sometimes recalls a goat’s: Ziegler 1937, 1923; Voelke 2001, 55; Lissarrague 2013, 114. 16 Simon 1997, 1123–6; Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 53–5. 17 All translations are my own.

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We can also add Hesychius T 1237 s.v. τράγους, glossed as ‘satyrs, on account having the ears of goats’. The accusative lemma suggests that it is a gloss on a quotation, presumably from a play.18 More uncertain are the reference to ‘Carian goats’, in Sophocles’ Salmoneus (fr. 540), where the plural might suggest that the speaker is referring to the chorus. The chorus’ complaint at Euripides’ Cyclops 80 that they are forced to wear goat-skins, by contrast, is unlikely to be a direct reference to their goatishness.19 The passages from Prometheus Pyrkaeus and Ichneutai especially have been cited as confirmation of the goat-like features of the satyrs in support of a theory of ‘goat-song’.20 As critics have long noted, however, these references fall short of identifying satyrs as goats.21 Even in the case of the Prometheus, the nominative τράγος is most easily interpreted as a comparison: ‘like a goat’. But as Lämmle indicates, the relative frequency of these references should cause some pause.22 Satyrs are more often compared to goats than any other animal, and no reference is ever made to their equine attributes. At the very least, goats hover close to the surface of satyric associations on Classical stage. One way of trying to make sense of the frequency of goat-comparisons is to consider them against the background of the costume of satyr drama, especially the furry perizoma, or animal-skin shorts worn by the chorus.23 This costume features prominently of the Pronomos Vase, dated to c. 400 BC.24 Advocates of ‘goatsong’ have interpreted the furry shorts, along with the body suit, mallotos chiton, worn by Silenos, as markers of the satyrs’ caprine nature.25 For, although the tail of the choreuts’ costume remains equine, the shaggy shorts in vase-painting are normally interpreted as goatskins.26 Despite the horse-tail, therefore, the costume of the satyr chorus offers a strong visual cue for caprine references.

18 Burkert 1966, 90, n. 5; Lesky 1972, 35; Scullion 2005, 28–9. 19 Seaford 1984, 118 ad loc.; Collard and O’Sullivan 2013, 142 ad loc. But this does not rule out the possibility of an indirect metatheatrical reference. See n. 23. 20 For discussion, see Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 154–5; Ziegler 1937, 1921; Lesky 1972, 34–5; Burkert 1966, 90, n. 5; Scullion 2005, 29. 21 Most recently, Scullion 2005, 29. 22 Lämmle 2013, 438–40. Cf. Burkert 1966, 90, n. 5. 23 It has sometimes been suggested that the chorus’ lament over the τράγου χλαῖνα, Cyclops 80, refers to the perizoma, but it is unlikely that they are referring to it directly. For a cautious assessment of the possibility of an indirect metatheatrical joke here, see Seaford 1984, 118; Kaimio et. al. 2001, 54–5. Cf. Lämmle 2013, 243. 24 Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, H 3240, ARV2 1336.1, BAPD 217500. 25 Ziegler 1937, 1920; Webster in Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 114; Lesky 1972, 37. 26 Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 153 is doubtful about the association, but discusses only the Pronomos vase. Cf. Webster (n. 25) who considers a fuller range of evidence from vase-painting.

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Rather than being the original costume of stage satyrs, however, the iconographic evidence strongly implies that the furry shorts are a development in satyric costume. The earliest depiction of the perizoma, on a vase attributed to the Eucharides Painter from c. 500–490 BC, suggests a full-body costume, indicated by the dappled skin, with a plain, presumably fabric perizoma.27 On the Pronomos vase, not only is there no indication of the spotty, full-body costume, but most of the satyrs sport the furry shorts. Only a single choreut, on the top left of the obverse, is shown in fabric shorts, similar to what we see on the stamnos by the Eucharides Painter, with added circular decoration on the thighs. The earliest depiction of satyrs in these decorated fabric perizoma date from c. 480–70 BC, and are last seen on an Apulian amphora attributed to the Tarporley Painter, dated to the beginning of the fourth century BC.28 As Kossatz-Deißmann observed, by the mid-fifth century BC the furry shorts were increasingly substituted for the fabric perizoma.29 Only by the end of the century do the furry shorts appear to be the favoured costume, as apparent on the Pronomos vase.30 If the standard costume of satyr drama, together with its attendant connotations, changed and had not crystalized until relatively late in the fifth century BC, we can infer that it was not the static and conservative performance tradition it is sometimes thought to be. Similar changes are also seen in both the costume and the role of Silenos.31 We cannot argue, therefore, that the furry perizoma constitutes evidence of the original goat-like form of stage-satyrs. On the contrary, visually satyrs became more caprine. Looking back to the goat-references in the fragments, then, we might suppose that, as the new costume became the norm,

Webster, however, too readily interprets the mallotos chiton as goat-skin. Cf. Simon’s qualifications regarding the costume of Silenos, see n. 31. 27 Paris, Louvre, CP 10754, ARV2 228.32, BAPD 202233. See Simon 1989b, 396, who, however, views the body-stocking as a regular part of the costume. 28 The earliest example: Malibu, J. Paul Getty Museum, 86.AE.190.6+575, BAPD 43663, attributed to the Eucharides P. Unlike the Louvre stamnos, the perizoma on the Getty fragment is shaded, but no pattern is visible. The Sydney krater: Apulian red-figure bell krater, attributed to the Tarporley P., Sydney, Nicholson Museum 47.05. 29 Kossatz-Deißmann 1982: 70–1. See also: Simon 1989b: 395–9; Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 53–5. 30 It is impossible to tell whether the Sydney krater (see n. 29) reflects contemporary performance conventions in Tarentum. The satyric telamones from theatres in Sicily and Athens have the furry perizoma. For dating and images, see Isler-Kerényi 1976; Lehmler 2005, 175, n. 63 with further references. 31 Simon 1989b, 395–9. Simon, however, rightly contests whether the mallotos chiton of Silenos is goat-like, since its name and appearance suggest wool, but she concedes that the furry perizoma is. For the development of the character of Silenos, see Conrad 1997.

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not only did the stage-satyrs become more goat-like in appearance, but this change was noted and exploited by the poets of satyr-play. Despite the evidence that the goatish attributes of satyrs were increasingly highlighted on stage, there are no other literary references to satyrs as goats in the fifth century BC, nor do caprine satyrs appear in art. Earlier scholarship instead pointed to the frequent appearance of goats together with satyrs in vase-painting.32 Of these vases, a small group depicts choruses of goats dancing to the music of a satyr.33 However, they all date to the early fifth century BC, and seem to be the work of only a few workshops. Tantalising though they might be, therefore, in the absence of a literary context, it is impossible to pin down what these images have to do with theories about the origins of tragedy. One vase has attracted attention for seemingly portraying goat-costume in satyr drama. It is a calyx krater attributed to the Niobid Painter, c. 460–450 BC in the British Museum, better known for its depiction of Pandora (Figure 2.1).34 In the scene below Pandora, an aulete plays to four dancing figures in goatlike costume. Their masks have long horns, and they wear undecorated fabric shorts with phalloi and goat-tails. It is unclear what this image represents. Choruses of Pans are attested, but, as their feet have taken on the appearance of hooves, instead of a depiction of a real performance, we may be looking at the product of the painter’s imagination.35 Whatever the case, the image undeniably recalls the iconography of satyric performance. Apart from the costume, the poses of the goat-dancers are reminiscent of the dance of satyr drama, as depicted on other vases.36 Because of these similarities it has been claimed that the vase either represented the original goat-chorus, or, more cautiously because of the late date, an occasional substitute chorus of Pans.37

32 Discussed in Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 155–8. Cf. Burkert 1966, 90, n. 5 and 99, n. 25. 33 Eg. Rome, Villa Giulia 64224, Para. 330, BAPD 352430, attributed to the Euergides P. See Lissarrague 2013, 118–9, n. 66 for further examples. 34 London, British Museum 1856.12–13.1, ARV2 601.23, BAPD 206955. 35 Another anodos might depict masked Pan-dancers, but the costume is not clearly indicated: red-figure calyx krater, Berlin, Antikensammlung 3275, ARV2 1276.1, BAPD 216187, attributed to the Marlay P. Contrary to Lissarrague in Hart 2010, 96–7, there is some literary evidence for Pan-choruses in Plato Laws 815c. See Pickard-Cambridge 1927, 156 for other references to plural Pans. 36 In particular, see Seidensticker in Krumeich et al. 1999, 22, n. 108; Seidensticker 2010. 37 Wilamowitz 1912, 466; Webster 1967a, 44–5, nr. AV 17; Simon 1989b, 398; Green and Handley 1995, 19–20. Most recently O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 35, n. 131 identify the figures as satyrs in ‘faun-like masks’.

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Figure 2.1: Satyrs in perizoma dancing to aulos. Attic red-figure calyx krater (known as the ‘Pandora krater’), attributed to the Niobid Painter (c. 460–450 BC); obverse. London, British Museum 1856,1213.1.

Both interpretations are insupportable, if for no other reason than the improbability of a satyr drama without satyrs.38 The continued importance of the vase to satyr drama hangs instead on the witness it provides to the convergence of the iconography of satyrs and the decidedly caprine Pan. The vase is possibly the earliest of a series of Pan anodos-scenes that appear to borrow extensively from the iconography of satyrs. The scenes with satyrs are older and clearly connected to satyr drama.39 The oldest, dating to c. 490 BC, is the same stamnos attributed to the Eucharides Painter, mentioned above as the earliest representation of the perizoma. The image reappears in c. 450 BC, and has often been thought to be related to the contemporary production of Sophocles’ Pandora or Sphyrokopoi.40 Similar scenes with Pans appear around mid-century, coinciding with the reap38 Seidensticker in Krumeich et al. 1999, 17. 39 For the anodoi, see Buschor 1937; Brommer 1949–1950, 18–27; Boardman 1997, 936, with further references. 40 For discussion of the connection to Sophocles, see Heynen and Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 378–9, n. 9, 11, and 12.

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pearance of the satyric scenes. Apart from being broadly similar, both representing the creatures responding to a goddess rising up from below the earth, it is the plurality of Pans which is striking. Since these are the earliest representations of a plural group of Pans, it has been suggested that the Pan-anodoi have been influenced by the satyric scenes.41 The vases, including the krater by the Niobid Painter, thus do not prove the existence of goat-satyrs, but demonstrate the influence of conventions moving in the other direction, of satyric imagery on that of Pan. The unique interest of the Niobid Painter’s vase is that it suggests that the iconography of the satyric stage could also expand to include goat-dancers. The point is underscored by the corresponding image of mythical satyrs at play on the reverse of the vase, the juxtaposition acting as a further reminder of the satyric aspects of the Pan-choreuts.42 This falls short of giving concrete form to the caprine attributes of the satyrs of the theatre, but anticipates performative, iconographic, and conceptual changes that will yield the goat-satyr in art and drama beginning in the fourth century.

3 Post-classical Goat-satyrs and Satyr-masks It was only after the fifth century that the goat-like features of the satyrs were given explicit visual form. Since Furtwängler’s work of the late 19th century, it has been generally acknowledged that the conception of the satyr began to merge with Pan at some point in the Hellenistic period, when satyrs appear with horns and occasionally other goat-like features.43 In literature, the extent of the identification of Pan and satyrs was eventually such that Lucian could describe the former as ‘the best at music and dance of all satyrs’.44 This development is only loosely dated, and has been understood as the conflation of previously distinct entities as a result of the spread of Greek culture and increasing contact with non-Greeks. The main point for critics of ‘goat-song’ is simply that this conception of satyrs is too late to be of relevance to classical satyr drama and the origins of tragedy. This is not the place for a full account of the development of the conception of the satyr, but two points must be made in response. First, there is iconographic

41 Brommer 1949–1950, 17, 20; Boardman 1997, 937–8. 42 Cf. the interpretation of the juxtaposition of scenes on the vase in Osborne 2008, 403–5. 43 Furtwängler 1912a, 153–5, 183; Furtwängler 1912b, 212. Cf. Boardman 1997, 924, 927, 931–2, 933–4, 937–8, 940. 44 Lucian Bis accusatus 10.3.

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evidence for goat-satyrs from as early as the fourth century BC.45 The oldest Attic example of which I am aware, a Kerch vase in St. Petersburg, attributed to the Group of London E 230, is dated to as early as c. 360 BC.46 Here a horned figure with an equine tail is clearly depicted playing the auloi in the garden of the Hesperides. It should be evident just from this vase that the supposedly Hellenistic conception of the goat-like satyr was taking root around the time Aristotle was writing. Secondly, goat-satyrs are well attested in the later iconography of the stage as well as of myth. Modern scholarship tends to be silent about the relationship between the wider conception of caprine satyrs and the stage.47 The visual evidence, however, demonstrates that by the Hellenistic period goat-like costume had become part of stage iconography, which at least suggests that choruses of goat-satyrs could be seen in the theatre. Consequently, a theory of ‘goat-song’ might have seemed to be a real possibility to ancient scholars. Certainty evades us about when horned masks were admitted to satyr drama, because the earliest examples lack a clear dramatic context.48 Moreover, there is a methodological difficulty in trying to distinguish masks of Pan and satyrs, since their iconographies are frequently so similar. A horned mask in isolation, for example, could be either Pan or satyr. Another problem is the scant literary evidence for horned masks. Pollux (4.142), in his brief description of the costume of satyr drama, describes only four masks – the old, the bearded, and the unbearded, in addition to Silenos – but he makes no suggestion that any are goat-like. But as Webster has shown, the material evidence suggests that the range of masks expanded in the Hellenistic period beyond the types listed by Pollux.49 As he perceived, from about the third century, the iconography of satyr drama expanded to include the ‘wild hair’ type of satyr masks. The mask-type is distinguished by a mane of hair, similar to the onkos of post-classical tragic masks, with a white tuft extending from the centre of the head. The masks can be either bearded or unbearded, like the outer masks in Figure 2.2. By contrast, some masks of old, bearded satyrs, possibly the old satyrs reported by Pollux, also have long and unkempt hair, but lack the distinctive tuft, as can be seen on the central mask hanging above the statue of Hecate in Figure 2.2.

45 Boardman 1997, 927. 46 Attic red-figure pelike, St. Petersburg, Hermitage Museum ST1788, ARV2 1482, BAPD 230492, attributed to the Group of London E 230. For the date, Boardman 1997, 936 (nr. 245). 47 See n. 11 and 12. 48 Eg. a well-preserved horned, terracotta mask from Lipari: Bernabò Brea 1965, 147, 300, type A13, plates CXLVIII 1–2 (= Webster 1967a, nr. ST 15 (396)), dated to the last quarter of the fourth century. 49 Webster 1963, 536–7; Webster 1967a, 51.

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Figure 2.2: Second style fresco with masks hanging from architrave. West wall of the cubiculum of the villa of P. Fannius Synistor, from Boscoreale. New York, Metropolitan Musem of Art 03.14.13f (Rogers Fund 1903).

The wild hair and tuft are especially interesting both for being distinctively post-classical and because they appear to have been associated with both satyrs and Pan. Diodorus Siculus, for example, seems to be thinking of this mask type when describing the Gauls (5.28.2): τιτάνου γὰρ ἀποπλύματι σμῶντες τὰς τρίχας συνεχῶς [καὶ] ἀπὸ τῶν μετώπων ἐπὶ  τὴν κορυφὴν καὶ τοὺς τένοντας ἀνασπῶσιν, ὥστε τὴν πρόσοψιν αὐτῶν φαίνεσθαι Σατύροις καὶ Πᾶσιν ἐοικυῖαν· παχύνονται γὰρ αἱ τρίχες ἀπὸ τῆς κατεργασίας, ὥστε μηδὲν τῆς τῶν ἵππων χαίτης διαφέρειν.  For they continually wash their hair with lime-water, and pull it back from the forehead to the top of the head and back to the nape, so that their appearance is similar satyrs and Pans. For their hair is thickened as a result of the treatment, so that it does not differ at all from the mane of horses.

Although Diodorus characterises the rough and tangled mane of hair as horselike, it is a feature shared by both satyrs and Pan. The description of the Gauls pulling back their hair is similar to the mane-like hair of the masks. That Diodorus has them in mind is further suggested by his description of the colour of the Gauls’ hair. In the preceding passage, Diodorus claims that the lime-water was intended to thicken and to lighten the colour of the Gauls’ hair, thus corresponding even to the colour of the mask-type’s distinctive tuft. Diodorus does not mention horns, but this is understandable, given that his main concern was describing the Gauls’ hair. The comparison to both satyrs and Pans, however, hints that the mask-type could be horned. Indeed, some of

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the earliest examples of these masks identified by Webster, dated to the second century BC, appear to be horned.50 It is in Roman art that we find clear examples of the wild-hair satyric masks with and without horns.51 Because the decorative context of these depictions is often dramatic, it is more than likely that we have a horned satyr mask rather than Pan. Figure 2.2 is an outstanding example from the west wall of the cubiculum of the villa of P. Fannius Synistor in Boscoreale, now at the Metropolitan Museum in New York.52 The whole room is fascinating because it has been thought to depict idealised scenery from the major dramatic genres as described by Vitruvius.53 The presence of a Silenos-mask, at any rate, clinches the dramatic theme and implies that the other masks also belong to satyr drama. Webster identifies them thus: on the western wall, two young satyrs in the foreground, an old satyr in the background. On the eastern wall, two old satyrs in the foreground, and a Silenos mask in the background.54 Webster does not mention that the ‘young satyrs’ on the west wall are horned, as is clear from the detail in Figure 2.3. If we can rely on these images as evidence for later performance practice, they show clearly that the costume of satyr drama changed from Classical norms to include goat-like satyrs. At a minimum, we have enough examples to demonstrate that the producers and viewers of these images could imagine caprine satyrs with wild-hair and short horns as part of the chorus of satyr drama.

4 ‘Goat-satyrs’ and Ancient Etymologies The performative, iconographic, and conceptual developments sketched above form the background to ancient discussions about the nature of satyr drama and the origins of tragedy, and provide the context in which a theory of ‘goat-song’ could emerge and be taken seriously. Goat-like attributes of satyrs emerged in the Classical period, culminating in goat-satyrs on the Hellenistic stage. As indicated already, however, the relationship between the performative and wider context, on the one hand, and dramatic theory, on the other, is often neglected.

50 Eg. Webster 1967a, nr. AV 48 and 51. 51 The fullest catalogue is Allroggen-Bedel 1974, 115–69. 52 New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 03.14.13b (Rogers Fund, 1903). 53 Cf. Vitruvius de arch. 7.5.2. Griffith 2008, 77–8 with references. 54 Webster 1967a, nr. NP 27. Allroggen-Bedel 1974, 116, nr. 2.1 and 2.2, notes the horns.

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Figure 2.3: Detail of Figure 2.2.

The importance of this relationship becomes clear when we consider the one unambiguous witness to the ‘goat-song’ etymology, the Etymologicum Magnum s.v. τραγῳδία: Ἔστι βίων τε καὶ λόγων ἡρωϊκῶν μίμησις. Κέκληται δὲ τραγῳδία, ὅτι τράγος τῇ ᾠδῇ ἆθλον ἐτίθετο· ᾠδὴ γὰρ ἡ τραγῳδία. Ἢ ὅτι τρύγα ἆθλον ἐλάμβανον οἱ νικῶντες· τρύγα γὰρ ἐκάλουν οἱ παλαιοὶ τὸν νέον οἶνον. Ἢ ὅτι τετράγωνον εἶχον οἱ χοροὶ σχῆμα· ἢ ὅτι τὰ πολλὰ οἱ χοροὶ ἐκ σατύρων συνίσταντο· οὓς ἐκάλουν τράγους, σκώπτοντες, ἢ διὰ τὴν τοῦ σώματος δασύτητα, ἢ διὰ τὴν περὶ τὰ ἀφροδίσια σπουδήν· τοιοῦτον γὰρ τὸ ζῷον. Ἢ ὅτι οἱ χορευταὶ τὰς κόμας ἀνέπλεκον, σχῆμα τράγων μιμούμενοι. It is a mimesis of heroic lives and speeches. It is called τραγῳδία because 1) a goat was awarded for the song, since tragedy is a song. Or because 2) the victors won wine-must, because the ancients called new wine τρύξ. Or because 3) choruses had a square formation. Or because 4) choruses were mostly made of satyrs, whom they called goats mockingly, either because of the hairiness of their bodies, or because of their eagerness for sex, since that is what the creature is like. Or because 5) the choreuts braided up their hair, imitating the appearance of goats.

The entry is one of the fullest records of the etymologies proposed for τραγῳδία, and is normally taken to preserve ancient theories.55 No fewer than five etymologies are recorded, before the compiler turns his attention to accounts of τρυγῳδία and κωμῳδία. Most of these proposals, such as the goat-prize, and the development of tragedy from an original τρυγῳδία, are also attested in earlier sources. 55 Lesky 1972, 36; Burkert 1966, 89.

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Satyric ‘goat-song’, however, is not explicitly reported elsewhere, leading some to suspect its authority. Most recently, Scullion has argued that the etymology represents the guess-work typical of ancient exegesis.56 The detail that the choreuts were called ‘goats’ in mockery appears to suggest that the lexicographer’s source arrived at the etymology on the basis of references of the sort we have seen in Classical satyr drama, rather than any independent information or a developed theory. Hesychius’ explanation for why satyrs are called goats, quoted above, seems to be an example of the practice. However, a further two explanations are given which attest to the influence of wider ideas about satyrs and performance on the fourth etymology. The entry reports that satyr-choreuts were called goats because of the hairiness of their bodies or because of their goatish lust. The latter, as the author indicates, reflects a general characteristic of satyrs. The hairiness of the choreuts, however, is more interesting. Animalistic traits of satyrs tended to be downplayed in iconography from the Hellenistic period onwards, though later literary references sometimes refer to half-goat creatures. So, the claim about their hairiness could just reflect the conception of caprine satyrs. Alternatively, given the dramatic subject, it could instead be a reference to the furry perizoma. If the satyrs’ hairiness refers to stage costume, the original guess-work behind the etymology would not be based on textual evidence from satyr drama alone, but would respond to performance practice as well. This interpretation is given some support by the fifth etymology, that the choreuts wore their hair up in imitation of goats. The relationship of this claim to the preceding statements about the satyr-chorus is unclear. As punctuated, Ἢ ὅτι resumes the list of etymologies, so that there are two accounts of ‘goat-song’: one about the ancient chorus of satyrs who are called goats, the other about the chorus of tragedy imitating goats. This is not impossible, but it is hard to imagine why the compiler or his original thought it plausible that tragic choreuts used to imitate the hairstyle of goats. Since post-classical satyrs could be caprine, it is easier instead to interpret the fifth etymology as an extension of the discussion about the chorus of satyrs, providing an alternative explanation for why such a chorus yielded the term ‘goat-song’. Moreover, as goats are not normally distinguished by their braided locks, it is possible that the author is instead thinking of the white tuft of the caprine, wild hair satyr-mask. If this is the case, taken together with the reference to the furry perizoma, the Etymologicum Magnum’s report of ‘goat-song’ would not simply be the stuff of antiquarian fantasy, but

56 Scullion 2005, 28–9.

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might preserve an earlier notion of ‘goat-song’ that responded to the realia of performance. Can ‘goat-song’ then be connected to the earlier sources? In Poetics, Aristotle provides clear testimony for disputes about the origins drama hinging on linguistic questions: διὸ καὶ ἀντιποιοῦνται τῆς τε τραγῳδίας καὶ τῆς κωμῳδίας οἱ Δωριεῖς (τῆς μὲν γὰρ κωμῳδίας οἱ Μεγαρεῖς οἵ τε ἐνταῦθα ὡς ἐπὶ τῆς παρ’αὐτοῖς δημοκρατίας γενομένης καὶ οἱ ἐκ Σικελίας, ἐκεῖθεν γὰρ ἦν Ἐπίχαρμος ὁ ποιητὴς πολλῷ πρότερος ὢν Χιωνίδου καὶ Μάγνητος· καὶ τῆς τραγῳδίας ἔνιοι τῶν ἐν Πελοποννήσῳ) ποιούμενοι τὰ ὀνόματα σημεῖον· (1448a.29–35) For this reason, the Dorians lay claim to both tragedy and comedy (comedy is claimed by Megarians, both those here, who claim it developed under their democracy, and those in Sicily, because the poet Epicharmus was from there, who was much older than Chionides and Magnes; tragedy is claimed by some of those in the Peloponnese), by using the names as evidence.

Aristotle continues to describe how the apparently Dorian origins of the word δρᾶμα and its cognates, along with the etymology of the term κωμῳδία, were used to support Dorian claims to the origins of theatre, since both were argued to be Doric. Aristotle says nothing about the etymology of τραγῳδία. Scullion lays great emphasis on this reticence, thinking it likely that Aristotle, together with ‘all the ancient writers’, simply did not question the ‘goat-prize’ etymology.57 We should, however, not put too much weight on the omission. Aristotle’s discussion is brief, a passing comment prompted by the word δράματα a line earlier, as signalled by διό. Aristotle is similarly elliptical elsewhere in passages of Poetics that do not relate to his immediate purpose.58 Here, τὰ ὀνόματα could refer to just the terms δρᾶμα and κωμῳδία, but the balanced presentation of the genres in the parenthesis could lead us to expect a similar etymological argument for τραγῳδία. Indeed, there is good reason to suspect that debates about the origins and etymology of tragoidia were current when Aristotle wrote Poetics. The oldest references to the goat-prize etymology – the Marmor Parium, Eratosthenes’ Erigone (fr.  22 Powell), and Dioscorides (AP 7.410), all third century – presuppose older theories.59 Burkert points to the Atthidographers contemporary to Aristotle: Cleidemus and Phanodemus.60 The origins of the debate might have deeper roots. 57 Scullion 2005, 30. Cf. Burkert 1966, 96, n. 19. 58 1449a.37–9, with the very brief outline of the stages of tragedy given in Poetics 4, is a case in point. Cf. 1449a.30–31: πολὺ γὰρ ἂν ἴσως ἔργον εἴη διεξιέναι καθ’ ἕκαστον. 59 Burkert 1966, 94–5, n. 16 and 17. On Eratosthenes, see now Broggiato 2014. 60 Burkert 1966, 94–5.

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Theories deriving tragedy from τρύξ or involving an original τρυγῳδία, as seen in the Etymologicum Magnum, were also popular in later scholarship. The earliest attestations of the latter term, however, come from Old Comedy. In Acharnians (496–501), Dicaeopolis famously challenges the priority of tragedy by claiming that τρυγῳδία too knows what is just.61 The pun, here and elsewhere, could be the product of Aristophanic wit. But without any direct contrast with the term τραγῳδία, or some explanation of the meaning or derivation of the new term, the joke was surely unintelligible.62 The term also appears in Eupolis’ Demoi (fr. 99.29 K-A), again without any real explanation. The success of the joke, therefore, must rely on some prior familiarity of the audience with τρυγῳδία, which might well have been already the subject of contemporary discussion about the origins of drama. By contrast, the oldest supposed reference to ‘goat-song’ is Herodotus’ passing mention of τραγικοὶ χοροί (5.67) in his account of rule of Cleisthenes of Sikyon. Advocates of satyric ‘goat-song’ have taken the passage to mean choruses of goat-satyrs. There is little to speak for this in the text, however, and it is probably best interpreted simply as ‘tragic choruses’. But the idea of an early theory of ‘goat-song’ should perhaps not be dismissed too quickly. Plato, at any rate, kept both the dramatic and caprine connotations active when explaining the etymology of the god Pan’s name in the Cratylus, where the god’s rough and goat-like (τραχὺ καὶ τραγικόν) lower half, mirrors the myths and lies of the tragic life (τὸν τραγικὸν βίον).63 Neither Herodotus nor Plato confirm the existence of a ‘goat-song’ etymology, but the latter, at least, is an early example of how the caprine roots of τραγῳδία could be used in support of tendentious etymological arguments. Inevitably, then, the question hangs on Aristotle’s use of σατυρικόν in Poetics (1449a.19–24): ἔτι δὲ τὸ μέγεθος· ἐκ μικρῶν μύθων καὶ λέξεως γελοίας διὰ τὸ ἐκ σατυρικοῦ μεταβαλεῖν ὀψὲ ἀπεσεμνύνθη, τό τε μέτρον ἐκ τετραμέτρου ἰαμβεῖον ἐγένετο. τὸ μὲν γὰρ πρῶτον τετραμέτρῳ ἐχρῶντο διὰ τὸ σατυρικὴν καὶ ὀρχηστικωτέραν εἶναι τὴν ποίησιν, λέξεως δὲ γενομένης αὐτὴ ἡ φύσις τὸ οἰκεῖον μέτρον εὗρε·

61 Taplin 1983. 62 Taplin 1983, 333, lays stress on the καί at Ach. 500 as drawing attention to the contrast with tragedy, but underplays the ambiguity of τρυγῳδία, which would continue to trouble ancient scholars. The pun might originate in comedy, as Taplin, following Pickard-Cambridge, suggests, but given the later interest in various versions of the τρυγῳδία theory, I suspect that even in that case the original was more explicitly about the origins of drama. 63 Plato Cratylus 408c. Cf. schol. Dion. Thrax.

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Next, regarding grandeur: on account of having developed out of σατυρικόν, tragedy took on a dignified form at a late stage from small plots and laughable diction, and its metre became the iambic instead of the tetrameter. At first it used the tetrameter on account of the poetry being satyric and suited to dancing. But when speech developed, tragedy’s own nature found the fitting metre.

The meaning of ἐκ σατυρικοῦ has been a source of great contention. The simplest interpretation is to read it as ‘satyr drama’.64 Understood in this way, the passage has been the starting point for advocates of satyric ‘goat-song’. But by doing so, the passage appears to be a direct contradiction of the earlier claim that tragedy developed from dithyramb (1449a.10–11), and runs into the further difficulty that the evidence from vase-paintings has been interpreted as an indication that satyr drama was first being performed from c. 520 BC, after the traditional date for the introduction of tragedy at the Dionysia.65 The problem is not helped by the report in the Suda, that the earliest dramatic performances were called σατυρικά, where the ambiguity is equally present (Suda s.v οὐδὲν πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον = Chamaeleon fr. 38 Wehrli). Consequently, approaches friendly to the outlines of the Aristotelian picture have adopted alternative translations, either as ‘the satyr-like’ or ‘the satyr-drama-like’.66 The use of σατυρικὴν (1449a.22) lends this reading some strength. The interpretation aims to avoid both problems raised by the reading ἐκ σατυρικοῦ = ‘from satyr drama’, understanding Aristotle to mean that tragedy developed from a form of satyric dithyramb, and that the original satyric spirit of the performance was restored to the festival at a later point with the institution of satyr drama.67 In addition, since neither of these alternatives really necessitates a chorus of goat-satyrs, they can forgo the problematic equation of satyrs with the goats of ‘goat-song’. As mentioned previously, however, the earliest Attic evidence for goat- or Pan-like satyrs dates to the mid-fourth century, and was therefore available to Aristotle.68 This is confirmed by the only other reference to satyrs in Aristotle’s

64 Else 1939, 140; Else 1957, 172–3. Cf. Garvie 1969, 97. 65 O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 23–4 with further references. It should be noted, however, that the origins of tragedy are also obscure. The traditional date of its institution, c. 535, relies on the dubious Marmor Parium. Later reports crediting Pratinas with the founder of satyrplay would place its invention even later. Cf. Burkert 1966, 89. 66 Eg. Seaford 1984, 6, 26–9; Seidensticker in Krumeich et al. 1999, 7; Voelke 2001, 16–8; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 22–3. 67 Sceptics of the Aristotelian account point out that there is little evidence for satyric dithyramb. See Lämmle 2007, 357–9 for discussion, with n. 87 on the problems raised. 68 See n. 43. Cf. n. 45.

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corpus, in On the Generation of Animals (768b.34), where he mentions the disease σατυριᾶν. In addition to the regular meaning of Priapism, the verb σατυριᾶν can also refer to the formation of horn-like growths on the forehead, clearly referring to the figure of a horned satyr. From context, it is apparent that the meaning of Priapism would not fit Aristotle’s discussion.69 Up to this point he has explained how excess nutrition can fuel growths that deviate from typical anatomy. A disease that causes horn-like protrusions to develop from the forehead, rather than a permanent erection, thus fits the argument more closely. The observation that Aristotle elsewhere thinks of satyrs as goat-like does not resolve decisively the ambiguity of ἐκ σατυρικοῦ in Poetics. But taken together with the likelihood that the etymology of τραγῳδία could already be contested in the fourth century BC, it does make the supposition that he and later Peripatetics entertained something like a theory of ‘goat-song’ all the more plausible.

5 Why Goats? If satyrs were not originally caprine, we must surely wonder why goat-satyrs came to be associated with the theatre. While it could simply have been a reflex of the general development of the conception of satyrs, a notion of ‘goat-song’ could also have spoken to particular attitudes towards tragedy and its origin. The exiguous remains of both satyr drama and ancient theories of its origins do not allow for definitive answers. Nonetheless, in this final section I aim to draw attention to the aspects of satyrs and satyr drama that might have rendered a theory of ‘goat-song’ appealing in certain contexts. An attractive feature of the Aristotelian developmental schema of dramatic history is that his model takes all its elements from the festival context of tragedy: the novel genre of tragedy is explained by recourse to satyr drama, to which it was institutionally related, and the similar but demonstrably older genres of dithyramb and epic.70 As far as satyr drama is concerned, however, deriving tragedy ἐκ σατυρικοῦ is as much an assertion of that relationship as a response to it. Indeed, by the time Aristotle was writing, the link between satyr drama and tragedy was much weaker than it had been in the fifth century BC. The introduction of a satyrless tragic competition at the Lenaea c. 440 BC is often regarded as marking the

69 Louis 2002, 227, n. 4. 70 Lesky 1972, 26–7; Rusten 2006, 39. For more critical assessments, see Scullion 2005, especially 23–8; Depew 2007.

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decline of satyr drama as a genre.71 Meanwhile, institutional changes contemporary to Aristotle formally separated satyr drama from tragedy. From around 341 BC a single, non-competitive satyr drama seems to have opened the dramatic competition at the City Dionysia. Tragedy occupied its own category.72 In this light, one way of understanding a theory of ‘goat-song’ might be to see it as a response to the apparent decline of satyr drama and its separation from tragedy. Is it possible that the place of satyr drama within the tragic competition or Dionysian festival was positively asserted by appealing to the caprine attributes of satyrs on and off stage, in order to demonstrate that it was the Urform of tragedy? The only direct account of the circumstances of the institution of satyr drama might point in this direction. Zenobius (5.40) explains that, when the crowd complained that performances had ‘nothing to do with Dionysos’, the response was to introduce satyr drama: Διὰ γοῦν τοῦτο τοὺς Σατύρους ὕστερον ἔδοξεν αὐτοῖς προεισάγειν, ἵνα μὴ δοκῶσιν ἐπιλανθάνεσθαι τοῦ θεοῦ. For this reason then they later decided to stage satyr drama first, so that they might not appear to have forgotten the god.

Whatever Zenobius’ historical reliability, the story reveals an idea of satyr drama as conservatively Dionysian.73 Attempts to square this report with the accounts of both Aristotle and the notion of Pratinas as the inventor of satyr drama have taken it to refer to the original introduction of satyr drama to the tragic competition at the City Dionysia.74 However, the verb Zenobius uses, προεισάγειν, better fits the post-classical circumstances of performance from latter half of the fourth century BC, when satyr drama preceded the tragic competition.75 Zenobius’ word-choice thus raises the possibility that he or his source tell us less about satyr drama’s origins, and more about responses to a later stage of satyr drama, when its place in the festival

71 Seaford 1984, 25; Seidensticker in Krumeich et al. 1999, 2, 9, 34–5; Lämmle 2013, 29, cf. 21–3. 72 IG II2. 2320. Like the non-competitive production of Old Tragedy, only a single entry is listed for satyr drama. 73 Seaford 1984, 29; Lämmle 2013, 29. On the fundamental place of satyr drama within the tragic tetralogy, see also Lämmle 2013, especially 23 and chapter 2. 74 Seaford 1984, 12 and 16; Seidensticker in Krumeich et al. 1999, 8–9; Lämmle 2013, 102; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 23. 75 Pohlenz 1965 (1927), 477, n. 7. See most recently O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 23.

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and its relationship to tragedy had to be defended as a result of a loss of prominence in the festival.76 Dionysos, however, is notably absent from Poetics, so another explanation for why Aristotle and his followers sought the origins of tragedy in the σατυρικόν is needed. Aristotle himself attests to the influence of cultural politics on theories of dramatic origins and the use of etymological arguments. In the passage from Poetics 3 quoted above, he attributes the alternative etymologies of κωμῳδία to rival Dorian and Attic camps, and claims that ‘several Peloponnesians’ even had eyes on tragedy. Aristotle’s testimony fits well with his historical context. Recent work has underscored the cultural and political importance assigned to drama in the Eubulan and Lycurgan periods. It is easy to imagine that debates over the local origins of drama played into the cultural politics of a period when Athens was keen to stake out its cultural heritage in response to the internationalisation of drama and the rise of Macedon.77 The role of regional bias in theories of dramatic origins has not gone unnoticed. The reports of alternative theories, citing either the goat-prize or the various versions of the τρυγῳδία etymology, all affirm Athenian ownership of tragedy and comedy by locating their invention in rural Attica, or by claiming their inventors, Thespis and Sousarion, as citizens of the Attic deme Ikarion.78 The picture offered by Aristotle in Poetics 4, by contrast, appears to endorse a pro-Dorian view by positing the origins of tragedy in dithyramb.79 It is impossible to pin down Aristotle’s precise position in the debate. Hanink has recently argued that Aristotle, in contrast to the strongly patriotic vision endorsed by Lycurgus, took a universalising approach to tragedy that responded to the international success of Athenian drama.80 Alternatively, as a Stagiran with ties to the Macedonian court, it is unlikely that Aristotle shared Lycurgan patriotism. Regardless, Aristotle’s reference to the σατυρικόν also points to Dorian origins.81 σάτυρος is probably the Dorian term, in contrast to the Attic-Ionic σιληνός, 76 Zenobius himself wrote under Hadrian. Interestingly, the latest epigraphical evidence for the performance of satyr drama is from c. AD 160, about a generation later, and shows that it had been detached from the other dramatic events and moved towards the end of the festival (IG vii 1773). 77 Eubulan period: Csapo and Wilson 2014, esp. n. 410 on Phanodemus. Lycurgan period: Hanink 2014c. 78 Scullion 2005, 30–3. For comedy, see Rusten 2006. 79 Most recently, see Scullion 2005, 30. On the place of Athens in Poetics, see Hall 1996; Heath 2009; Hanink 2011. 80 Hanink 2011 and 2014c, 191–220. 81 As perceived already by Wilamowitz 1907, 83–4.

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but it does not seem that the linguistic detail was ever exploited in ancient sources.82 More significantly, several ancient reports connect satyrs and satyr drama to the Peloponnese.83 Pratinas himself hailed from Phleious. In the fragment of the hyporchema attributed to him, the chorus of satyrs identify loudly as Dorian: ‘Listen to my Dorian choreia’ (fr. 3.17).84 Dioscorides would later celebrate Sositheus’ restoration of virile rhythm to satyr drama ‘with a Dorian muse’ (AP 7.707.7). The argumentative value of satyrs and satyr drama in substantiating Dorian claims is further suggested by Lesky’s observation that they are absent from pro-Attic accounts.85 Modern theories of ‘goat-song’ have tended to denigrate the value of the reports of pro-Athenian accounts as Hellenistic fabrications reacting to the supposedly accurate picture we find sketched in Poetics.86 But if we agree with Burkert and others, the testimony of the Marmor Parium and Eratosthenes ultimately rests on sources from the fourth century, perhaps predating Aristotle.87 It is suggestive to note, for example, that Phanodemus, one of the Atthidographers to whom Burkert points as a potential source of pro-Athenian histories, was actively involved in the cultural programmes of both Eubulus and Lycurgus.88 In this light, the relationship between Attic and Dorian accounts might go the other way, with Dorian histories instead reacting to Athenian claims. By appealing to the generic similarities between dithyramb and tragedy, on the one hand, and the historical relationship between tragedy and satyr drama, on the other, the developmental account of drama outlined in Poetics and drawn upon by later Peripatetics effectively asserts the role of non-Athenian poetic forms in the evolution of tragedy. ‘Goat-song’, in turn, whether implied already by Aristotle or fully articulated only later, would further strengthen such an account. The evidence of caprine satyrs would, on this view, not only account for the development of tragedy, but it would also explain the origin of its name. To conclude, I hope to have demonstrated that the figure of the satyr was never static, and that later developments in the conception of the satyr were directly relevant to contemporary accounts of dramatic history. Given the state of 82 On the etymology: Brommer 1940; Seaford 1984, 6; Hedreen 1992, 162–3; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 7. 83 Pohlenz 1965, 481; Lesky 1972, 33–4; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 247, n. 9. 84 Pratinas fr. 3.17. The question of authenticity has excited considerable comment. See O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 242–7 for an up-to-date survey. Regardless of attribution and genre, the chorus is almost certainly made of satyrs, so the point would stand. 85 Lesky 1972, 28, building on Pohlenz 1965. 86 Eg. Wilamowitz 1907, 62–3; Pohlenz 1965, 474, and generally; Lesky 1972, 26–9. 87 See n. 59 and 60. 88 On Phanodemus, see also n. 77.

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the evidence, we are unable to determine with any certainty what drove the emergence of goat-like satyrs. Nonetheless, we have enough to see that from the fifth century the caprine attributes of satyrs were increasingly prominent, eventually resulting in depictions of horned, goat-like satyr masks. As the figure of the satyr became more caprine, so too did the conception, iconography, and quite possibly the costume of satyr drama. Once this conception was available, the unlikely etymology of τραγῳδία as ‘goat-song’ became a possibility, on which a dramatic genealogy could be built that answered to concerns extending beyond criticism and antiquarianism.89

89 I am grateful to the participants of the conference in Patras for their questions and comments on an earlier version of this paper. My warmest thanks to Bernd Seidensticker for his valuable feedback. All errors are mine.

Pierre Voelke

3 Satyr Drama, Dithyramb, and Anodoi ‘Nothing to do with Dionysos’ (οὐδὲν πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον): this would have been the cry of the public during the poetic contests of the Great Dionysia.1 The gram­ marian Zenobius, living in the second century AD, argued that this protest by the spectators responded to the dithyramb’s loss of its strictly cultic and Dionysian quality to the benefit of an overall narrative with little to do with Dionysos. Accord­ ing to Zenobius, satyr drama was then introduced in order to show that Dionysos had not been forgotten.2 The explanation given by Zenobius is a variant of the one advocated by Chamaeleon, the peripatetic philosopher, who had argued that the protestors targeted those poets who had abandoned satyr poetry (σατυρικά) and started to compose tragedies, thus forgetting Dionysos.3 While Zenobius dis­ cusses an evolution proper to the dithyramb, Chamaeleon does not mention the latter at all, instead focusing on the abandonment and cessation of satyr poetry in favour of the new tragic genre. Unlike Zenobius, he does not mention either the introduction of satyr drama in order to compensate the lost Dionysian element. Chamaeleon’s interpretation is a reconfiguration of the thesis sustained by Aristotle in his Poetica (1449a 20), according to which the tragedy would have had a satyric aspect in the first phase of its history. Despite some differences, Zenobius’ account lies undoubtedly in this same frame of thought. Indeed, if Aristotle evokes the satyric character of tragedy at its inception, he notes in the same chapter of Poetica (11) that tragedy developed from the dithyramb. Thus, the Dionysian dithyramb to which Zenobius refers is probably no different from the satyrika discussed by Chamaeleon. Likewise, Zenobius’ assertion that satyr drama developed in order to compensate the loss of the Dionysian feature origi­ nally present in the dithyramb, does not refute the peripatetic thesis but rather extends it.4

1 See Lämmle 2007, 356–7, and 2013, 102–4, with further bibliography (p. 102, n. 44), to which we may add Nogueras 2013. 2 Zenob. 5, 40. See Calame 2013 on the dithyramb as a genre characterized by its narrative dimension. 3 Chamael. fr. 38 Wehrli. This interpretation chimes with Plutarch (Quaest. conv. 615a), who however sees Phrynichus and Aeschylus as responsible for nurturing the conditions that led the Athenians to protest. 4 Pohlenz 1965 saw in Zenobius’ interpretation the reflection of an anti­Aristotelian Hellenistic theory aimed at questioning the primacy of satyric performances in relation to tragedy. Pohlenz observed the trace of this same theory in Horace’s Ars Poetica (220–4). If Horace makes satyr https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-004

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The Peripatetic theory about the origins of Dionysian poetic genres invites us to follow the thread that leads from the dithyramb to satyr drama. Address­ ing this issue, Richard Seaford has shown how the use of periphrasis and the accumulation of compound epithets in the dithyramb – to evoke wine or music instruments – resonates with the language of satyr drama, notably in the peri­ phrasis evoking objects that Satyrs discover and seek to identify. According to Seaford, this mode of language, shared by the dithyramb and satyr drama, finds its origins in the Dionysian Mysteries, ‘in which the initiand is confused and stimulated, before the completion of the revelation, by riddling language’.5 In this chapter I will continue to explore the links between dithyramb and satyr drama, and more specifically the relationship they both have with a form of epiphany that I will call anodos. I encompass in this term any form of apparition occurring in an ascending movement from a space associated with death – be it under­ ground or underwater – towards the world of the living.6 Before turning to this question, I will consider in a more general way the nature of the relationship between dithyramb and satyr drama as the Peripatetic theory presupposes it.

1 Satyric Performances and Dithyramb According to one of the severest critics of Peripatetic theory, ‘there is no reason to believe that dithyramb was ever satyric in nature’ and moreover ‘practically nobody [believes] in satyric dithyrambs anymore’.7 In fact, hardly anyone today

drama an addition to tragedy, he does not, unlike Zenobius, consider it a way to rediscover a lost element – on the contrary, he emphasizes its innovative character (grata novitas). 5 Seaford 1984, 42. This hypothesis originates in Seaford 1977/1978, 88–91; see also Seaford 1976 and 1981. Seaford’s hypothesis has been criticized, notably by Hamilton 1990, who shows that neither the use of periphrasis nor the accumulation of compound epithets are specific to the dithyramb. In this debate, we will pay particular attention to Ford 2013, 317, who shows that ‘a given form of expression may be found across a range of poetic genres and yet resonate as ‘dithyrambic’ in a Dionysiac context’. On the language of the dithyramb, see also Ieranò 1997, 297–303. On the link between the dithyramb and satyr drama, see also Griffith 2013b, who iden­ tifies musical and performative auto­referencing as a characteristic common to both genres, and the chapter by SHAW in this volume. 6 On the word anodos, see Bérard 1974, 22–5. 7 Scullion 2002, 107, citing as an exception Seaford 1994, 267–9. Cf. Else 1957, 172: ‘The ‘satyric dithyramb’ theory was threadbare from the beginning. We may be sure that if it had rested on anything less than the alleged authority of Aristotle it would have been laughed out of court long ago’. For an interpretation of Aristoteles’ Poetics which proposes to dissociate satyrikon and dith­ yramb, see the chapter by PALMISCIANO in this volume.

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would venture to dismiss so categorically the hypothesis of a satyric dithyramb. As the work of Guy Hedreen has demonstrated, as soon as they appeared in vase­painting, in the first quarter of the sixth century BC and during the decades that followed, satyrs participated in various activities in which their disposi­ tion and movements seemed to respond to a certain coordination.8 According to Hedreen, this order which, in numerous vases, structures the gesturality of the satyrs implies a form of choreography and evokes a choral performance. The presence of an aulete (flute­player) in scenes depicted on some of these vases or the representation of moving figures that suggest dance­moves explicitly evoke the idea of a musical performance. Some questions then arise: do the choreographed movements of the satyrs and the implied musical performance that accompanies them pertain to the imaginary world of Greek vase painters or are they the reflection of choral per­ formances settled in a ritual sequence? In this second case, do these images refer to performances whose participants are indeed disguised as satyrs, or to per­ formances in which the human chorus identify with satyrs without wearing the costume? Finally, if the choreographed movements of satyrs in this iconography reflect the performance of a human chorus, could this be considered as a ‘dithy­ ramb’?9 No definite answer can be given to any of these questions. Nevertheless, insofar as this identification with satyrs – through a disguise or not – is evidenced from the classical period both in theatrical practice (satyr drama) and in cultic practices, nothing should prevent us from thinking that it could have existed as early as 575­550 BC, when satyrs began to appear in Athenian iconography.10 Focusing again on the Athenian Great Dionysia, were satyr clothes worn in the procession (πομπή) that opened the festival? Eric Csapo has recently claimed that the emergence of a processional Dionysian imagery in the 560s, as testified by the numerous representations of the return of Hephaestus accompanied by Dionysos and his procession of satyrs, might reflect the creation or development of the Great Dionysian procession.11 Csapo also recalled the omnipresence of the phallos in 8 Hedreen 1992, 125–78, and 2007. 9 Such is the hypothesis made by Hedreen 2007, 185. 10 On the identification with satyrs as part of ritual practice, see Plato’s fundamental testimony (Leg. 7.815c­d), which mentions the Bacchic dances (βακχεία) ‘cultivated by those who indulge in drunken imitations of Nymphs, Pans, Sileni and Satyrs (as they call them), when performing certain rites of purification (περικαθαρμοί) and initiation (τελεταί)’ (from the translation of Bury 1926, 93), with the commentary of Jaccottet 2003, I. 117–8. See also Hedreen 1992, 168, to which we shall add schol. ad Dem. 21.617; cf. inscriptions nrr. 45, 94, 188 (Ia, 22) edited by Jaccottet 2003, II. About the iconography, see also Bérard 1974, 103–15; Bron 1987; Bérard and Bron 1989. 11 Csapo 2013, 64–5, and 2015, 79–93. Csapo extends Hedreen’s analysis (Hedreen 2004), which argues that representations of Hephaestus’ return would be shaped by Dionysian cult processions.

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this procession, whether monumental phalloi worn by phallophoroi, or phallic sticks manipulated by ithyphalloi.12 These phalloi were directly connected to the aetiological myth of Great Dionysia, the main stages of which I shall recall here. Arriving from Eleutherae, Dionysos is not received by the Athenians as he should be, and he chastises them by striking them with a disease of their sexual organs. As a remedy and memory of the disease they suffered, the Athenians then honour the god by making phalloi, privately or in the name of the city (ἰδίᾳ τε καὶ δημοσίᾳ)13; this distinction might correspond to the distinction between monu­ mental phalloi, paid for by the city, and phallic sticks, the manufacture of which could be taken on by private individuals. The connection between these phalloi and the disease with which Dionysos afflicts the Athenians makes it possible to suppose that it was a form of priapism that would make men like satyrs. In any case, the central presence of the phallos both in the aetiological myth and in the Great Dionysia procession suggests that the satyr’s costume had a place in this procession and that participants could be wearing it. In support of this hypothesis, it should be recalled that Eleutherae – from where, according to the myth, the same god that Athenians honoured during the Great Dionysia had been first introduced to the city – lies at the border between Attica and Boeotia, at the ‘shaded rock’ (σκιώδης πέτρα) according to Euripides, situated in the folds of the Cithaeron with a Dionysian sanctuary nearby which had a cave and a spring.14 From their very first mention in Greek poetry, satyrs are closely associated with the landscapes of mountains and caves they share with the nymphs.15 It is therefore perfectly plausible that the participants in the Great Dionysia procession could, in some cases, have dressed like a satyr and assumed the identity of a figure closely associated with the god and the marginal territories from which he came. Did these men dressed as satyrs sing the dithyramb during the Great Diony­ sia procession? Let us first recall that we can reasonably think that dithyrambs were sung during this procession that celebrated the arrival of the god, and which followed the εἰσαγωγή, a nocturnal rite during which the very first arrival of Dio­ nysos from Eleutherae is replayed. Xenophon indicates that during the Dionysia, choral performances were played out on the agora in front of altars of various gods, among which stood the Altar of the Twelve Gods.16 The likeliest context for such performances seems to be the procession that preceded the theatre

12 Csapo 2013, 57–60. 13 Schol. Ar. Ach. 243. 14 Eur. Supp. 757–9; Paus. 1.38.8–9. 15 Hes. fr. 123 Merkelbach­West, Hymn. hom. Ven. 261–2. 16 Xen. Hipp. 3.2.

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contests.17 If Xenophon does not specify the nature of these choral performances, one of Pindar’s dithyrambs was most probably sung on the Athenian agora in front of the Altar of the Twelve Gods precisely at the time of the Great Dionysia procession.18 If it is true that in the seventh century BC the dithyramb of Archilo­ chus could be associated with drunkenness and obscenity, the performance of a dithyramb, a few decades later, by a chorus whose members identified them­ selves one way or another with satyrs would not be surprising.19

2 Dithyramb and Dionysian Epiphany Sung during the procession that opened the Great Dionysia, the dithyramb cel­ ebrates the arrival of Dionysos from Eleutherae. At a more global level, it is pos­ sible to consider the cultic dithyramb as intrinsically associated with Dionysos’ epiphanies, either to celebrate or to produce them.20 Aristotle and Dionysius of Halicarnassus criticized the language of the dithyramb by treating it as meaning­ less noise (ψόφος).21 However, as suggested by Andrew Ford, this ‘noise’, resulting in particular from the accumulation of novel compound epithets, might reflect the evocative function of a genre aiming to provoke the epiphany of a god, himself considered a sonorous god. A god whom, to quote one of Pindar’s dithyrambs, ‘we

17 Sourvinou­Inwood 2003, 67–200, situates the choral performances mentioned by Xenophon in the frame of the nocturnal rites (εἰσαγωγή); contra: Csapo 2015, who sees their reference to the Dionysia procession (πομπή). 18 Pind. fr. 75 Snell­Maehler, with 480­479 BC being a terminus ante quem for the destruction by the Persians of the Altar of the Twelve Gods. See Lavecchia 2000, 255, 257–60; contra: Van der Weiden 1991, 193, who locates the altar mentioned by Pindar (v. 3) on the Acropolis, and Neer and Kurke 2014 who locate it in the ancient agora. 19 On intoxication and obscenity as characteristic features of the dithyrambs of Archilochus, see fr. 120 and 251 West; Privitera 1988, 123–5, and 1991; Shaw 2014, 30–1. On the relationship with satyric performance, see Hedreen 2007, 185–6. The association between the dithyramb and intoxication is perhaps also suggested by Pindar (fr. 56.4 Cannatà Fera = 128c.4 Snell­Maehler). It is possible that the epithet βρομιοπαιόμεναι (‘struck by Bromius’) which qualifies the Dionysian songs is an equivalent of οἰνοπλήξ (‘struck by the wine) or μεθυπλήξ (‘struck by intoxication’); on this conjecture and its interpretation, see Cannatà Fera 1990, 147–8. See also Epich. fr. 131: οὐκ ἔστι διθύραμβος ὅκχ᾽ ὕδωρ πίῃς. In the iconography, a satyr playing the lyre and named Dithyrambos may be found on a fragment of a red­figure krater at Thorvaldsen Museum in Co­ penhagen (H597); see LIMC s.v. Dithyrambos nr. 1. 20 See Lavecchia, 2013, 61–2: ‘a cultic song is dithyrambic if it is capable of producing an epi­ phany of the god Dithyrambos through performance’. 21 Arist. Rh. 1406b.2; Dion. Hal. Dem. 7.

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mortals call Loud­Roarer (Βρόμιος) and Loud­Shouter (Ἐριβόας)’.22 A sonorous god whose first epiphany, his birth, occurred in the din of Zeus’ thunder.23 Since Antiquity, the first epiphany of Dionysos, namely his birth, has been perceived as an emblematic thematic element of the dithyramb.24 In Euripides’ Bacchae (526), Zeus calls Dionysos by the name of Dithyrambos, precisely at the moment of his first birth, the one in which he passes from his mother’s womb to his father’s thigh. Ancient etymologies link the word διθύραμβος to the ‘two doors’ (δύο  θύρας) Dionysos passes through at his birth, Semele’s womb and Zeus’ thigh; a birth that Zeus seeks to facilitate by screaming: ‘Λῦθι ῥάμμα’ (‘loose the stitches’). This last etymology is attributed to Pindar and it is the type of ety­ mological explication that Plato seems to allude to in his Leges, linking the birth of Dionysos (Διονύσου γένεσις) to the very term dithyramb.25 These etymological speculations may have been nourished by the recurrent motifs of Dionysos’ birth and Semele in songs acknowledged as dithyrambs.26 Without doubt, the exceptional nature of Dionysos’ birth deserved the honours of a specific poetic genre. By being born and, no less, born a god, Dio­ nysos overcomes simultaneously death, to which the lightning strike of his mother would seem to condemn him, and mortality, with which he would seem to be doomed by her own mortal nature.27 As concerns the myth, several other tales show us a Dionysos in contact with the experience of death, or at least the experience of a form of vulnerability peculiar to mortals, while reaffirming his immortal nature. This vulnerability is evident in the Iliad, where we discover Dio­ nysos fleeing Lycurgus. Shaking from fear, the god plunges into the sea where Thetis takes him against her bosom.28 In the Orphic tradition, Dionysos actually 22 Pind. fr. 75.10 Snell­Maehler; cf. fr. 70b.6 (Βρομίου [τελε]τάν), and supra n. 19 (about fr. 56.4 Cannatà Fera = 128c.4 Snell­Maehler). On the evocative dimension of the dithyramb language, see Ford (2013), especially p. 318: ‘We understand new dithyramb’s predilection for accumulat­ ing, compounding, and coining epithets as an extension, partly literary but not purely so, of a traditional idea that one needed a heap of epikleseis to summon the wandering Dionysos’. 23 See Lavecchia 2013, 61. 24 See Ieranò 1997, 159–67; Lavecchia 2013, 60–3. 25 Et. Mag. s.v. διθύραμβος; Pind. fr. 85 Snell­Maehler; Plat. Leg. 3, 700a. 26 Cf. Pind. fr. 70b.27­32; fr. 75.19 Snell­Maehler; Bacchyl. 19.30–5; Timoth. fr. 792 Page (Σεμέλης ὠδίς). 27 Schlesier 2007 rightly insists that Dionysos is from the outset considered a god, from the moment of his birth from Semele’s womb. It is true, however, that Diodorus (5.52.2) transmits to us a version in which the second birth appears as the prerequisite for Dionysos’ immortality. According to this version, Zeus himself would have struck down Semele, so that Dionysos would not be born of a mortal, but of an immortal, and thus be himself immortal from birth. 28 Il. 6.130–40. See also Paus. 3.24.3–5: Dionysos is locked in a chest and thrown into the sea by Cadmus, before being taken in and raised by Brasiae inhabitants.

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experiences death, torn apart by the Titans while he is still a child.29 Outside this tradition, a scholium to the Iliad tells us that Perseus kills Dionysos by throwing him into the marshes of Lerna.30 On the other hand, if Dionysos rubs shoulders with the mortal condition and even experiences death (before reaffirming his immortal status), he also permits his mortal mother to gain immortality by bring­ ing her back from the underworld and allowing her access to Olympus.31 As concerns the ritual, the account of Dionysos’ death in the Lerna marshes has been linked to a practice evoked by Plutarch, which itself relies on the tes­ timony of Socrates of Argos.32 According to this testimony, the Argians call (ἀνακαλοῦνται) Dionysos by blowing trumpets hidden in thyrsoi to make him rise up from the water. The verb ἀνακαλέομαι is used for the evocation of the dead and this call to Dionysos is accompanied by the sacrifice of a lamb thrown into the depths of the water (ἄβυσσος) and intended for the ‘Guardian of the Gates’ (πυλάοχος), an epiklesis which can be interpreted as referring to Cerberus.33 In these circumstances, the connection with the tradition relating to Dionysos’ death at the hands of Perseus, if not established by the texts, is at least plau­ sible. According to the analysis proposed by Christiane Sourvinou­Inwood, by provoking the epiphany of Dionysos up from the underworld, the Argian ritual allowed the god to reaffirm his divinity after having tasted the mortal condition.34 The Argian ritual may be connected to the rites aimed at awakening the god; thus Plutarch, immediately after describing the Argian ritual, mentions the presence of Dionysos’ grave at Delphi and a rite in which the Thyads awaken the god desi­ gnated by the epiklesis Λικνίτης.35 If Plutarch doesn’t mention the means used by the Thyads to awaken Dionysos, a Rhodian inscription dated from the third 29 See Clem. Alex. Protr. 2.17.2–18.2. 30 Schol. Il. 14.319; cf. Dionysos’ death fleeing Lycurgus in Philoch. FrGrHist 328 fr. 7b. 31 On the divinity of Semele: Hes. Theog. 940–2; Pind. Ol. 2.22­7. On Dionysos’ katabasis to save his mother: Ioph. 22 fr. 3; AP 3.1; Diod. Sic. 4.25.4; Pseudo­Apollod. 3.5.3; Plut. De sera num. vind. 565f­6a; Paus. 2.31.2 and 2.37.5; Arn. Adv. Nat. 5.28. 32 Plut. Is. 364f (= Socr. FrGrHist. 310 fr. 2). 33 Ἀνακαλέομαι to designate the evocation of the dead: Aesch. Pers. 621; Eur. Hel. 966. Cerberus designated as πυλωρός, guardian of the gates: Eur. HF 1277; AP 7.319. 34 Sourvinou­Inwood 2005; according to Sourvinou­Inwood (p. 195, followed by Faraone 2011, 324), Perseus does not kill Dionysos, but believes he does. Furthermore, Sourvinou­Inwood takes care to separate this mythical­ritual context from the one evoked by Pausanias (2.37.5–6), when he successively mentions the katabasis of Dionysos, via the Alcyonian lake, to pull from the underworld his mother, Semele, and the nocturnal rites which take place annually on the banks of this lake; rites that it would be impious (οὐκ ὅσιον) to reveal, perhaps alluding to their mys­ terious character. 35 Plut. Is. 365a. On Dionysos’ grave at Delphi and the different tales associated with it, see Costa 2007, 89–91.

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century AD mentions a hydraulic organ player charged with waking the god.36 The use of a musical instrument recalls the image of the Argian trumpeters calling Dionysos back from the depths of the underworld. A fragment from Aeschylus’ Hedonoi – a play featuring Dionysos’ arrival with his followers in Thrace and sub­ sequent capture by King Lycurgus – may also allude to the ritual use, in a cave, of music instruments to generate the anodos of Dionysos; the fragment in question actually describes the din of the music emanating from an underground place.37 If the dithyramb had a special connection with the original epiphany of Dio­ nysos, i.e. his birth, could it also be sung to arouse or celebrate his anodos? Did the ‘noise’ of the dithyramb perform a function similar to that of the trumpets and organs used to bring Dionysos back from the underworld or to awake him? One of Pindar’s dithyrambs, composed for the Argians (fr.  70a Snell­Maehler), evokes the figure of Perseus and possibly his battle with Dionysos.38 It is possible that this dithyramb had been performed in the same context as the crescendo of trumpets mentioned by Plutarch.39 A tale of katabasis and anodos was at the heart of another of Pindar’s dithy­ rambs. In the prologue of this dithyramb composed for the Thebans, Pindar describe the gestural and sonorous frenzy the gods brought to the Dionysian cele­ bration (fr. 70b.6­23 Maehler), in the presence of Dionysos himself (22). The poet introduces his description by indicating that the gods also (καί, 7) celebrate a feast (τελετά, 6) for Dionysos and thus suggests a parallelism between the divine celebration and the human festival unfolding in the context of the performance of the dithyramb. When the poet states that Dionysos is also delighted (καί, 22) with the animal choruses led by Artemis (19–23), he implies that the god rejoices in the same way with the chorus singing the dithyramb. In both cases, Dionysos is

36 Jaccottet 2003, II. 264–6 (nr. 159). 37 Fr. 57.8­11: ταυρόφθογγοι δ’ ὑπομυκῶνταί | ποθεν ἐξ ἀφανοῦς φοβεροὶ μῖμοι, | ἠχὼ τυπάνου δ᾽, ὥσθ᾽ ὑπογαίου | βροντῆς, φέρεται βαρυταρβής (‘and terrifying imitators of the voice of bulls | below in response from somewhere out of sight, | and the fearful deep sound of drum | carries to the ear like thunder beneath the earth’, trans. Sommerstein 2008, 63). On the cave’s function in Dionysian rites, see Boyancé 1960/1961; Bérard 1974, 103–15; Jaccottet 2003, I, 150–62; Toillon 2016. 38 There is, in fact, tenuous evidence supporting this hypothesis: see Lavecchia’s commen­ tary (2000, 93–105). The syntagm σύγγονον πατέρων (10) could refer to Dionysos, son of Zeus like Perseus; the marginal note ἐπίμαχον (ad 23) could refer to the fight between Dionysos and Perseus and the term θάνατος (36) could evoke the death of the former. 39 Wilson 2003, 174–5; Kowalzig 2007, 227–8; Lavecchia 2013, 67. In contrast to Sourvinou­ Inwood 2005, these authors place the rite of the trumpets within the framework of nocturnal rites discussed by Pausanias (2.37.5­6; cf. supra n. 34). Van der Weiden 1991, 26–7, and Lavecchia 2000, 94, hypothesize instead that the dithyramb was performed at the Agriania.

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present: among the gods, as among the men singing the dithyramb. The prologue ends with a return to the context of the performance, which evokes Dionysos’ birth at Thebes (fr. 70b.26­31 Snell­Maehler). The poem proceeds to a narrative section about the katabasis of Heracles and his return from the underworld with Cerberus. In this context, the figure of Heracles, born in Thebes and son of Zeus, naturally echoes Dionysos’ own katabasis, and Heracles’ return from the under­ world with Cerberus evokes Dionysos’ return with Semele.40 The parallel is more striking when we consider that the dithyramb was sung in a Dionysian sanctuary containing the tomb of Semele.41 It is therefore possible that the presence of Dio­ nysos in the context of the performance, among the choral dancers singing the dithyramb, was perceived as the result of an anodos. Furthermore, the tale of Hera­ cles’ katabasis seems to have been preceded by the account of his initiation into the Eleusinian Mysteries by Eumolpus and might be a reference to their introduc­ tion at Thebes (fr. 346b.4­9 Snell­Maehler). Hence the hypothesis that the context of the performance itself had an eschatological dimension.42 If so, the presence of Dionysos in the context of the performance might be associated to a prior anodos. Among the texts that should be considered in our survey, let us mention the short hymn to Dionysos sung by the women of Elis.43 As a cletic hymn, intended to evoke an epiphany of Dionysos (ἐλθεῖν ἥρω Διόνυσε, 1) – an epiphany as a raging bull (τῷ βοέῳ ποδὶ θύων, ἄξιε ταῦρε, 5–6) – we may accept the kinship of this hymn with the dithyramb.44 Various clues seem to suggest that Dionysos is here again called to arise in an upward movement. First, let us note the participle θύων (5), ‘raging’, which suggests a seething bull that is leaping and kicking, and qualifies some vertical movement that the god must perform in his epiphany.45

40 On this point, see Lavecchia 2000, 115. 41 On the sanctuary of Dionysos Kadmeios, see Schachter 1981, 187–8. 42 Lavecchia 2000, 106–7, defends the argument that fr. 346b belongs to the dithyramb for the Thebans. On the Eleusinian initiation of Heracles and introduction to the Eleusinian Mysteries at Thebes, see Lavecchia 2000, 190–204. On the eschatological dimension of the cult practice where this dithyramb was sung, see Lavecchia 2000, 121–5 and 2013, 68–75. 43 PMG 871, cited in Plut. Quaest. Graec. 36, 299b. Text, bibliography and commentary in Furley and Bremer 2001, II. 373–7 (cf. I. 369–72). 44 Calame 1997, 79, considers this hymn a dithyramb. On the link between the dithyramb and the bull, see Ieranò 1997, 172–4; Gebauer 2002, 138–49, 714–5; Heinemann 2013, 300–6; Voelke 2020. 45 In his edition of Plutarch, Titchener (Leipzig 1935) printed δύων (‘diving’) as if it were the lesson of the manuscript. This lesson was taken up by Page in his edition of Poetae melici graeci. This δύων is in fact a typographical error, with δ incorrectly substituting θ. This error changed Dionysos’ leap into a plunge – ascent into descent – and this would have consequences on sub­ sequent interpretations of the poem.

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It should be noted in this regard that, according to some sources, Semele receives the name of Thyone, derived from the verb θύω, after Dionysos brought her up from the underworld to install her among the gods.46 Furthermore, the invocation of Dionysos as a ‘hero’ (1) might suggest the close relationship of the god with the underworld.47 Finally, if we follow the text as it has been transmitted, Dionysos is called to come to his ‘marine temple’ (ἅλιον ἐς ναόν, 2), which may suggest an epiphany from the depths of the sea comparable to the one the Argians trigger with their trumpets on the banks of Lerna.48 Among the testimonies that might support the hypothesis of a connection between the dithyramb and epiphany from the depths of the sea, let us come finally to Herodotus’ famous tale of the poet Arion (23–4). Having embarked on a ship to return from Tarentum to Corinth, Arion is forced by the sailors, willing to seize his wealth, to commit suicide on­board or else throw himself into the sea. After singing one last time the nomos orthios on the deck of the boat, Arion leaps into the sea with all his singing robes about him. A dolphin rescues him from drowning and brings him to Cape Taenarum, whence he continues his way by land to Corinth. This account of Arion is preceded by an indication that he was the first to compose a dithyramb, to give it its name and have it performed in Corinth,49 hence the affirmation that this tale ‘acquired the function of an aetiology illustrating the origin of dithyramb’.50 Herodotus does not establish an explicit link between this introduction of the dithyramb at Corinth with Arion’s rescue by a dolphin. As Eric Csapo has shown, the hypothesis of such a link may, however, be based on iconographic documentation that willingly associates dol­ phins with a Dionysian universe and with choral activity, to the point of appear­ ing as ‘a visual projection of what is associated with dithyrambic chorality in the imagination of the archaic Greeks’.51

46 Diod. Sic. 4.25.4; Pseudo­Apollod. 3.5.3. 47 For a discussion and a rebuttal of the proposed corrections to the transmitted text (ἥρω), see Furley and Bremer 2001, II, 374–5; Schlesier 2002, 165–6, n. 20. 48 From Ennio Visconti (1796), the editors in a large majority correct ἅλιον to ἀλεῖον or Ἀλείω: it was not then a marine temple, but the elean temple or of the Elean. The text from the manu­ scripts is defended by Schlesier 2002, 166, 180, and Faraone 2011, 316, n. 21. 49 διθύραμβον πρῶτον ἀνθρώπων τῶν ἡμεῖς ἴδμεν ποιήσαντά τε καὶ ὀνομάσαντα καὶ διδάξαντα ἐν Κορίνθῳ. The interpretation of the verb ὀνομάζειν remains uncertain and widely disputed; some have interpreted the verb as referring to the titles given to the dithyrambs (e.g. Ieranò 1997, 189), others that it is the name διθύραμβος given to the genre itself (e.g. D’Alessio 2013, 114). 50 Lavecchia 2013, 65. 51 Kowalzig 2013, 37. On the relation between dolphins and the dithyramb, see first Csapo 2003, and in particular the following vases: Paris, Louvre CA 2988 (Fig. 4.1 in Csapo 2003, 79), Toledo, Museum

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3 Satyr Drama and Anodoi The movement of anodos, preceded in some myths by katabasis, has been repre­ sented or at least evoked in numerous satyr plays. Before considering some cases, it might be necessary to exclude from these Sophocles’ Pandora, a play whose second title was Sphyrokopoi (The Hammerers). Connecting this latter title with a red­figure krater depicting Pandora emerging from the ground in the presence of Epimetheus holding a hammer, Carl Robert had assumed that the Satyrs in Sophocles’ play used hammers to free Pandora from the earth and so allow her anodos.52 This argument, however, conflicts with other fragments of the play that seems to support the Hes­ iodic version whereby Pandora is created from clay and modelled by Hephaestus.53 On more certain ground, Sisyphus returns to the living from the world of the dead in a satyr play by Aeschylus, as suggested by one of the titles that has been transmitted to us: Sisyphos Drapetes (the Runaway).54 In one of the fragments (fr. 228), according to a generally accepted interpretation, Sisyphus takes leave of the infernal divinities. In fragment 227, the speaker (Silenos or the Satyrs?) recalls a field mouse of a prodigious size in which we may recog­ nize Sisyphus reappearing on earth after his journey to the underworld.55 Other satyr plays evoke the katabasis of Heracles sent to the underworld by Eurys­ theus to search for Cerberus. Such was the case of Sophocles’ Cerberus (or Epi

of Art 82.134 (fig. 4.5, 4.6 in Csapo 2003, 83), Rome, Villa Giulia 64608 (Fig. 4.4 in Csapo 2003, 82). See also the chapter by SHAW in this volume. 52 Oxford V525, with Robert 1914, 35–7; the identity of Pandora and Epimetheus is confirmed by the inscription of their names on the vase. In support of Robert’s hypothesis, Guarducci 1929 con­ sidered another krater (Ferrara 3031) depicting six satyrs with hammers attending the anodos of a crowned female figure (Bérard 1974, pl. 8, Krumeich et al. 1999, pl. 10). For other vases depicting the same scene, see Bérard 1974, pl. 11, to which we will add a krater from Pella (Zaccagnino 2007, 102, Fig. 6) and an Apulian krater (Basel, Cahn collection 278; Trendall and Cambitoglou 1978, 11 nr. 25a, pl. 4, 1d). Williams 2014, 274–7, also contemplates the connection between these vases and Sophocles’ Pandora. Contra: Bérard 1974, 91–4, 161–4, Krumeich et al. 1999, 378–9 (cf. 56–7). 53 Fr. 482: καὶ πρῶτον ἄρχου πηλὸν ὀργάζειν χεροῖν (‘and first begin to mould the clay with your hands’, trans. Lloyd­Jones 2003, 253). Cf. Hes. Theog. 571–2; Op. 60–1. 54 We cannot state with certainty whether the titles Sisyphos Drapetes (the Runaway) and Sisyphos Petrokylistes (the Stone-Roller) correspond to the same play (Lämmle 2013, 419–20, n. 303; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 290–4) or two distinct plays (Krumeich et al. 1999, 182). 55 This interpretation of the fragment dates back to Buschor 1937, 3. O’Sullivan and Collard’s (2013, 297) hypothesis that Sisyphus appears to be ‘bent double and carrying Death in bonds’ does not seem necessary. Taplin 1977a, 428–9 (followed by Lämmle 2013, 419–20) places fr. 233 (Αἰτναῖός ἐστι κάνθαρος βίᾳ πονῶν: ‘He is like a beetle from Mount Etna, toiling powerfully’, trans. Sommerstein 2008, 239) directly after 227 and supposes that Sisyphus appears on the earth’s surface while rolling his stone.

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Tainaro Satyroi : Satyrs on Taenarum) and Euripides’ Eurystheus.56 In the latter play, one of its fragments (fr. 371) testifies that Heracles was ordered to descend into the underworld, and suggests that he returns not only with Cerberus, but also Theseus.57 Heracles’ ability to confront and dominate the infernal deities is apparent from a satyric drama by Aristias which staged the battle between Heracles and the Keres, sisters of Thanatos.58 In Sophocles’ Ichneutai (The Trackers), the Satyrs with their jumps (πηδήμασιν) and kicks (λακτίσμασιν) cause a din (κτύπος) which leads to the nymph Cyllene emerging from her cave (217–20). The apparition of Cyllene emerging from her cave (μυχός,  437) may mirror the emergence from the underworld into the terrestrial world.59 In the same play, the turtle whose carapace Hermes uses to fashion a lyre is presented as an animal who, even when dead, makes its voice heard (θανὼν γὰρ ἔσχε φώνην, 300); transformed into a musical instrument, the turtle also returns in some way from the underworld to the world of the living. In another play by Sophocles, Inachos, the dark­skinned stranger (αἰθός, fr.  269a.54) who turns Io into a heifer would be, according to a probable hypothesis, the Zeus coming from the world of the dead (τοῦ κάτω Διός, fr. 269c.41).60 Among the Hellenistic satyr plays, the Agen by Python perhaps took place near an opening giving access to the underworld (fr. 1.1­2), and staged barbarian magi – most proba­

56 The link between the titles Cerberus and Satyrs on Taenarum is based on a version already at­ tested in Euripides (HF 23), according to which Heracles goes down to the underworld by passing through an opening situated in the Taenarum. 57 The hypothesis is based on fr.  377, which evokes the condition of a bastard child (νόθος), a qualification that can be applied to Theseus, and on fr. 379a, in which the word ψυχαγωγός might be applied to Heracles bringing Theseus back from the underworld (cf. Eur. Alc. 1128). On Heracles liberating Theseus from the underworld, see Eur. HF 1169–71. 58 The battle between Heracles and the Keres: Hymn. orph. 12.16, Et. Mag. s.v. κήρ, where Hera­ cles is defined as κηραμύντης, ‘who repells the Keres’. The presence of Heracles in Aristias’ Keres and the satyric nature of the play can be guessed from fr. 3, which mentions a guest with an irre­ pressible appetite (ἀκρατέα νηδὺν ἔχων). On the Keres and the drama of Aristias, see Krumeich et al. 1999, 214–7, and Cipolla 2003, 95–9. 59 Μυχός may designate the underworld: see Hes. Theog. 119, Aesch. PV 433, and references given by Seaford 1984, 158. 60 An argument made by Seaford 1980. Even if we reject this hypothesis, fragments 273 and 283 attest the role of an infernal deity, Pluto, in the play. Among satyr plays that contain some refer­ ence to the world of the dead, we can note Aithon by Achaeus in which the Satyrs address their greetings to Charon (fr. 11); however, to the extent that the Erysichthon myth staged in this play has no known connection with the world of the dead, this reference to Charon should probably be interpreted in a metaphorical sense, for example that the Satyrs, terrorized by Erysichthon, believe themselves already dead (Krumeich et al. 1999, 502, n. 33), or that they compare Erysich­ thon to Charon (Cipolla 2003, 191).

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bly the Satyrs – invoking the soul of Pythionice, the courtesan of Harpalus, in order to make her emerge from the infernal depths (fr. 1.5­8).61 Besides terrestrial anodoi, the satyr drama has also been able to stage epipha­ nies from the deep sea. In Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi (The Netfishers), Danae and Perseus are rescued from drowning by the Satyrs who pull them out of the water; an experience that corresponds to a form of returning to the world of the living after a near­death experience.62 Another play by the same dramatist, Glaukos Pontios, features a scene in which Silenos and the Satyrs witness the eponymous charac­ ter emerge from the sea; an epiphany all the more striking (θαῦμα, fr. 25e.12) for Glaucus’ appearance as a ‘beast in human shape’ (ἀνθρωποειδὲς θηρίον, fr. 26), with an abundant beard (fr. 27) and his body covered with shells (cf. fr. 34). In the ensuing dialogue, Glaucus, once a mere fisherman, reveals the immortality he gained by eating a plant (fr. 28–9), probably seaweed of some sort, and tells the story of his plunge into the sea and transformation into a marine deity with oracular powers.63 Glaucus’ marine epiphany itself does not imply a return to life, or access to immortality, but allows the protagonist to tell of his transition from mortality to immortality. Another of Aeschylus’ satyr plays, Trophoi (The Nurses), depicts Dionysos’ nurses and their husbands (τὰς Διονύσου τροφοὺς μετὰ τῶν ἀνδρῶν αὐτῶν) – that is, in all probability, the nymphs and the Satyrs – rejuve­ nated by Medea after she cooks them in her cauldron.64 The outlet of the cauldron itself constitutes a kind of epiphany from a liquid element, and the rejuvenation it manifested is a way to repel death.65 Euripides’ play Alcestis testifies that the escape from the world of the dead may have constituted a theme that the Athenian public naturally associated with satyr drama. Performed during the Great Dionysia of 438 BC, Alcestis is a tragedy,

61 On the interpretation of 1–2, see O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 453, n. 5. 62 Fr. 47a.828­9: the Satyrs (or Silenos) highlight that Danae ‘has been exausted’ (τείρετο) by her stay underwater (ὕφαλος). 63 On Glaukos Pontios, and different sources about Glaucus, see Voelke 2001, 295–7. 64 Fr. 246a (= arg. ad. Eur. Med.). On Trophoi, see Di Marco 1982; Lämmle 2013, 132–40. 65 Without being connected to an epiphany, the rejuvenation theme was also present in Sopho­ cles’ Kophoi (Stupids?). In this play (fr. 362 = arg. ad Nic. Ther. 343–54; Ael. NA 6.51), some men denounced Prometheus for stealing fire and Zeus rewarded them by offering them a pharmakon to avoid ageing. Subsequently, the donkey on which the precious product had been loaded offered it to a serpent who was guarding a spring, in order to quench his thirst; snakes thus acquired the possibility of rejuvenating each year by changing their skin. In the satyric adapta­ tion of this plot, we might imagine that Prometheus’ denounders were the Satyrs, that Silenos played the donkey, and that the source guarded by the snake was a source of wine! Cf. Eur. Cycl. 133–92: Silenos sells to Odysseus the lambs and cheese of the Cyclops in exchange for wine. For an attempt to reconstruct the plot of this play, see Bates 1934.

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but was presented as the final part in a tetralogy, a position usually reserved for the satyr play. If tragedy is thus substituted for satyr drama, this substitu­ tion is made conspicuous by the maintenance within the tragedy of features specific to satyr drama.66 Like a palimpsest, the tragedy covers the satyr play, but it is the latter that remains perceptible. The satyric dimension of Alcestis is particularly incarnated in the figure of Heracles. When Heracles halts at the palace of Admetus, he has just done battle with two sons of Ares, Lycaon and Cycnus (501–4), and is on his way to Thrace to capture the anthropophagi horses of Diomedes (66–7, 481–98). The persona of Heracles who pauses at Admetus’ palace is actually the persona of Heracles usually featuring in the satyr drama : a hero confronting and neutralizing figures that embody a form of savagery and negation of the civilized order.67 At the palace, he drinks pure wine alone while screaming dissonant sounds (756–60), before departing to continue the feast with a komos (830–2); these again are typical features of Heracles as he appears in the satyr drama.68 The staging of Heracles as the hero confronting figures of savagery, and drinking without limit, is part of a strategy to make the satyr drama tangible in a tragedy that has seemingly tried to usurp its place. Subsequently, the hero pro­ poses to save the deceased wife of Admetus, Alcestis, by tearing her away from Thanatos or, if necessary, descending to the house of Kore and Hades (840–54). Indeed Heracles, hidden near Alcestis’ tomb, succeeds in seizing Thanatos and compelling him to release her back among the living. This passage from the world of the dead to the world of the living, permitted by Heracles’ interven­ tion, should be recognized as emblematic of satyr drama. While the tragedy condemns Alcestis to an inevitable and irreversible death, the satyr drama brings her back to the living.69 Indeed, Alcestis’ return seems to inject a satyri­ cal element since the heroine, presented by Heracles as a prize won in an ath­ letic contest (1025–32), appears as a mysterious object whose identity is hidden, before being gradually unveiled and recognized by her husband, Admetus. This progressive recognition leading to revelation may be compared to scenes in 66 On the satyric features of Alcestis, see Dale 1954, XVIII–XXII; Sutton 1973; Seidensticker 1982, 129–40; Ziemer 1989, 1–7; Voelke 2015/2017. Parker 2007, XXI–XXIII, wrongly sees the satyric di­ mension of the play as insignificant. 67 On the figure of Heracles in the satyr drama, see Chourmouziadis 1984, 120–64; Voelke 2001, 329–39. Seidensticker 1982, 137–8, notes that both the expedition to Thrace and the battle against Cycnus and Lycaon are ‘Satyrspiel­Heldentaten’. Cycnus gives his name to a play by Achaeus, about which we have good reason to think it a satyr drama; see Krumeich et al. 1999, 543–4; Cipolla 2003, 209–11; Lämmle 2013, 249, n. 9. 68 In Euripides’ Syleus (fr. 691), Heracles challenges his opponent to a drinking contest. 69 On this inevitable and irreversible death: 20–1, 72–6, 122–31, 357–62, 419, 455–9, 782, 962–1005. 

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satyr drama in which the Satyrs discover and seek to identify an object at once mysterious and extraordinary.70

4 Anodoi and the Bacchic Rites The recurrent anodoi motif is an element that brings satyr drama closer to the dithyramb. It remains for us to question the cultic context that could feed this characteristic common to both genres. As we have seen, the procession of the Great Dionysia could constitute a context of performance for dithyrambs to be sung and danced by a chorus dressed as satyrs. However, if such dithyrambs were asso­ ciated with the epiphany of Dionysos upon his arrival from Eleutherae, there is nothing to indicate that they could have been associated with his anodos. Even if this leads us on to uncertain terrains, I propose in conclusion to briefly investi­ gate other cultic practices, considering some iconographic materials. In the iconography, several vases present satyrs attending an anodos.71 In some of these images, the presence of Bacchae, thyrsoi, or vines confirm the Dio­ nysian character of the depicted scene. Female figures emerging from the ground may then be interpreted as Bacchants who, in a ritual setting, identify with Semele by replaying her anodos.72 On one krater in the British Museum (first quarter of the fourth century BC) (Figure 3.1), it is a male figure who, inside a cave, emerges from the ground under the eyes of a seated Dionysos; the man looks uncannily similar to the god and may here again be interpreted as a Bacchant identifying with Dionysos and replaying his anodos.73 In some images (like Figure 3.2 below), 70 On these scenes, see in particular Voelke 2001, 273–99; Lämmle 2013, 371–80. I give further analysis of the end of Alcestis in Voelke 2015/1017. 71 I rely here on images collected and analyzed by Bérard 1974, 103–15, pl. 10–13, some of which had been considered by Buschor 1937. 72 The ritual interpretation of these scenes is defended by Bérard 1974, 103–15. See also Jaccottet 2003, I. 159, on the Berlin krater (F 2646, from the early fourth century BC), now lost: ‘l’antre bacchique . . . sert de cadre à l’anodos d’une figure féminine, prototype de l’initié qui par l’effi­ cacité du rituel se sent respectivement Sémélé, ou Bakkhos / Dionysos, selon que le myste est un homme ou une femme’. See also Beazley (ARV2 1443.6) and Metzger 1951, I, 78–81, who see in the krater’s depiction a representation of an anodos of Aphrodite. 73 London, British Museum 1917, 0725.1. The legend of the image is suggested by Lada­Richards 1999, 80–1: ‘Anodos of a Dionysiac mystes in the presence of Dionysus’; cf. Jenkins and Sloan 1996, 186: ‘Dionysos rising from the Ground’; contra Metzger 1951, I, 262–5. Cf. Plut. De sera num vind. 565e­6a: the Bacchic caves resemble the chasm (χάσμα) by which Dionysos passes to bring back Semele from the world of the dead towards Olympus. On the function of the caves in Dio­ nysian rites, cf. supra n. 37.

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Figure 3.1: Man emerging from the ground. Attic red-figure bell krater (first quarter of fourth century BC). British Museum 1917,0725.1.

satyrs brandish hammers; for the ground must be hit in order to arouse anodos.74 The hammers here fulfil the same function as the Argian trumpets that call back Dionysos from the depths of the underworld. They play the same role, in certain circumstances, as the din of the dithyramb, and the jumps and kicks of the Satyrs in Sophocles’ Ichneutai. I will close by attempting to interpret an Attic lekythos dated from 525­500 BC (Figure 3.3a–b), which depicts two young people, each riding a dolphin, as Arion had done in Herodotus’ tale.75 One of them approaches a satyr perched on a

74 On this interpretation, see Bérard 1974, 75–87. Contra: Krumeich et al. 1999, 57, n. 72. On anodos in the presence of satyrs holding hammers, see Melbourne, National Gallery of Victoria D1.1976 (Figure 3.2). Bérard 1974, 113–4, rightly interprets the scene as purely Dionysian (as shown in particular by the thyrsos on the ground), while Beazley (ARV2 1450.6) identifies the feminine figure emerging from the ground as Aphrodite. 75 Baltimore, Museum of Art 60.55.1, on loan to the Johns Hopkins Archaeological Museum (CVA Baltimore, Robinson Collection 1, 51, pl. 37, 3a–3c, which already suggests the parallel with Arion). For an interpretation similar to the one given here, see Schwarz 2005, with further biblio­ graphy (p. 44, n. 36).

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Figure 3.2: Woman emerging from the ground and satyrs brandishing hammers. Attic red-figure bell krater (mid-fourth century BC). Melbourne, National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne D1–1976.

Figure 3.3a–b: Two young people riding a dolphin. Attic lekythos (c. 525–500 BC). Baltimore, Museum of Art 1960.55.1

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vine­covered rock; the satyr pours the young man a drink who hands the satyr a phiale. We might be tempted to compare this scene with the texts inscribed on two gold lamellae found at Pelinna, Thessaly, and dated from the fourth century BC.76 Discovered in a tomb on the chest of the deceased woman, they attest to the ritual initiation that had been accomplished as part of what we know today as the Dionysian Mysteries. The Dionysian aspect is guaranteed by the shape of the lamella – an ivy leaf – and by reference in the text to the liberating action of the Bacchic god (Βχιος αὐτὸς ἔλυσε, 2). This initiation guarantees for the deceased woman that the day of her death will also be the day of her rebirth into blissful happiness (νῦν ἔθανες καὶ νῦν ἐγένου, τρισόλβιε, ἄματι τῶιδε, 1). The text continues: ‘Bull, you jumped into milk. Quickly you jumped into milk. Ram, you fell into milk. You have wine as your fortunate honor’ (2–5).77 The jump into milk has been interpreted in various ways, and particularly as a metaphor for the new birth promised to the initiate.78 For his part, Christopher Faraone interprets the milk as a metaphor for the foam of the sea; the jump into the milk would therefore evoke a leap into the sea, modelled on the one made by Dionysos while fleeing Lycurgus.79 Just as Dio­ nysos experiences, by his plunge, a form of vulnerability, before being collected by the goddess Thetis, so the plunge into the milk would represent for the initiate the experience of death which precedes a rebirth into a new life. On the lamel­ lae of Pelinna, the happiness associated with this new life is represented by the wine offered to the initiate; on other lamellae, the rebirth following the plunge is described as an access to divine status.80 On the lekythos, the young people might represent the initiates who, after the experience of death (the plunge into the sea), know a new birth (the epiphany out of water, on the back of dolphins) that allows them to access the happiness of a new life (the wine offered by the satyr), and a divine status (suggested by the phiale offered by the young man).81 The presence of the dolphins, which draws out the resemblance to the story of

76 Orph. fr. 485­6 Bernabé. 77 ταῦρος εἰς γάλα ἔθορες. | αἶψα εἰς γάλα ἔθορες. | κριὸς εἰς γάλα ἔπεσ. | οἶνον ἔχεις εὐδίμονα τιμὴ. Trans. Graf and Johnston 2007, 37. 78 Graf and Johnston 2007, 128–9. 79 Il. 6, 130–40. See Faraone 2011, 321–6. 80 Orph. fr. 487. 4 Bernabé: θεὸς ἐγένου ἐξ ἀνθρώπου. ἔριφος ἐς γάλα ἔπετες (‘You have become a god instead of a mortal. A kid you fell into milk’, trans. Graf and Johnston 2007, 9); 488, 10–1 : ὄλβιε καὶ μακαριστέ, θεὸς δ’ ἔσηι ἀντὶ βροτοῖο. | ἔριφος ἐς γάλ’ ἔπετον (‘Happy and blessed, you will be a god instead of a mortal. A kid I fell into milk’, trans. Graf and Johnston 2007, 13). 81 Cf. Shapiro 1989, 61, who recognizes the young man as Apollo and considers the phiale he is holding a divine feature.

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Arion, that tutelary figure of the dithyramb, may also suggest the function played by the dithyramb in the initiation. In our search for a cultic context that might have nourished the relationship between the dithyramb, the satyric drama and the anodoi, these iconographic testimonies, and the texts in which they find resonance, thus orient us towards the direction of the Bacchic mysteries.82

82 I warmly thank Magali de Haro Sanchez and Jon Wilcox for the English translation.

Richard Seaford

4 Urban Centre and Mountainous Periphery in Dionysiac Drama This paper centres on an unexplored paradox contained in what is almost certainly the oldest surviving fragment of satyric drama, by Pratinas of Phleious. The paradox is that the chorus of satyrs claim aggressively to belong at the Dionysiac θυμέλα (the altar at the heart of the city) while simultaneously describing themselves as ‘rushing over the mountains with the Naiads’. I will describe the survival of this paradox in subsequent passages from Dionysiac choral performance (satyric drama, dithyramb, Euripides’ Bacchae), and relate it to the political imperative of integrating the periphery of the polis with its urban centre. I begin by quoting the Pratinas fragment in full. ⟨ΧΟ⟩  τίς ὁ θόρυβος ὅδε; τί τάδε τὰ χορεύματα; τίς ὕβρις ἔμολεν ἐπὶ Διονυσιάδα πολυπάταγα θυμέλαν; ἐμὸς ἐμὸς ὁ Βρόμιος, ἐμὲ δεῖ κελαδεῖν, ἐμὲ δεῖ παταγεῖν ἀν’ ὄρεα σύμενον μετὰ Ναϊάδων οἷά τε κύκνον ἄγοντα ποικιλόπτερον μέλος. τὰν ἀοιδὰν κατέστασε Πιερὶς βασίλειαν· ὁ δ’ αὐλός ὕστερον χορευέτω· καὶ γάρ ἐσθ’ ὑπηρέτας. κώμῳ μόνον θυραμάχοις τε πυγμαχίαισι νέων θέλοι παροίνων . ἔμμεναι στρατηλάτας παῖε τὸν φρυνεοῦ ποικίλου πνοὰν ἔχοντα·

φλέγε τὸν ὀλεσιαλοκάλαμον, λαλοβαρύοπα ραμελορυθμοβάταν †θυπα τρυπάνῳ δέμας πεπλασμένον. ἦν ἰδού· ἅδε σοι δεξιᾶς καὶ ποδὸς διαρριφά·

θριαμβοδιθύραμβε, κισσόχαιτ’ ἄναξ, ἄκουε τὰν ἐμὰν Δώριον χορείαν.1

5

10

15

1 Fr. 3, preserved at Athenaeus 14.617c–f: I cite this and other satyric fragments from the editon by Krumeich, Pechstein, and Seidensticker 1999. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-005

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 Richard Seaford

What uproar is this? What dances are these? What outrageous behaviour has come to Dionysos’ much-clattering altar? Bromius is mine, mine! It is I who must shout, I who must create a clatter as I rush over the mountains with Naiads, like a swan producing its song of various plumes. Pieris established song as queen; let the pipe dance in second place, for it is a servant! Let it aspire to be general only for revelling and for the fist-fights of drunken young men in front of doors. Strike the one who has the breath of a spotted toad! Burn the chatteringly-deep-voiced, against-rhythm-and-song-marching, spit-wasting reed, whose body is moulded by an augur! Look at this! Here is a tossing of my right hand and my foot for you! Thriambos, Dithyrambos, ivy-crowned lord – listen, listen to my Doric dance-song!2

The contradiction is that the chorus is claiming simultaneously two quite different habitats, on the one hand the much frequented Dionysiac altar (θυμέλα) and on the other the mountains where they rush with Naiads. Their urging of violence in their subsequent words (‘Strike … Burn …’) suggests that they are aggressively rushing into the area around the θυμέλα. It is they (not whom they find there) who must shout and clatter (παταγεῖν, picking up πολυπάταγα of the altar), while ‘rushing’ (σύμενον). But the rushing they specify is not at the altar but on the mountains with Naiads. I will return eventually to this contradiction. But first I must clarify various other features of the fragment. For what kind of performance was it written? Pratinas was from Phleious in the northern Peloponnese. The Suda reports that he was the first to write satyr dramas, that he competed in Athens in the 70th Olympiad (499-6 BC), and that thirty-two of his fifty plays were satyric (suggesting that his satyr dramas were all – or almost all – stand-alone performances, before the institution of the tetralogy). In one Hellenistic epigram by Dioscorides (Anth. Pal. 7.37) a satyr says that Sophocles took him from Phleious, where he was made of wood and still trod the threshing machine, and gave him a golden form and clothed him in fine purple. And in another (7.707) the archaism of the dramatist Sositheus in third-century BC Alexandria is associated with wearing ivy in a manner worthy of the ‘satyrs of Phleious’. The ancient rusticity of the dramatic satyrs was lastingly associated with Pratinas, and this coheres with the ancient reports that satyr drama was instituted 2 This translation is taken (with some changes) from Olson (2011). All other translations are by myself.

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in order to preserve the relation to Dionysos in the dramatic festival.3 That our fragment is sung by satyrs is confirmed by comparison with the only surviving entry song of satyrs that is certainly complete, from Euripides’ Cyclops: here the satyrs complain that they are not singing with the nymphs on Mount Nysa or ‘flying’ with the maenads (68–72), complain also of their subjection to Polyphemus, and say to the absent Dionysos (76) ‘I am your follower’. In Pratinas the satyrs, resentful of potential subjection to the pipe-player, describe themselves as ‘rushing over the mountains with Naiads’ and declare that ‘mine, mine is Bromius’ (Dionysos). This rules out the suggestion that our fragment is in fact from a dithyramb of the late fifth century, and so is by another (otherwise completely unknown) Pratinas.4 One of the proponents of this view, Zimmerman, stated in 1986 that the fragment is sung not by satyrs but merely by a Dionysiac thiasos, and compared the parodos of Euripides’ Bacchae. But the maenadic thiasos of Bacchae, despite being mythical, do not claim that they must rush over the mountains with satyrs. It is not the late fifth-century human performers of dithyramb who appropriate Dionysos and claim to rush with Naiads over the mountains: it is satyrs.5 Given that, as Mark Grifith noted it in 2013, it ‘does now seem incontrovertible’ that the fragment is from a satyr drama,6 and that it is unlike the other fragments of satyr drama, it is unsurprising that (as we will see ) it turns out to be precisely the kind of satyric song that we would expect of the transitional phase from ritual to drama. For instance, the song is indeed somewhat dithryambic. Dionysos is addressed by the satyrs as θριαμβοδιθύραμβε (16). In 10–14 a musical instrument used by the Donysiac thiasos is described in elaborately periphrastic terms of its qualities, components and manufacture. This very specific topos7 appears also in a later dithyramb by Telestes: (1) PMG 808: ἄλλος δ’ ἄλλαν κλαγγὰν ἱεὶς κερατόφωνον ἐρέθιζε μάγαδιν πενταρράβδῳ χορδᾶν ἀρθμῷ.8

3 Seaford 1984, 11–12. 4 True, the fragment has various features resembling dithyrambs of the late fifth and early fourth centuries (Jungdithyrambos). But we cannot say that they did not also characterise early satyric performances (for which we have no text other than Pratinas), especially if – I have argued (see fotnote 10 below) – they originate in ritual. 5 For Naiads Zimmerman mentions in a footnote the dithyrambic fr. 70b of Pindar, where however the dithyramb is an imaginary one performed by various deities. 6 Griffith 2013b, 273. 7 Seaford 1977–8. 8 ἀρθμῷ is Bergk’s correction of ms. ἀρθιμῷ

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Each giving out a different strum aroused the horn-voiced harp with a five-rodded joining of strings.

Similar are (2) Telestes PMG 805(c) – on pipe-playing (αὐλητική): ἃν συνεριθοτάταν Βρομίῳ παρέδωκε σεμνᾶς δαίμονος ἀερόεν πνεῦμ᾽ αἰολοπτέρυγον σὺν ἀγλαᾶν ὠκύτατι χειρῶν. which to Bromius to be his closest helper the breezy, quick-fluttering breath of the venerable goddess gave together with the swiftness of her shining hands. (3) Telestes PMG 806.4 πνεύματος εὔπτερον αὔραν ἀμφιπλέκων καλάμοις. interweaving a well-winged gust of breath with the reeds. (4) In Sophocles’ Ichneutai (300–24) the chorus of satyrs, having heard the sound of the newly invented lyre, are given by Cyllene various descriptions of a tortoise (including the riddling ‘in death the creature got a voice, in life it was voiceless’) before she reveals the names ‘tortoise’ and ‘lyre’. (5) In the parodos of Euripides’ Bacchae, which is certainly dithryambic,9 the chorus of maenads describe the invention by the Korybantes of ‘this hide-stretched circle’ (βυρσότονον κύκλωμα τόδε), which they ‘mixed with the sweet-shouting breath of Phrygian pipes and put in the hand of mother Rhea, a beat for the bacchants’ cries of joy. And the frenzied satyrs obtained it from the mother goddess and attached it to the dances of the biennial festivals in which Dionysos rejoices’. (124–34).

Of the three fragments of Telestes (1) is attributed to a dithyramb, while (2) and (3) have no generic attribution but may well be dithyrambic10; (4) and (5) involve dramatic choruses of the followers of Dionysos. Except for (1), the periphrasis stands in for the name of the instrument, which in (2), (4) and (5) is newly invented or introduced; in Pratinas the pipe (aulos) is named, albeit six lines earlier than the elaborate periphrasis. There is a chorus of satyrs not only in (4) and (5) but also in the earliest instance of the topos, our fragment of Pratinas. I have argued in detail elsewhere that the topos was not invented ex nihilo by the ‘Jungdithyrambos’ but belongs to a broader topos of dithyramb and satyr drama, involving various inventions and riddling language, that originates in

9 Seaford 1996, 156. 10 [Plut.] De mus. 1132e reveals that Timotheus employed in his νόμοι the λέξις of dithyramb.

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mystic initiation.11 Given that Aristotle in Poetics chapter 4 stated that tragedy came into being from improvisation and from the leaders of the dithyramb, and developed from the satyr-play-like (ἐκ σατυρικοῦ), there is no inconsistency in a satyric song being dithyrambic. Indeed, the dithyramb was (originally) sung in precisely the kind of processional escort of Dionysos in which satyrs might participate, and which, as a prelude to the stationary songs (stasima) of tragedy, is beautifully exemplified in the dithyrambic-theatrical entry-song (parodos) of the thiasos escorting Dionysos into Thebes in Euripides’ Bacchae.12 The dithyrambic entry of the satyrs in our fragment is precisely what we would expect of the proto-satyr dramas of Pratinas. On the other hand one feature of the Pratinas passage contrasts with our five passages quoted above: the periphrastically described musical instrument is an object of hostility, even violence.13 The theme of self-representational confrontation between an entering Dionysiac chorus and an individual survived, albeit in a more attenuated form than in Pratinas. The entry of Euripides’ Cyclops is, despite the detailed similarities we have noted with Pratinas, not confrontational (Polyphemus is away); but it reminds Silenos of an entry that was confrontational, the satyrs᾽ aggressive14 komastic escort of Dionysos to the house of Oineus for sexual union with Oineus’ wife Althaea. And of course the Cyclops as a whole involves confrontation of a kind that was typical of the genre,15 between the chorus of satyrs and their temporary master. As for the only other extant drama with a Dionysiac thiasos as chorus, the Bacchae, the chorus is told by the god – as it enters singing a dithyramb – to beat their drums around the house of Pentheus, ‘so that the polis sees’ (60–1); and it also demands that whoever is in the palace come out (69). This is the drumming to which Pentheus (like Polyphemus on his arrival at Cyclops 205) is hostile (513–4), and which will almost certainly represent the thunder and earthquake that cause the house of Pentheus to collapse.16 We turn now to the object of the choral confrontation in Pratinas. Athenaeus, who cites the fragment, preserves the information that it expresses anger that, 11 Seaford 1976; Seaford 1977–8; see also Mendelsohn 1991–2. 12 Seaford 1994, 241–2, 267–70; 1996, 155–7; 2012, 84–5, 97–102. 13 This resembles the violent attacks on an individual by entering choruses in Aristophanes. I cannot deal with this issue here, except to say that the resemblance is not to be explained by Aristophanean influence (on an imagined late-fifth century Pratinas): comedy evolved later than tragedy and satyric drama, and it is quite possible that Old Comedy and Pratinas both perpetuate pre-dramatic traditions of choral aggression, which is known from ritual. 14 39 συνασπίζοντες, ‘bearing shields with’, evokes the sometimes bellicose nature of the amorous κῶμος: see my Commentary (1996) ad loc. 15 Seaford 1984, 33–6. 16 Seaford 1996, 195.

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since the pipe-players and choral dancers dominating the dancing places are paid (μισθοφόρων), the pipe-players are not accompanying the choruses, as was traditional, but the choruses the pipe-players. This information is crucial. The paid performers targeted by Pratinas’ satyrs were a feature of the monetised formalisation and urban professionalisation that restricted the tradition of amateur improvisation and spontaneity, thereby contributing to the genesis of drama.17 It is as a reaction against these developments that the satyrs claim that their place is both on the mountains and at the heart of the city. The intrusion of paid professionalism into traditional satyric performance had probably already occurred, not far from Phleious, in Corinth. Here, Herodotus tells us (1.23–4), Arion of Lesbos spent ‘most of his time’ with the tyrant Periander (c. 627-587 BC), but also earned much money (χρήματα μεγάλα) on a trip to Italy and Sicily. Individual Greeks did not readily leave their birthplaces, but professionals would do so for fees.18 Herodotus also tells us that Arion was the first person known to have composed, named, and taught a dithyramb at Corinth. And the Suda entry under Arion adds that he was the first to (inter alia) introduce satyrs speaking verses. The traditional, processional dithyramb, which might escort Dionysos, was (as already noted) precisely the kind of song that might be sung by satyrs. The professional formalisation of the traditional (and probably satyric) dithyramb at Corinth under Periander by Arion was accompanied by the use of precious metal money as a new and uniquely effective means of deploying the various resources and various actions required for the kind of spectacular festival promoted by the Greek tyrants. It was in such a festival, promoted by the tyrants at Athens, the City Dionysia, that satyr drama and tragedy were regularly performed. Precious metal money was already a feature of the laws passed at Athens by Arion’s contemporary Solon. Coinage was introduced into Athens later than Solon, perhaps under the tyrants, in the years leading up to the reorganisation of the City Dionysia. The θυμέλα specified by Pratinas (rather than the other words for altar) was in Athens the altar in Dionysos’ dancing area in the theatre at the heart of the city. Given that money – especially in the form of coinage – was more common in the city than on the mountainous periphery,19 the spatial opposition evoked by Pratinas’ satyrs has an economic dimension. In the scanty remains of satyr drama, as well as in myth, the satyrs’ father Silenos is either contemptuous or ignorant of the power of money. For instance20 in Sophocles’ Ichneutai the gold 17 For detail see Seaford 2012, 106–13. 18 E.g. the doctor Democedes: Hdt. 3.131. 19 And even than in the countryside generally: e.g. Ar. Ach. 33–6. 20 See also Aesch. fr. 78a.35; Eur. fr. 372; Achaeus’ (probably satyric) Kyknos fr. 25 Snell; Seaford 2003.

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offered by Apollo as a reward for finding his cattle is welcomed by Silenos to be worn as a crown.21 In Euripides’ Cyclops Silenos, after tasting Odysseus’ wine, rejects his additional offer of currency (νόμισμα), offering instead all the flocks of all the Cyclopes in return for a single cupful (156–65). In Euripides’ Skiron a satyr (or Silenos), probably in charge of a brothel belonging to Skiron, identifies coins with the young horses or virgins (both with erotic associations) stamped on them (fr. 675). It was Silenos (or a satyr) who deflated the pretention of Midas.22 In Pindar (fr. 157) Silenos said to Olympus ‘you say foolish things to me in boasting of money (χρήματα)’.23 There is more. Our spatial opposition goes with an opposition not only between the premonetary and the monetised but also between forms of association. Bacchic dancing in which people imitate nymphs, pans, satyrs and silens and perform purifications and mystic initiations is called by Plato (Laws 815c) οὐ πολιτικόν. It is ‘not of the polis’, not merely in a spatial sense (satyrs etc. belong to the remote periphery) but also by virtue of the solidarity of those initiated into the Dionysiac thiasos with an identity both bestial and immortal. And yet the drama that developed out of such dancing was performed at the centre of the town in a festival organised by the polis. Satyric perfomance unites not only periphery and urban centre but also thiasos and polis. This does not mean that the spatial dimension is itself unimportant. The territorial integrity of the Athenian polis was expressed in cult that linked the town to the borders, notably by means of processions between town and border sanctuaries.24 Mid-sixth century Attica was riven by three factions, those of the coast, those of the plain, and those of (or beyond)25 the mountains. These last, reported subsequently to be the most democratic of the factions, were championed by the populist tyrant Peisistratus.26 The subsequent reforms of Kleisthenes were designed to integrate the Attic territory, and were characterised by Aristotle as bringing together private cults into a few communal ones and mixing up the citizens as much as possible (Politics 1319b 24–6). This occurred in the decade preceding the years for which we first hear of Pratinas producing plays at Athens. From an aristocratic perspective, the Megarian Theognis complains of the transformation into ‘good men’ of those who in the past were lawless and wore goat-

21 51–2; though cf. 162, 208. 22 First in Aristotle fr. 44 Rose. 23 Cf. the satyric fr. trag. adesp. 381. 24 Seaford 2012, 46–50. 25 Called Διακρίοι in the Aristotelian Ath. Pal. 13.4, ῾Υπερακρίοι in Herodotus (1.59). 26 Ath. Pol. 13.4; Plut. Sol. 13.

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skins outside the polis (53–8). In an aition of Attic comedy farmers enter the city to proclaim their grievances.27 The periphery of Attica was formed not only by mountains (like Phleious’), but also by sea. Accordingly, Dionysos enters Athens from the mountains and from the sea. At the City Dionysia (in honour of Dionysos Eleuthereus, from Eleutherae) there is a symbolic ‘bringing in’ (εἰσαγωγή) of Dionysos in celebration of his original arrival from Eleutherae in the mountainous border area between Attica and Boiotia.28 As for the sea, at the other major Dionysiac festival at Athens, the Anthesteria, there may well have occurred a procession in which Dionysos was escorted by pipe-playing satyrs in a wheeled ship: we have Athenian vase-paintings of such a procession from about 500 BC, and at Smyrna (at least in the second century AD) in the month Anthesterion (February to March) a trireme was steered to the agora by the priest of Dionysos ‘like a pilot, as it comes from the sea’.29 In the same period (February or March) on the remote island of Skyros a ship is still wheeled from the harbour to the agora, where satirical verses are delivered from the ship,30 as part of a festival (apokries, carnival) dominated by men called ‘yeroi’ (i.e. old men) moving rhythmically through the streets clad and masked in animal skins (mainly goat), carrrying shepherds’ crooks and wearing sheep bells. In the wheeled ship and the yeroi we can still experience the dramatic irruption from the periphery – sea and mountainside – into the town.31 An event that certainly occurred at the Athenian Anthesteria32 is described in the Aristotelian Constitution of Athens (3.5): the basileus [king] once occupied what is now called the Boukoleion near the Prytaneion. An indication of this is that even now the symmeixis [ceremonial meeting] of the wife of the basileus [i.e. of the elected magistrate called basileus; elsewhere she is called βασίλιννα, ‘queen’] and Dionysos takes place there and the gamos (marriage, sex).

27 Schol. Dion. Thr. p.18.15 Hilgard. 28 Csapo and Slater 1995, 105, 110–1; Seaford 1994, 240–5. 29 Philostratus V. Soph. 1.25.1; more material in Burkert 1983, 200. 30 Cf. ‘jokes from the waggons᾽ mocking bystanders at the Anthesteria and Lenaia: Photius (and Suda) s.v. τὰ ἐκ τῶν ἁμάξων. 31 The yeroi are traditonally accompanied by men dressed as girls (the κοπέλες) and as foreigners (the φράγκοι), expressing, I suggest, three of the four polarites that subtend Euripides’ Bacchae: human-animal, male-female, and Greek-foreigner (the fourth, that is, mortal-immortal, now belongs to the church). Lawson (1910) describes only the yeroi (224–5), but also similar winter practices elsewhere in Greece, which he regards as of Dionysiac origin. The festive practice of wearing satyr masks was banned by the Council in Trullo of 692 AD at Constantinople; for the twelfth century see Balsamon, Patrologia Graeca 137.230–1. 32 [Apollod.] Against Neaira 73; Parker 2005, 303–4.

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This ritual may be reflected in an Athenian vase-painting in which Dionysos is escorted by a satyr towards a threshold within which sits a bride.33 As in the wheeled ship procession, so too perhaps in his erotic arrival at the royal house Dionysos was imagined as (or even actually was) escorted by satyrs. Sex between Dionysos as guest and the daughter or wife of the house occurs in myths:34 we have already seen the example of Althaea, which was probably enacted in a satyr drama.35 The Pronomos vase36 shows a complete satyric chorus surrounding Dionysos, who is in an erotic posture with a female, presumably Ariadne, who may have been associated with the ritual in the Boukoleion: Theseus, as prototype of the Athenian ‘king’ magistrate, was required to surrender Ariadne to Dionysos.37 I have elsewhere discussed the political significance of this complex of ritual and myth, in which a god of the whole polis limits the autonomy of the ruling household.38 The Boukoleion is said in our report of the ritual to be near the Prytaneion, which had been the home of the chief magistrate and was the symbolic centre of the city. It was argued by Sourvinou-Inwood that in an early form of the City Dionysia the orginal arrival of Dionysos was re-enacted by escorting him to the Prytaneion for a xenismos which ‘involved, among other things, the thing out of which tragedy developed, taking place in and probably outside the Prytaneion’.39 I have supported and expanded this argument, emphasising its connection with the fact that so many tragedies begin with the arrival of the chorus at a royal house.40 The opening of Euripides’ Bacchae, whose archaic language and metre41 and Dionysiac theme42 take us back to the earliest tragedies, encapsulates the genesis of tragedy in the confrontational dithyrambic arrival of Dionysos’ and his choral escort in front of the royal house. The encapsulation brings us back finally to the contradiction with which we started. The satyric performances scripted by Pratinas (32 of his 50 plays) left – we have seen – a memory of the traditional rusticity of his satyrs, but they were 33 This is argued by Simon 1963; Seaford 2012, 86. 34 Karya, Erigone (Ov. Met. 6.125), Althaea. 35 Seaford 1984, 105. 36 Frequently reproduced, e.g. Seaford 1984, opposite p. 54; Krumeich et al. 1999, Tafel 8–9. 37 Simon 1963, 6–22; Seaford 2012, 87. 38 Seaford 2012, 87–95 39 Sourvinou-Inwood 2003, 280. 40 Seaford 2012, 75–95, etc. 41 Dodds 1960, xxxvii–viii; Seaford 1996, 198. 42 For the earliest themes of tragedy as Dionysiac see the ancient scholarship assembled under Thespis T18 Snell. This coheres with Aristole on the origin of tragedy in the dithyramb and the σατυρικόν.

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performed at the θυμέλα in the centre of the city. Satyrs were – in vase-painting and in texts – essentially in motion: over the mountains, in the dithyrambic procession, escorting Dionysos into town or to a royal house, sweeping – as in Pratinas – into the orchestra, in the remains of satyr drama (Sophocles’ Ichneutai for instance) prone to frequent agitated movement. However, the Dionysiac performance that developed at the heart of the city, first at the central dwelling called Prytaneion, became – with the advantage of a hillside for a large audience in the sanctuary of Dionysos, typically before the representation of a royal dwelling – increasingly static. No longer was there focus on irruption from the periphery. Reaction against such loss motivated the formal institution of satyr drama in every tetralogy. The contradiction in Pratinas (the satyrs claim both mountains and θυμέλα) was resolved by a formalised bifurcation of the genres, in which tragedy, developing away from the σατυρικόν, tended to be located in the town, at a royal house, whereas satyr drama was generally located in the countryside.43 But in both genres there are exceptions. The only extant tragedy on one of the few myths of Dionysos (the themes of the earliest tragedies), Euripides’ Bacchae, preserves an early stage of the bifurcation: the Dionysiac thiasos (the chorus) sweeps into the orchestra to confront the royal house, but three other Donysiac thiasoi are on the mountainside, and the chorus keep singing of the joys of the mountainside (76, 135–41, 154, 164, 410–16, 554–65, 977–86). Politically, the unity of the Theban territory is affirmed: Pentheus plans to send a military force against the maenads on the slopes of Kithairon (780–5), where in the end there will be maenadism (1384–7) as part of the cult that Dionysos came to Thebes to establish. An exceptional example of a tragedy actually set in the mountains is Euripides’ Antiope, at a cave-shrine of Dionysos at Eleutherae (on the border between Theban and Athenian territory), from which his journey to Athens was annually celebrated at the dramatic festival: the play had a chorus of Attic farmers and a secondary chorus of maenads accompanying the doomed Dirce from Thebes.44 This surely exemplified the politics of cultic space. The ancient satyrs of Pratinas, after their claim to rush over the mountains, express disdain for the urban κῶμος indicated by ‘fist-fights of drunken young men in front of doors’. But this does not mean that satyrs avoid the town completely, whether in drama or in festival. In Sophocles’ (almost certainly satyric) Inachos a god (Zeus) arrives at a royal house for sex with the king’s daughter45: similarly satyrs were imagined as escorting Dionysos to a house for sex both at 43 A fact reflected in Horace’s Ars Poetica 244–5 and Vitruvius 5.6.9. 44 Collard, Cropp, and Gibert 2004, 259–325. For the influence on extant tragedy generally of the Dionysiac cult in which it originated and continued to be performed, see Seaford 1994; 2012. 45 Fr. 269a.33, 35; fr. 269c.42; fr. 277 (the erotic in the house).

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the centre of Athens (perhaps with the ‘queen’) and (probably) in a satyr drama about Dionysos and Althaea – with a vivacity that in the only surviving satyric prologue was chosen as paradigmatic of the satyric parodos. In satyr drama location on a mountainside (Aetna) did not preclude nostalgia for the mountainside: in the parodos of Cyclops (and perhaps in other, lost satyr dramas) the satyrs regret that they are not on another mountain (Nysa) revelling with the nymphs. But this is a pale reflection of their much earlier vigorous claim to rush over the mountains with Naiads in Pratinas. The self-confidently vibrant aggression of the satyric associates of Dionysos in Pratinas was on the cusp between the festive unruliness of traditional satyr-impersonators and scripted performance, between awesome irruption from periphery into the centre and static, formalised performance at the centre. The organised, monetised formalisation was bound to prevail, albeit not without the formal preservation of the Dionysiac by the institution of satyr drama, in which the satyrs are assured of space in the countryside, generally leaving the town to tragedy. The dramatic expression of the contradiction – or unity – of mountainous periphery with urban centre is lost. Satyr drama was instituted in the tetralogy at a time when the overcoming of political conflict between periphery and town, in part by the Peisistratean aggrandisement of festivals, with predramatic Dionysiac performances for the whole polis, was in still living memory. But the continuing growth of the town, and consolidation of the polis, produced a more extensive and autonomous urban milieu in which the traditional irruption of the satyrs, with its integrative opposition between the periphery and the centre of the polis, would gradually become remote from once powerful but increasingly forgotten predramatic custom, and lose not only its popular necessity but eventually also, as in the vast territories of the Hellenistic kingdoms, the geographical basis of its original political significance. The satyric dramatist most esteemed in antiquity was Aeschylus,46 whose satyric fragments (as do those of Sophocles) compare favourably with Euripides’ Cyclops (written after 411 BC), in which the once vibrantly rustic autonomy of the satyrs has been diminished by assimilation, in both form and content, to tragedy.47 The bond between tragedy and satyr drama, being originally based on a conservative complementarity between them, was inevitably loosened, eventually to disappear entirely.48 Without a distinctive raison d’être of its own, satyr drama was susceptible to assimilation to tragedy and comedy,49 or eventually even to 46 Pausanias 2.13.6, who after Aeschylus ranks Aristias and his father Pratinas; Diog.Laert. 2.133. 47 Seaford 1984, 16–18. 48 Seaford 1984, 24–6. 49 Seaford 1984, 16–21; Lämmle 2013, 29–50.

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pastoral poetry. In the third century BC Sositheus (as we saw) aimed to reintroduce the archaic rusticity of Pratinas’ satyrs into the large city of Alexandria, but of his two known (probably) satyric plays one, that is, Daphnis or Lityerses, was about the inventor of bucolic song. The role that later satyr drama was left with,50 to embody rus in urbe, could be performed, and was eventually largely inherited, by pastoral poetry. The paradox of the followers of Dionysos belonging to both periphery and centre was at its most startling in when it was most politically urgent, in the early fifth century. Eventually, in the Hellenistic kingdoms, it lost its political foundation.

50 This is not to deny the continuing role of the satyrs in the religious imagination, based on mystic initiation (e.g., in the Pompeian Villa of the Mysteries), but this had – in contrast to Athens circa 500 BC – no political expression.

Part II: Language, Style and Metre

Willeon Slenders

5 ΔιαλαλΗσωμΕν τι σοι: ʻColloquialisms’ in Satyr Drama 1 Introduction This article aims to give a picture of the use of colloquialisms in satyr drama by means of some exemplary categories and does not pretend to present an exhaustive discussion.1 The chosen categories show that satyr drama, compared with the other two dramatic genres in its use of colloquialisms, hardly deviates qualitatively from tragedy, except for some cases where subjects or motives do not suit tragedy and go better with comedy. According to the communis opinio satyr drama exhibits more so-called colloquialisms or elements of the spoken language than tragedy, but fewer than comedy.2 In view of the nature of satyr drama, this is in agreement with our expectations, but it is almost impossible to provide solid proof of this. The main problem here is the evidence. For research into the elements of spoken language native speakers are indispensable, either in person or in the form of sound-recording media. This kind of evidence, of course, is not available for ancient Greek, which has been handed down exclusively in the form of written texts, most of which are literary. In addition, ancient Greek lacks the abundance of the sources of spoken language which Latin has at its disposal, such as graffiti found daubed on all kinds of surfaces.3 Another problem is the fact that people often interpret and even complete written texts according to their own experience in oral communication.4 Furthermore, poetic texts are often governed by metrical laws which can impose certain expressions or forbid others. Just like the language of tragedy and comedy, the language of satyr drama is a Kunstsprache, an artificially built language.

1 The results of this article have been taken from my research into the language and style of the classical Greek satyr drama, published in my dissertation (Slenders 2007). A monograph on this subject (in English) is forthcoming. All translations are mine unless stated otherwise. 2 So Stevens 1937, 182; Guggisberg 1947, 44; Sutton 1980a, 142; Seaford 1984, 47–8; Lämmle 2013, 64–5; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 132; Shaw 2014, 3; Collard 2018, 30. 3 See Hiersche 1970, 73. 4 See Versteegh 2002, 53: ‘We are so accustomed to supplementing the written record of the present automatically with our own experience in oral communication, that we tend to lose sight of the fact that the past data always use the medium of writing and are therefore always affected by the norm of the written standard. With regard to past linguistic situations we do not have the possibility of supplementing these data from the actual linguistic situation’. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-006

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Still, the matter is not entirely unsolvable. Everyone who pores over a great deal of ancient Greek, will notice while reading comedies and tragedies  – and especially when comparing these two genres – that in individual texts there are different stylistic registers. Particularly, depending on a personage or a given situation, alternations can be found between high, neutral and low registers, which then also can range between cultivated spoken language, slang, argot and vulgarisms, as Aristophanes (fr. 706) states himself: διάλεκτον ἔχοντα μέσην πόλεως οὔτ᾿ ἀστείαν ὑποθηλυτέραν οὔτ᾿ ἀνελεύθερον ὑπαγροικοτέραν . with an average city language, neither elegant and too effeminate, or vulgar and too rustic.

2 Spoken Language Many scholars use different terms for elements of spoken language, which nevertheless, are by no means synonymous with each other but can reflect several different levels within the spoken language.5 The most frequently used English term is ‘colloquialisms’, but even this term is ambiguous because of the various definitions attached to it. Besides, this term is often used to designate several lower registers. Another important problem is the criteria applied to identify elements of spoken language. Pioneering work in this field, in particular regarding tragedy, has been done by Stevens, who has worked for years to find a definition, as well as criteria and elements of spoken language in Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides respectively. He concluded his research with the publication of his ‘Colloquial Expressions in Euripides’, which has been the major study of colloquialisms in classical Greek ever since.6 In order to come to a sound definition of ‘colloquialisms’ and fixed criteria, I have taken this work of Stevens as a point of departure. Subsequently, his criteria have been combined with those of later studies7 and this combination has been adapted to the needs of my research into satyr drama. As for Stevens, he

5 Collard 2005, 357, gives a survey of the many terms used for ‘spoken language’ and underlines the vagueness of the differentiations within the spoken language. Collard 2018, 23–30, elaborates on this survey and gives an update of the contributions over recent years. 6 Stevens 1976. Recently, this work has been revised and further expanded by Collard 2018. 7 Collard 1978, Landfester 1997, Collard 2005 and especially Collard 2018.

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defines ‘neutral language’ as words and expressions which do not have a special connotation and to the same extent fit in every context. Under ‘colloquial’, then, he understands: ‘not merely words and expressions that are likely to occur in ordinary conversation, since this consists largely of neutral language, but the kind of language that in a poetic or prosaic context would stand out however slightly as having a ‘distinctively conversational flavour’.8 So, words can be colloquial by nature, but more often this colouring is set by usage and idiom.

3 Pragmatics The approach by López Eire in his research into colloquialisms in the comedies of Aristophanes is of a completely different order than Stevens’. López Eire focuses on the ‘relación interlocutiva’, the relationship between the various interlocutors.9 This pragmatic approach is primarily based on the linguistic functions which Malinowski distinguishes particularly in modern languages within speech situations.10 The most characteristic feature of the colloquial level in any modern language is the frequent use of linguistic functions other than the so-called referential function (function of transfer of information) alone. The three functions which play an important role in conversation are the expressive function (to express emotions), the conative function (to incite somebody to adopt a certain attitude or behaviour) and the phatic function (to control the communication and to incite the interlocutors to maintain this).11 These functions, as such, are more concerned with the interaction between the interlocutors than the transfer of information. In this interaction non-linguistic factors, such as the speech situation, the nature and the external appearance of the interlocutors, voice and facial expression play an important role. Therefore it is of the highest importance to try to bring into view these factors in all three dramatic genres although this will be difficult, if not impossible, in the case of voice and facial expression. As far as the linguistic factors are concerned the pragmatic approach of the verbal interaction will be applied, which is situation-related and in this context the only tangible reality of a text. Within the research into colloquialisms this approach provides us with some harder criteria which have not been explicitly

8 Stevens 1976, 4. 9 López Eire 1996, 31. 10 Malinowski 1970, 296–336. 11 See Robinson 2003, 41–68.

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defined yet. However, it is necessary to note right from the beginning that the pragmatic approach covers only part of the research, as not all kinds or categories of colloquialisms can be ranged under the linguistic functions of interaction. In order to come to a sound determination of as many categories of colloquialisms to be investigated as possible, one has to return to Stevens’ definition of colloquialisms, in which he uses the expression ‘conversational flavour’. This expression offers an escape from the impasse made by the nature of written (literary) language and by the insufficient sources for spoken language. The fact is that the characterisation ‘conversational flavour’ leaves open the question whether a certain expression is literally taken from the spoken language, or is only tinged as such by means of a ‘colouring’.12 In this way, by assuming a colouring, the question whether a form occurring in drama was used as such in everyday spoken language, becomes irrelevant. After all, it concerns a literary presentation of spoken language. Within this presentation an author can make use of elements which provide a ‘colouring’ of spoken language. Each time it remains to be seen whether the author intends to give an ‘impression’ of spoken language, instead of a ‘literal reproduction’. This research does not intend to track and to describe the use of actually spoken language, but rather to make it plausible that certain passages have a ‘colloquial colouring’. Expressions producing this effect are called ‘colloquialisms’ and within the comparison of the three dramatic genres the following two kinds of colloquialisms can be distinguished: (a) ‘Common colloquialisms’, which actually provide a colloquial colouring, but are not to be qualified as elements of a particularly low register; (b) ‘Low register colloquialisms’, namely elements of a lower register. So, why this dichotomy? Why distinguish only two categories or registers, and not five or six? Common colloquialisms are colloquialisms that occur, or are likely to occur, in all three dramatic genres. As such they show ‘quantitative’ differences amongst the three genres. Low register colloquialisms on the other hand, do not occur in all three genres: for they do not befit tragedy. Therefore they show ‘qualitative’ differences amongst the three genres. Within the framework of this comparative research, in order to determine the position of satyr drama between tragedy and comedy, there is no need to distinguish more registers of colloquialisms. The quantitative and qualitative distinctions are adequate for this purpose. If the categories of Stevens, Collard, Landfester and López Eire are combined, one yields a workable set. Of course this set is not exhaustive, but in the compar-

12 Stevens 1976, 4, too uses the term ‘colouring’.

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ison of satyr drama to the other two dramatic genres, can give us a more or less accurate picture of the use of colloquialisms. In order to determine the criteria needed for the detection of colloquialisms, the speech situation is to be looked at more closely. The first question to be answered in this respect is. what kind of factors or elements in a speech situation constitute a (possible) breeding ground for one ore more colloquialisms. This will not result in hard evidence, but the application of the same criteria to all three dramatic genres will provide a ‘correlative’ picture of the three genres.

4 Starting Points for the Detection and Description So, considering all the above, in order to determine the position of satyr drama between the other two genres the following starting points are applied. 1. ‘Colloquialisms’ are elements which produce a colloquial colouring within the three dramatic Kunstsprachen in order to give the impression of spoken language, and not words and expressions which belong to the actually spoken language. Stevens’ work is often taken as a starting point the description of these elements since the colloquialisms which according to his definition are identified as colloquialisms pur sang, are certainly also covered by the definition of this research. 2. All three dramatic genres present a literary reproduction of spoken language. Since satyr drama is compared to each of the other two genres, it is important to divide the colloquialisms in this research into ‘common colloquialisms’, occurring in both comedy and tragedy (and also in Plato and the orators) and ‘low register colloquialisms’, which represent a lower register and occur in comedy but not in tragedy. The former group can produce a stylistic variation within the boundaries of tragedy. Therefore, in each category of colloquialisms, by way of conclusion, it will be considered to which of the two groups they belong. 3. As the texts of all three dramatic genres have been written to be staged and therefore imitate speech situations (albeit in different registers), it is plausible that all three genres show colloquialisms. Therefore it is imperative to take these speech situations into account, in order to determine whether a certain expression colours the passage as colloquial or not. Consequently it is essential to establish whether the passage has a certain degree of emotionalism. 4. Elements characteristic of the pragmatics of conversation have to be taken as colloquialisms qualitate qua.

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The categories of colloquialisms discussed in my thesis are successively: allegroforms, interjections, improper interjections (old imperatives), deixis, exaggeration, emphasis, pleonastic or lenghtened forms of expression, understatement and irony, ellipse, particles, inaccurate forms of address, colloquial syntax, accumulation and miscellaneous. In the framework of this article it is impossible to discuss all categories of colloquialisms. Therefore, I will confine myself to some of the most characteristic elements.

5 Allegro-forms The performance situation, context, voice and facial expression in combination with the pace of the conversation can be accompanied by a simplification of grammar and vocabulary. Such simplified, shortened forms are generally called ‘allegro-forms’ and occur in every language.13 In ancient Greek the most important phenomena are crasis, aphaeresis and syncope. These ‘allegro-forms’ are used to increase the pace or speed of the conversation and are opposed to so-called ‘lento-forms’.14 Of course, these phenomena can also serve as a means to adjust verses to the metrical requirements of poetry. This appears to concern elision pre-eminently. Since in Homeric epic, which has metrical requirements as well, crasis occurs only rarely and aphaeresis not at all, these phenomena seem to be more probable utterances of the actually spoken language and can be considered colloquialisms according to the definition of this research.15 Table 5.1 presents the frequencies of aphaeresis differentiated as to author and genre as well as the average, lowest and highest frequency.16 Table 5.1: Frequency of aphaeresis. author + genre

average #

lowest #

highest #

Aeschylus, tragedy

1 : 225

1 : 558 (Ag.)

1 : 120 (Sept.)

Aeschylus, satyr drama

–

–

–

Sophocles, tragedy

1 : 104

1 : 128 (Trach.)

1 : 59 (OT)

13 See López Eire 1997, 201. Examples in English are ‘can’t’ instead of ‘cannot’, ‘don’t’ instead of ‘do not’ and ‘c’mon’ instead of ‘come on’. 14 See Dressler 1973, 130. 15 See KB I, 218, 241. 16 The figures indicate one instance per number of lines. So 1 : 225 means once every 225 lines.

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Table 5.1 (continued) author + genre

average #

lowest #

highest #

Sophocles, satyr drama

n/a

1 : 114 (Ichn.)

1 : 114 (Ichn.)

Euripides, tragedy

1 : 163

1 : 366 (Hipp.)

1 : 103 (Supp.)

Euripides, satyr drama

n/a

1 : 51 (Cycl.)

1 : 51 (Cycl.)

Aristophanes, comedy

1 : 38

1: 93 (Plut.)

1 : 22 (Vesp.)

From this table it appears that there is a significant difference concerning the use of aphaeresis between tragedy and comedy. The data of satyr drama, on the other hand, strongly diverge among the tragedians.17 Of course, this is also due to the nature and the condition of the texts: one should keep in mind that the fragments investigated, from both Aeschylus and Sophocles, have been handed down each on only one papyrus and in a highly fragmentary condition. Fragment 314 of Sophocles’ Ichneutai counts 457 lines but preserves less than 80% of the original text. The numbers found in the satyr dramas of Aeschylus and Sophocles thus give an unreliable picture. Euripides’ Cyclops on the other hand shows a striking score. In this satyr drama aphaeresis is found not only much more frequently than in any Euripidean tragedy (once every 51 lines), but its score also falls in between the highest and lowest scores of Aristophanes’ comedies. Another striking matter is that the phenomenon is not exclusively or mainly related to persons with a lower standing: of the 14 cases in Euripides’ Cyclops, 8 occur in lines spoken by the ‘tragic’ hero Odysseus and the other personages using aphaeresis are the satyrs, Silenos and Polyphemus. In this satyr drama aphaeresis occurs only once in a choral song (617), which is in accordance with tragedy. The conclusion which can be drawn from this, is that this kind of elision is apparently a phenomenon which was avoided in choral songs and perhaps was felt as an element of the spoken language, and therefore inappropriate for high poetic style. Moving now to crasis, according to Redondo, it is more frequently found in the dialogue of comedy where the feature is linked to the lower status of a personage.18 In the case of satyr drama however, it can easily be concluded that this link to status is absolutely lacking: in Euripides’ Cyclops Odysseus, a ‘tragic’ hero, accounts for 28 out of 55 cases of crasis in total. This is far too high a number to maintain Redondo’s assumption. In general, nevertheless, in the Cyclops crasis mainly occurs in speech situations and therefore is found considerably less fre-

17 Two examples are ποῦ ‘στιν (Eur. Cycl. 675) and ‘μῇ (Soph. Ichn. 353). 18 Redondo 1993, 420.

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quently in choral parts, namely only once.19 Some random checks carried out in the tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides show that crasis is less often found in the choral parts of tragedy too. Within dialogue crasis occurs most frequently in stichomythia. Due to the fragmentary nature of the larger satyric remnants, it turns out to be quite impossible to make a comparison between the tragedies and satyr dramas of one and the same author. Even a random comparison between the only complete satyr drama, Euripides’ Cyclops, and the poet’s tragedies does not yield significant differences. In both genres the use of crasis seems to depend on the colloquial character of the passages and its distribution among choral parts and dialogue parts is similar in both genres.20 The instances in Sophocles’ Ichneutai seem to confirm that this conclusion applies to Sophocles too. Overall, allegro-forms are found in all three dramatic genres. Therefore they are not characteristic of a lower stylistic register but are rather typical of spoken language. Satyr drama does not distinguish itself qualitatively from tragedy, but only quantitatively. In particular the Cyclops of Euripides shows a higher frequency of aphaeresis than Euripidean tragedies with a score fitting within the extremes of comedy. As to crasis satyr drama and tragedy do not behave differently. Apparently these allegro-forms are used in order to make the dialogue more lively without giving it a colouring of a lower stylistic register.

6 Interjections Interjections are either articulated sounds which express a certain state of mind, admonish someone or channel an order, or onomatopoetic words, or even unusual sounds.21 They do not have a meaning of their own, in other words their semantic value is zero, but they are used to express something, for example amazement or distrust (expressive function), or to incite someone to act (conative function), and therefore they are characteristic of spoken language.22 Most interjections are not found in literary prose but they do occur in all three dramatic genres. Thus we will discuss here interjections found in all three genres (ἆ, ἔα, εἶα, ἰού,

19 Eur. Cycl. 620: κἀγώ. 20 Some nice examples of crasis in satyr drama are κἀμπελοσκάφοι (Aesch. Dikt. fr. 46a.18), κἀκόμιστα (Soph. Ichn. 149) and κἀδιακόνουν (Eur. Cycl. 407). 21 See López Eire 1996, 85–95; López Eire 1997, 201; Stevens 1976, 33–43. On the grammatical value of the interjection (according to ancient grammarians) see Sluiter 1990, 173–245. 22 So Schinck 1873, 189.

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οἴμοι, παπαῖ and παπαιάξ, and ὤμοι), as well as interjections typical of one or two genres, namely those occurring in satyr drama only (ψύττα), in satyr drama and comedy (βάβαι), and in satyr drama and tragedy (ὀπποποῖ and ὠή).23

ἆ ὗ ὗ ὗ, ψ ψ, ἆ ἆ. λέγ’ ὅ τι πονεῖς. Hu hu, ps ps, ah ah. Tell me what is bothering you!

(Soph. Ichn. 176)

ὀπποποῖ· ἆ μιαρέ, γε[ Oh, oh! Ah you rogue …

(Soph. Ichn. 197)

βαβαί· χορεῦσαι παρακαλεῖ μ᾿ ὁ Βάκχιος ἆἆἆ Yippee, Dionysos encourages me to dance! Ah ah ah! ἆ ἆ , τί δράσεις; Ah, ah, what are you going to do?

(Eur. Cycl. 156–7) (Eur. Cycl. 565)

Cf. Comedy: 5 times (Ar.: 5). Tragedy: 19 times (Aesch.: 3, Soph.: 1, Eur.: 15). This interjection is applicable to several situations.24 The use of ἆ in Soph. Ichn. 176 (imitation of barking?) has to be left aside, since in this passage the Satyrs answer Silenos’ call in lines 172–5 to resume the tracking of Apollo’s oxen, while he will stay and guide them κυνορτικὸν σύριγμα διακαλούμενος (‘by means of a whistling urging on dogs’).25 In several scholia to Aristophanes ἆ is called an ἐπίρρημα ἐφεκτικόν (‘stopping interjection’).26 This function occurs also in Soph. Ichn. 197 and Eur. Cycl. 565, with the meaning being something like ‘Hey, wait a minute!’. In view of the context in Eur. Cycl. 156, the interjection (shouted three times) must be an utterance of joy. Hence Kovacs translates this with ‘tra la, tra la, tra la’.27 It remains to be seen whether this extra metrum passage should be printed as an (aspirated)

23 Although the count in comedy includes some paratragic instances, these do not have any effect on the conclusions. 24 Labiano Ilundain 2000, 61–7. 25 Silenos here assumes the role of a hunter, whereas the Satyrs that of tracking hounds. On this passage see Antonopoulos 2014b, 248–53. 26 Two examples are Schol. ad Ar. Pl. 1051; Nu. 105. 27 See Kovacs 1994a, 81.

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laughter: ἇ ἇ ἇ (‘ha, ha, ha!’).28 In tragedy this interjection expresses grief (Aesch. Ag. 1125) or the stopping mentioned before (Soph. Phil. 1300).

βαβαί βαβαὶ βαβαί, βήσομαι γυναῖκας Yippee, yippee, I am going to mount women! βαβαί· χορεῦσαι παρακαλεῖ μ᾿ ὁ Βάκχιος ἆἆἆ Yippee, Dionysos encourages me to dance! Ah ah ah!

(Achaeus, Moir. fr. 28.1)

(Eur. Cycl. 156–7)

Cf. Comedy: 7 times (Ar.: 5)29 Tragedy: – In the only two satyric passages containing βαβαί, judging from the context, the interjection seems to express joy: in the passage of Achaeus, because the speaker (Silenos?) will ‘mount’ women, in Eur. Cyclops, because the speaker (Silenos) will drink. Therefore in both cases, the interjection is related with or points to pleasant prospects for Silenos (and the Satyrs). According to Hesychius, however, βαβαί expresses amazement30; this function too is quite applicable to both passages : apparently Silenos is surprised that he is given the opportunity to enjoy something, or somebody. So, at the same time, βαβαί could denote here amazement and joy, with one word excitement.

ἔα ἔα· τί φῶ τόδ’ εἶναι̣; Hey! What should I say this is?

(Aesch. Dikt. fr. 46a.8–9)

28 It is difficult to find parallels of this idea of mine since the accentuation of this kind of one letter words is often uncertain because of the frequent absence of accents in manuscripts and personal preferences of copiers and editors. Perhaps Plato Com. fr. 16.1 is a nice parallel: ἃ ἇ, γελῶν ἐπηκροασάμην πάλαι (‘ha, ha, laughing I heard it long ago’). Here too the text is uncertain. 29 Βαβαιάξ: 5 times. This is an intensified form of βαβαί. See Olson 2002, 91; López Eire 1996, 90; Labiano Ilundain 2000, 105–10. 30 Hsch. s.v. βαβαί: θαυμαστική φωνή (‘expression of amazement’). See also Olson 2002, 275: ‘a colloquial expression of shock or astonishment’.

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τί χρῆμα; Βρομίου πόλιν ἔοιγμεν ἐσβαλεῖν· Hey! What’s this? We seem to have fallen in with Dionysos’ town.31 ἔα· τίν᾿ ὄχλον τόνδ᾿ ὁρῶ πρὸς αὐλίοις; Hey! What kind of crowd I see here at my stable? θεὸς θεὸς θεὸς θεός· ἔα [ ] A god, a god, a god, a god! Hey! ἔα μάλα· παλινστραφῆ τοι ναὶ μὰ Δία τὰ βήματα. Hey hey ! Goodness gracious, the steps really are reversed! (ΣΙ.) ἔα. (ΧΟ.) τί ἔστιν; (SI.) Hey! (Chorus) What is the matter?

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(Eur. Cycl. 98) (Eur. Cycl. 222) (Soph. Ichn. 100)

(Soph. Ichn. 117–8)

(Soph. Ichn. 205)

Cf. Comedy: 8 times (Ar.: 8). Tragedy: 59 times (Aesch.: 7, Soph.: 2, Eur.: 50). Ἔα, not to be confused with the present imperative of ἐάω, is an expressive interjection. It is used to express one’s amazement while seeing, hearing, or in any other way perceiving something new, an ἐπίρρημα ἐκπληκτικόν (‘interjection of amazement’).32 Therefore, in most cases it is followed by a question, like τί χρῆμα; (‘What’s this?’).33 Having a look at the frequency figures, it is noteworthy that this interjection is mainly used by Euripides. Sophocles uses ἔα in his tragedies only in one line (twice), in a choral part, but three times in his Ichneutai. In none of the occurrences in satyr dramas a deviating value is found. The only passage which perhaps requires a comment is Soph. Ichn. 100. Here the Satyrs utter their astonishment in combination with joy since they have discovered the footprints of Apollo’s stolen oxen. In all remaining passages in satyr drama the amazement is made evident by a following question, or by an observation accompanied by a swearword (ναὶ μὰ Δία in Soph. Ichn. 117–8).

31 Of course, here is inserted by supplementation (Wecklein) but given the subsequent τί χρῆμα, which is a colloquial expression too, it seems to be a good choice. 32 So Schol. ad [Aesch.] PV. 114a. See also Collard 2018, 78–9; Labiano Ilundain 2000, 131; Olson 1998, 80; Dunbar 1995, 264; Fraenkel 1950, III, 580, n. 4; Stevens 1976, 33; Dodds 1960, 157: ‘a gasp of astonishment, perhaps representing the sound of a sharp intake of breath’. 33 This combination is found (outside comedy) once in Aeschylus (PV 298) and no less than five times in Euripides (Hipp. 905, Andr. 896, Supp. 92, HF 525 and Or. 1573). This is probably the reason why Wecklein inserted ἔα in Eur. Cycl. 98. See n. 31.

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In satyr drama this interjection is used by all sorts of personages (Odysseus, Polyphemus, the Satyrs and Silenos) and there is no reason to assume that it typifies them. On the other hand, it may be clear that the situations, in which all dramatic genres this interjection is used in, are characterised by certain emotions which are intrinsic to amazement.

εἶα/εἷα ἀλλ’] εἷα, φίλοι, σ̣τ̣είχωμεν ὅπ̣ω̣ς γ]ά̣μον ὁρμαίνωμεν (Aesch. Dikt. fr. 47a.821–2) Come on, friends, let’s go in order to set in motion the wedding. εἷα δὴ σκοπεῖτε δῶμα ποντίου σεισίχθο[νος (Aesch. Theor. fr. 78a.18) Come on then, have a look at the temple of earth-shaker god of the sea. ἄγ’ εἷα δὴ πᾶς ..[ Come on then everyone … ἄγ’ εἷα νυ[ν Come on now … < × ‒ ⏑ ‒ × > εἶα δή, {φίλον} ξύλον, ἔγειρέ μοι σεαυτὸ καὶ γίγνου θρασύ … come on, {dear} club, please arouse yourself and get bold. ἀλλ’ εἶα, Λυδαὶ ψάλτριαι, παλαιθέτων ὕμνων ἀοιδοί, τὸν ξένον κοσμήσατε

(Soph. Ichn. 93) (Soph. Ichn. 436)

(Eur. Syl. fr. 693.1–2)

(Ion Trag. Omph. fr. 22.1–2)

But come on, Lydian female harpers, singers of hymns composed a long time ago, adorn the stranger!

Cf. Comedy: 33 times (Ar.: 33). Tragedy: 15 times (Aesch.: 2, Soph.: 0, Eur.: 13). The interjection εἶα has an urging function and in this respect it is comparable to the petrified imperatives ἄγε, φέρε and ἴθι. Therefore it is mostly used in combination with an imperative (as in Aesch. Theor. fr. 78a.18), or an adhortative subjunctive (e.g. Aesch. Dikt. fr. 47a.821–2). Next to the form εἶα, an aspirated εἷα occurs referring to the Homeric expression εἶ δέ, scholiast A to Hom. Il. 9.262 states the following about this form: τὸ εἴ παρακελευστικὸν ἐπίρρημά ἐστιν ... καὶ τὸ παρακελευστικὸν ἐπίρρημα ἀπὸ τούτου γεγονέναι τοῦ συνδέσμου τοῦ περιττεύοντος, τοῦ τόνου ἀλλαγέντος εἰς περισπώμενον ἀναγκαίως καὶ τῆς δασείας Ἀττικῶς προσελθούσης (‘εἴ is an urging interjection ... And from this the urging interjection (sc. εἶα) has originated, the α

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of the compound being redundant. The accent has inevitably changed into a perispomenon and in accordance with the Attic dialect aspiration has been added’). This interjection is quite frequently found in satyr drama, matching its distribution in the other two dramatic genres. Strikingly, Sophocles does not use the interjection in his tragedies.

ἰού ἰοὺ ἰού· γέγηθα μαινόμεσθα τοῖς εὑρήμασιν. Hurray, hurray! I am beside myself with joy because of your inventions!

(Eur. Cycl. 464–5)

ἰοὺ ἰού· ὡς ἐξένευσα μόγις· ἄκρατος ἡ χάρις. (Eur. Cycl. 576) Hurray, hurray! How much difficulty I had swimming out! Its grace is unmixed! ] . ς ἔχ’ αὐτόν, ὤ ἰοὺ ἰού [ … hold him, hurray, oh hurray, hurray/oh gee, oh gee! ἰοὺ ἰού [ Hurray, hurray!/oh gee, oh gee!

(Soph. Inach. fr. 269b.1) (Soph. Ichn. 443)

Cf. Comedy: 28 times (Ar.: 28). Tragedy: 11 times (Aesch.: 4, Soph.: 6, Eur.: 1). Similarly to tragedy and comedy, satyr drama uses the interjection ἰού in pairs.34 Because of the fragmentary tradition, the use in the two Sophoclean fragments is unclear. In both passages of Euripides’ Cyclops, spoken respectively by the Satyrs and by Polyphemus, there is plainly a situation of joy (In this respect satyr drama distinguishes itself from tragedy, which only uses the interjection in case of sorrow and malaise. In comedy, on the other hand, ἰού voices joy, sadness, sickness or astonishment.35 Hence, at least as far as the Cyclops is concerned, the interjection has a use in satyr drama which is foreign to tragedy, but is found in comedy.

34 In satyr drama exclusively in pairs. In the other two genres we have some exceptions: comedy: Ar. Pax 110 (3x), Av. 1170 (6x); tragedy: Soph. Trach. 833 (1x), OC (1x). 35 So Labiano Ilundain 2000, 215.

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οἴμοι οἴμοι· Κύκλωψ ὅδ’ ἔρχεται· τί δράσομεν; Blimey! Here comes the Cyclops! What shall we do?

(Eur. Cycl. 193)

οἴμοι· πικρότατον οἶνον ὄψομαι τάχα. Blimey! I will be seeing a very bitter wine soon.

(Eur. Cycl. 589)

οἴμοι γελῶμαι· κερτομεῖτε μ’ ἐν κακοῖς. (Eur. Cycl. 687) Blimey, I am being laughed at; you are sneering at my being in dire straits!

Cf. Comedy: more than 100 times. Tragedy: Aesch.: 4 times; Soph.: more than 70 times; Eur.: more than 100 times. According to Labiano, οἴμοι is used (in Aristophanes) to express sorrow, fear, selfpity, astonishment and even joy, and to draw attention to something or someone.36 Most of the times this interjection expresses sorrow, as is also the case in all three examples from satyr drama.

ὀπποποῖ ὀπποποῖ· ἆ μιαρέ, γε̣[ Oh, oh! Ah you rogue …

(Soph. Ichn. 197)

Cf. Comedy: Tragedy: ποποῖ: Aesch.: 2 times; πόποι: Aesch.: 8 times; Soph.: 2 times. Πόποι is already found in Homer.37 Although as an interjection, by definition it reproduces spoken language, it certainly does not represent a lower colloquial register. This is proved by its complete absence in comedy, and in addition by the fact that in tragedy exclusively occurs in choral parts. It is true that in Aristophanes’ Aves, we have the similar forms ἐποποῖ (59, 60), ἐποποποῖ (227), ποποποποῖ (227) and ποποῖ (227) , but these are no real interjections, as they imitate bird sounds. In tragedy and Homer πόποι is used to express amazement, anger or pain.38 Coming to satyr drama, as far as it can be understood from the (dilapidated) context in which another interjection (ἆ) and the (colloquial) vocative μιαρέ also

36 Labiano Ilundain 2000, 251. 37 Examples are Il. 2.272, 8.201 and Od. 4.169, 17.454. 38 See LSJ, s.v. πόποι.

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occur, the extended form ὀπποποῖ expresses amazement. This extension could be a comic element analogous to παπαπαῖ from παπαῖ (see below).

παπαῖ, παπαπαῖ and παπαιάξ παπαῖ· τὸν αὐτὸν δαίμον᾿ ἐξαντλεῖς ἐμοί. Wow, you are suffering from the same fate as I am.

(Eur. Cycl. 110)

παπαῖ, σοφόν γε τὸ ξύλον τῆς ἀμπέλου. Wow, how smart is the wood of the grapevine!

(Eur. Cycl. 572)

παπαῖ, τὰ παιδίχ᾿, ὡς ὁρᾷς, ἀπώλεσας. Wow, as you see, you have lost your darling.

(Soph. Ach. Er. fr. 153.1)

παπαιάξ, ὡς καλὴν ὀσμὴν ἔχει. Wowee, what a nice bouquet it has! παπαπαῖ· πλέως μὲν οἴνου γάνυμαι δαιτὸς ἥβᾳ Wow man! I am full of wine and I am enjoying the mirth of the meal.

(Eur. Cycl. 153)

(Eur. Cycl. 503–4)

Cf. Comedy: παπαῖ: 3 times; ἀπ(π)απαῖ: 2 times; παπαιάξ: once; παπαπαπαῖ: once. Tragedy: παπαῖ: 19 times (Aesch.: 7, Soph.: 8, Eur.: 4). According to Hesychius39 παπαῖ is a σχετλιασμός (‘complaint’) comparable to πόποι, φεῦ φεῦ, ὦ δαίμονες, ὦ φίλοι and ὦ θεοί.40 Similarly Suda calls παπαῖ a σχετλιαστικὸν ἐπίρρημα (‘interjection of complaint’)41 and ἀππαπαί a συγκαταθετικὸν ἐπίρρημα (‘affirmative interjection’).42 LSJ s.v. note that παπαῖ is not only an ‘exclamation of suffering’, but also of ‘surprise’, but the cited loci (Hdt. 8.26 and Pl. Leg. 704c) are more marked by a sentiment of sorrow or concern (=‘oh boy!’). Labiano, who distinguishes four variants, namely ἀπ(π)απαῖ, παπαιάξ, παπαπαπαῖ and ἰαππαπαιάξ, argues that these are all used to express ‘dolor’.43 This is also evident in Eur. Cycl. 110 and Soph. Ach. Er. fr. 153.1 but not in the other three satyric passages. In Eur. Cycl. 153 , where LSJ assume a ‘surprise’, such an emotion can be defended, but requires further explanation. From Ar. Lys. 924, it emerges that παπαιάξ is not merely an expression of surprise, but is used to refer to 39 Hsch. π 438. 40 Hsch. π 3006. See also Sluiter 1990, 223–9. 41 Suda π 259. 42 Suda α 2912. 43 Labiano Ilundain 2000, 275.

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(sexual) physical and emotional suffering. The fact is that Cinesias cannot stand it any longer after being kissed by Myrrhine (at his own request): παπαιάξ, ἧκέ νυν ταχέως πάνυ (‘oh my god, get here now on the double!’). Hence Labiano Ilundain interprets this emotion as a ‘dolor amoroso’.44 In Eur. Cycl. 153 Silenos reacts in a similar way to the wine which Odysseus has offered him to smell: Silenos wants to have more too. Perhaps this kind of excitement coming with παπαιάξ is the very reason why this word does not occur in tragedy. Still, it remains difficult to explain the interjections of Eur. Cycl. 503 and 572. These are commonly interpreted as expressions of surprise and it is not easy to explain them as originating from a certain suffering because of an underlying ‘baffled longing’.45 But the continuation of Eur. Cycl. 503, makes it clear that Polyphemus is glad that he has got drunk, not surprised. In Eur. Cycl. 572 Polyphemus responds to the (ambiguous) remark that the drinker and the drink have to finish (‘die’) together, by shouting that the wood of the grapevine is smart. Any form of bodily and mental discomfort is miles away. Thus, this interjection seems to have a double value, which can be explained by a development starting off with a certain suffering through a(n) (agonising) longing to confusion or surprise. These three values occur in all three dramatic genres, but there is a difference between the forms of this interjection. It catches the eye that in tragedy we do not have the extended forms which are found in comedy and satyr drama.46 Note that in Soph. Phil. 745–6 (παπαῖ, ἀπαππαπαῖ, παπᾶ παπᾶ παπᾶ παπαῖ) and 754 (παππαπαππαπαῖ) there is no question of an interjection, since the word here imitates weeping. The outward resemblances of παπαῖ-παπαιάξ and βαβαί-βαβαιάξ and the above mentioned remarks of scholiasts and lexicographers are conspicuous since they are superficial and do not give any specific information about their respective values. It is also striking that βαβαί does not occur at all in tragedy and παπαῖ is found more frequently in tragedy than in comedy. Could this mean that these forms actually represent one and the same expression having a preference for π-sound in tragedy and β-sound in comedy? Or is there a matter of syncretism, by which παπαῖ has taken over its function of surprise from βαβαί?

44 Labiano Ilundain 2000, 275, 281. 45 See Austin and Olson 2004, 344 and Seaford 1984, 199. 46 With the exception of Soph. Niobe fr. 441a.8 ἀπαπαπαῖ, uttered by the chorus.

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ψύττα ψύττ᾿· οὐ τᾷδ᾿, οὔ; οὐ τᾷδε νέμῃ κλειτὺν δροσεράν; (Eur. Cycl. 49–50) Shoo! Aren’t you coming this way, no? Aren’t you going to graze on the dewy slope here?

Cf. Comedy:Tragedy:According to Hesychius47 onomatopoetic48 ψύττα is an interjection used by shepherds to urge their sheep. This applies to this passage too: a satyr tries to drive a stray sheep to the herd. The rare interjection used here is unique in drama.

ὤ ὢ ὤ, σέ τοι [non plus 14 ll.] Oh, oh, yes, you … ] . ς ἔχ’ αὐτόν, ὤ ἰοὺ ἰού [ … hold him, oh hurray, hurray/oh gee, oh gee!

(Soph. Ichn. 67) (Soph. Inach. fr. 269b.1)

Cf. Comedy: 13 times (Ar.: 13). Tragedy: 8 times (Aesch.: 5, Soph.: 4, Eur.: 0). Strictly speaking there is a difference between ὦ and ὤ, the former being used in forms of address and the latter being an interjection of amazement, joy or pain.49 Nevertheless, in text transmission this distinction is not always respected and sometimes ὦ is printed instead of ὤ. In all three genres ὦ is frequently found and seems almost compulsory in forms of address. Therefore this word will not be discussed here any further. In satyr drama the interjection ὤ is instanced twice, only in Sophocles. Both passages are too fragmentary to allow any safe assumption.

47 Hsch. Ψ 281: ψύττα· ἐπὶ τοῦ ταχέως ἀποδραμεῖν λέγεται ( ‘ψύττα: it is used for quickly running away’ ). Cf. Hsch. Ψ 219: ψίττα· ταχέως, εὐθέως (‘ψίττα: fast, immediately’); Hsch. Ψ 220: ψιττάζων· ψίττα ἐπιφθεγγόμενος. ὅπερ ἐστὶ ἐπίφθεγμα ποιμενικόν (‘ψιττάζων: shouting ‘shoo!’, which is a shepherd’s call’). 48 Schwyz., vol. I, 329. 49 Labiano Ilundain 2000, 319.

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In tragedy this interjection is used to express pain or sorrow and not joy or amazement, which we find in comedy.50 Satyr drama therefore does not show any use different from tragedy.

ὠή ὠή, ῥίψω πέτρον τάχα σου· Hey, I will throw a stone at you right away! ὠή· ἐσορᾷς †ει̣σ̣τ̣ον̣α . . † πόδ’ ἔχειν, μανία τάδε κλύειν· Hey!, Do you see (?) … Stand still! It’s madness to hear this.

(Eur. Cycl. 51)

(Soph. Inach. fr. 269c.25–7)

Cf. Comedy: Tragedy: 9 times (Aesch.: 1, Soph.: 0, Eur.: 8). According to Seaford51 this interjection is used in order to attract attention. In all parallels this is true with the sole exception of Eur. Phoen. 269, where it seems to accompany a shock reaction. From the counting it also emerges as a typically tragic interjection, which is underlined by the fact that in prose it occurs only once (Xen. Cyr. 6.19).52 With regard to the satyric examples, it is also noteworthy that both passages are found in choral parts. In Eur. Cycl. 51 a satyr of the chorus addresses a ram gone astray, which will be pelted by a stone if it is not obedient and does not return immediately. In Soph. Inach. fr. 269c.25-7 the chorus admonish someone (a satyr?) to stand still, but the context is not clear.

ὤμοι ὤμοι, πυρέσσω συγκεκομμένος τάλας. (Eur. Cycl. 228) Oh dear, I, wretched one that I am, am feeling feverish after being thrashed soundly!

50 Examples are Aesch. Pers. 985 (2 times) expressing pain or sorrow and Ar. Plut. 458 expressing amazement. 51 Seaford 1984, 110. 52 In this passage according to Pfeiffer 1938, 42, it is a ‘Weheruf’, while according to Carden 1974, 87, an expression of fear.

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ὤμοι, κατηνθρακώμεθ’ ὀφθαλμοῦ σέλας. Oh dear, my bright eye has completely turned into ashes.

(Eur. Cycl. 663)

ὤμοι μάλ’, ὡς ὑβρίσμεθ’, ὡς ὀλώλαμεν. Oh dear, oh dear, how battered I am, how lost I am!

(Eur. Cycl. 665)

Comedy: 4 times (Ar.: 4). Tragedy: 66 times (A.: 8, Soph.: 22, Eur. : 36). This interjection expresses grief or sorrow and, in view of the distribution of its use, it suits more tragedy than comedy. It seems that comedy has a preference for οἴμοι, which can be used in the same situations. In satyr drama ὤμοι is used to express sorrow too. Conclusion: In the use of interjections satyr drama hardly differs from tragedy. The strongest resemblance to tragedy is found in the uses of ὀπποποῖ and ὠή, which occur only in these two genres. The interjections ἆ, ἔα, εἶα, ἰού, οἴμοι, παπαῖ and ὤμοι occur, albeit in different proportions, in all three dramatic genres and therefore do not mark a lower colloquial register. This seems to be the case only for βαβαί which is found in comedy only. Ψύττα is found in satyr drama only, but is to be taken as shepherd’s jargon.

7 Deixis Colloquial deixis manifests itself in forms coming mostly with a demonstrative gesture, in combination with a certain degree of emotion. Thus, its use is to be considered affective.53

Deictic -ί Many personal pronouns and adverbs in Greek can be enhanced by adding a so-called (epi)deictic -ί, as in οὑτοσί and ἐνθαδί. The distribution of words with such an -ί shows that this suffix54 was used very frequently in informal or colloquial Attic, but was avoided in the more formal genres.55 Thus, the -ί is frequently

53 See López Eire 1996, 111–8; Bers 1997, 140–1. 54 Other designations are ‘demonstrative particle’ and ‘epideictic vowel’. See Martín de Lucas 1996, 157. 55 So Martín de Lucas 1996, 157, 161; Dover 1997, 63; Willi 2003, 245.

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present in comedy whereas in effect completely absent from tragedy.56 In this aspect these two dramatic genres are diametrically opposed and this raises the most obvious question: which side satyr drama might have chosen. It seems that satyr drama follows comedy, albeit in a modest way: we only have two certain occurrences, with a third one being very likely. This is a rather poor yield compared to the very large number found in comedy. Besides, in all three examples we have the same form, τουτί: τί ἐστὶ τουτί; τίς ὁ τρόπος τοῦ τάγματ[ος; What’s this? What sort of order is it?57 ἵν’ ἔστι τουτί τ’ ὀρθὸν ἐξανιστάναι In this state one can raise this one here upright. τουτ[ὶ τὸ] πρῶτόν ἐστί σοι τ[ῶν] παιγ[νίω]ν. This here is the first of the toys for you.

(Soph. Ichn. 120) (Eur. Cycl. 169) (Aesch. Theor. fr. 78c.52) 58

Cf. Comedy : 647 times. Tragedy : – Bers underlines the affective character of this suffix as follows: ‘It may be objected that the strengthened demonstrative of the ‘here and now’ was not of much use in utterances separated in time and space from their ‘originals’, whether actual or hypothetical. But in several of the examples there is a likelihood of literal pointing. Further, most uses of the deictic iota, in whatever genre, are more affective than demonstrative in a literal sense; and it is just the affective uses that would promote the colloquial feel we are searching for’.59 Often there is a matter of a ‘significación ocasional’, with deictic -ί relating to the subject a person who, most of the time, is also the speaker too.60

56 Martín de Lucas 1996, 161, counts 647 cases in Aristophanes. See, for instance, αὑτηί in Nub. 201 and τουτῳί in Plut. 44. The only possible exception in tragedy is τουτί in Eur. fr. 572.1, which however is much debated. See Kannicht 2004, 593 ad loc. 57 Transl. Lloyd-Jones 1996, 153. 58 The word is actually a conjecture (Fraenkel, Siegmann). 59 Bers 1984, 141. 60 See Martín de Lucas 1996, 159.

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οὗτος According to some scholars the use of οὗτος as a vocative is slightly negative and compelling.61 Dickey,62 however, points out that in the Classical period this form of address belongs to a low register, but has no negative connotations whatsoever within that register. She states that Aristophanes often uses this form of address in order to insult the addressee, or to make a fool of him or her, but since passages containing insults are frequent in Aristophanes, this use is not to be taken as a criterion for the use of οὗτος in general. For Aristophanes also uses this ‘vocative’ for persons who are respected or even loved by the speaker.63 In practice οὗτος is mostly used to attract someone’s attention (conative function), but sometimes the word more or less equals an interjection like ‘hey’ or ‘oi’. Because of the apparent low register, this use of οὗτος, not found in epic, is very rare in classical prose, while in tragedy it is much less frequent than in comedy (13 times vs 50) and in a smaller corpus.64 Especially because of the conative function and the excitement which goes with this particular use of οὗτος, it is to be regarded as a colloquialism. There is only one example from satyr drama: οὗτος, τί δρᾶς; τὸν οἶνον ἐκπίνεις λάθρᾳ; Hey you, what are you doing? Are you drinking the wine in secret?

(Eur. Cycl. 552)

Cf. Comedy: more than 50 times. Tragedy: 13 times. The speaker here is Polyphemus, who asks Silenos what he is doing. This is not really a case of negative use, albeit the question has a somewhat threatening tone. Overall, satyr drama shares the use of deictic -ί, which is absent from tragedy, with comedy. Yet the number of occurrences is very limited. Because of this distinction and distribution, deictic -ί is to be considered an element of the low colloquial register. This does not apply to οὗτος used as a vocative, since this expression is used in tragedy (in a limited way) too. So, its use in satyr drama remains within the boundaries of tragedy.

61 E.g. Stevens 1937, 37; Moorhouse 1982, 31; López Eire 1996, 45–6; Collard 2018, 86. 62 Dickey 1996, 155. 63 Dickey 1996, 155. Examples are Ar. Pax 682, Eq. 240 and 1354. 64 Pl. Symp. 172a; Hdt. 4.42, 6.99; Soph. OC 1627.

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8 Particles Particles play an important role in conversation since they manage the structure of a sentence, have a focussing function or indicate the mood or attitude of the speaker. The usage of two particles found in satyr drama, ἀτάρ and δαί, can be considered colloquial.65

ἀτάρ The particle ἀτάρ, which has an adversative or progessive function, is used by Homer as a metrical variant of αὐτάρ.66 After him αὐτάρ disappears rapidly and also ἀτάρ loses its Homeric connotation. This process even reaches the stage that it is avoided in formal language: ‘Hence its frequency in Aristophanes, in Euripides (who aimed at realistic expression), and those prose-writers whose style approximates most closely to every-day conversation’.67 We have one occurrence in satyr drama: χωρεῖτ’· ἀτὰρ δὴ τίνα, πάτερ, σπουδὴν ἔχεις; Go on! But why then, father, are you in such a hurry?

(Eur. Cycl. 84)

Cf. Comedy: Ar. 50 times. Tragedy: 38 times. In this passage the coryphaeus responds to an earlier command, with which Silenos asked the Satyrs to drive the herd into the cave (82–3). With χωρεῖτ’ he confirms Silenos’ order to the chorus and subsequently he addresses Silenos. This switch is marked by ἀτάρ.

δαί Although δαί occurs three times in the manuscripts of Homer, in none of these has it been unanimously passed down and it is considered to be an anachronism. By reason of its high frequency in Aristophanes and its absence in formal prose it

65 For colloquial particles in general see López Eire 1996, 119–34; Stevens 1976, 44–8. 66 Denniston 1954, 51. 67 Denniston 1954, 51. See also Stevens 1976, 44; Collard 2018, 100.

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is regarded as a colloquialism.68 In tragedy this particle is found only rarely and, furthermore, it has been the reason for emendations in some ‘solemn’ passages in Euripides.69 Δαί always follows a interrogative pronoun and has an emphatic or a connective value.70 The sole occurrence in satyr drama is from Eur. Cyclops: (ΟΔ.) (ΧΟΡ.)

οὐδὲν τοιοῦτον· δόλιος ἡ προθυμία. πῶς δαί; σοφόν τοί σ’ ὄντ’ ἀκούομεν πάλαι.

(Od.) (Chorus)

No, nothing of the kind! My desire is deceitful. How so? For a long time we have heard that you are smart.

(Eur. Cycl. 449–50)

Cf. Comedy: 44 times. Tragedy: 9 times Here δαί is used with a connective force, as it is in keeping with Odysseus’ last remark.71 In satyr drama the particles ἀτάρ and δαί are used as colloquialisms in order to colour certain passages as spoken language. Since they are used in tragedy as well they cannot be considered low colloquialisms.

9 Inaccurate Forms of Address Inaccurate forms of address can be regarded as colloquialisms since, in fact, they are only possible in spoken language.72

ὦ τᾶν Hesychius explains ὦ τᾶν as follows: ὦ τᾶν· ὦ σύ, ὦ ἑταῖρε, ὦ οὗτος, ὦ μακάριε. πρόρρημα τιμητικῆς λέξεως. λέγεται δὲ καὶ ἐπὶ εἰρωνείᾳ πολλάκις (‘ὦ ταν: hey you, dear fellow, you there, mister. A form of address of estimating diction. Often it is also used in case of irony’).73 Therefore Stevens defines it as ‘ostensibly a 68 So Denniston 1954, 262; Stevens 1976, 45; Ussher 1978, 124. 69 See Page 1938, 97–8. 70 See Denniston 1954, 262. 71 MacDowell 1971, 287 (referring to simple δαί): ‘ ‘then’, after the rejection of a suggestion; so also πῶς δαί … and τί δαί …’. 72 López Eire 1996, 135–6. 73 Hsch. Ω 477.

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polite form of address, sometimes used to an equal or superior, but very often with a note of condescension or impatience’.74 Although the origin of this expression is unclear, it is generally taken as a colloquialism.75 The evidence leads to this conclusion, as Dickey underlines: ‘In poetry, τᾶν belongs primarily to comedy and is never found in Homer and Aeschylus; its meaning is disputed’.76 The expression occurs twice in satyr drama: —σίγ[α]· θεός τις τὴν ἀποι[κία]ν̣ ἄγει. —τί δρῶμεν, ὦ τᾶν; ἦ τὸ δέον [..]ή̣νομεν;

(Soph. Ichn., 103–4)

—’Hush! A god is leading the colony’ —What shall we do, dear fellow? Did we really do (?) what was necessary? —μεθύω μέν, ἔμπας δ’ οὔτις ἂν ψαύσειέ μου. —ὦ τᾶν, πεπωκότ’ ἐν δόμοισι χρὴ μένειν.

(Eur. Cycl. 535–6)

—I may be drunk, but all the same nobody could lay a finger on me. —Listen, fella, a man who’s drunk too much should stay at home.77

Cf. Comedy: 21 times. Tragedy: 6 times. Both passages present are from a stychomychia and thus the use of colloquial language is not strange. Moreover, in the case of Soph. Ichn. 103–4, there is surely a matter of agitation: one group of the Satyrs discover tracks of the cattle, which they assume are driven by a deity. Another group of Satyrs (semichorus?) react to this discovery, being at a loss what to do and asking themselves whether they have acted correctly. The form of address ὦ τᾶν here is directed from one group of Satyrs to another. In Eur. Cycl. 536 there is certainly no such lack of clarity or anonymity. Here Odysseus reacts to Polyphemus’ announcement that the latter is drunk and that nobody should touch him. Odysseus’ reaction breathes a certain level of irony/ contempt, making the use of ὦ τᾶν fit with the definitions of Hesychius and (recently) Stevens. In the two passages we have examined ὦ τᾶν provides a colouring of spoken language but, given its context, it does not seem to represent a low colloquial register. In this satyr drama follows tragedy.

74 Stevens 1976, 42. See also Olson 1998, 215; Collard 2018, 97–8. 75 So Stevens 1976, 43; Ussher 1978, 140; Biehl 1986, 191; Dodds 1960, 174; Kamerbeek 1967, 217. 76 Dickey 1996, 159. 77 Translation by O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 117.

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10 Conclusion In satyr drama two types of colloquialisms are found: common colloquialisms, namely elements of the spoken language that are used merely to provide a colouring of spoken language, such as allegro-forms (aphaeresis and crasis), most interjections, particles and inaccurate forms of address, and some low register colloquialisms, namely elements that clearly belong to a lower stylistic register and as such do not occur in tragedy, such as the interjection βαβαί and deictic -ί. It is obvious that most colloquialisms fall under the first category, whereas satyr drama shares only few cases with comedy alone. For the discussion of colloquialisms the discrepancy between Aeschylus and Sophocles on the one hand, and Euripides on the other is of importance. The former two dramatists in their tragedies use colloquialisms far less than Euripides. For Stevens, this fact is even a reason to regard an expression that is frequently found in the tragedies of Aeschylus or Sophocles as negative evidence for the colloquial character of the expression.78 Within the framework of the present research, this is less relevant, since it has been assumed that drama is a literary reproduction of spoken language and, therefore, there just have to exist elements proving the colouring of spoken language regardless the level of that spoken language. A frequency investigation into colloquialisms is not possible here, given the limitations of the present chapter. Stevens, however, has carried out such an investigation for the entire work of Euripides, at least in accordance to his own definition of colloquialisms.79 And he has found that Euripides’ Cyclops features two to three times as many colloquialisms as the average Euripidean tragedy. There is no reason to oppose this conclusion and, moreover, it has emerged from the present research that Aeschylus and Sophocles too make more frequent use of colloquialisms in the fragments of their satyr dramas than they do in their tragedies. Satyr drama predominantly shows colloquialisms which are found in tragedy too, but their use in satyr drama is more frequent than in tragedy. Thus, one can conclude that satyr drama has a (predominantly quantitavely) more colloquial tone.

78 See Stevens 1976, 8. 79 See Stevens 1976, 64–5. See also Collard 2018, 185–93.

Marco Catrambone

6 Im/Politeness in Satyr Drama 1 Approaching Satyrs Euripides’ Cyclops1 is set in motion by Odysseus’ landing to the coast of Sicily. He and his comrades are driven by hunger and thirst. Their first encounter is not with fellow-humans, but with a group of Satyrs (Eur. Cycl. 96–105): Οδ.

Σι. Οδ. Σι. Οδ.

ξένοι, φράσαιτ’ ἂν νᾶμα ποτάμιον πόθεν δίψης ἄκος λάβοιμεν εἴ τέ τις θέλει βορὰν ὁδῆσαι ναυτίλοις κεχρημένοις;

τί χρῆμα; Βρομίου πόλιν ἔοιγμεν ἐσβαλεῖν· Σατύρων πρὸς ἄντροις τόνδ’ ὅμιλον εἰσορῶ. χαίρειν προσεῖπα πρῶτα τὸν γεραίτατον. χαῖρ’, ὦ ξέν’, ὅστις δ’ εἶ φράσον πάτραν τε σήν.  ῎Ιθακος ’Οδυσσεύς, γῆς Κεφαλλήνων ἄναξ.  οἶδ’ ἄνδρα, κρόταλον δριμύ, Σισύφου γένος. ἐκεῖνος αὐτός εἰμι· λοιδόρει δὲ μή.

Odysseus:

Silenos: Odysseus: Silenos: Odysseus:

Strangers, might you tell me where we could find a stream of river-water as a remedy to our thirst, and whether anyone is willing to sell food to needy sailors? what’s that? We seem to have arrived to Dionysos’ town, for I see this throng of satyrs near the cave. I firstly greet the eldest. Hail, stranger! Tell me who you are and your homeland. Odysseus of Ithaca, lord of the Cephallenians. I know the man, the clever chatterer, Sisyphus’ son. I am that person, but do not offend!

Odysseus’ language has been described both as ‘absurdly pompous in the humble setting’ (96–7)2 and as blatantly colloquial (99 τί χρῆμα).3 By contrast, Silenos’ style sounds consistently ‘comic’ and ‘low’, especially for his gratuitous mockery

1 Euripides’ Cyclops is cited from Diggle 1984 and all other satyric fragments from TrGF, all of which reprinted in Krumeich et al. 1999 (Sophocles’ Ichneutai is cited by line-numbers only). To accommodate more linguistic data, translation is not provided except for few cases: for English translations with up-to-date discussion and bibliography, the reader should consult O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, or, alternatively, the Loeb editions of Aeschylus (Sommerstein 2008, vol. 3), Sophocles (Lloyd-Jones 2003), Euripides (Collard and Cropp 2008, vol. I; 2008, vol. II). 2 Seaford 1984, 121. 3 Napolitano 2003, 105. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-007

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(104). But are such shifts from ‘high’ to ‘low’ style so evident or significant? As a closer inspection into the language of the dialogue is instructive. As a needy foreigner in a foreign land, Odysseus has no choice but address his prospective interlocutors as strangers and/or potential hosts (96 ξένοι). Since he cannot presume anyone will be ready to offer anything, the formulation with optative + ἄν (96 φράσαιτ’ ἄν …;) helps him ‘downgrade’ the request: this usage is nothing out of ordinary, since it is found in tragedy and comedy and from a variety of speakers, including low-status messengers.4 Having sighted the Satyrs, Odysseus respectfully greets the oldest among them (101 χαίρειν προσεῖπα),5 his formality being dictated by the situation rather than by personal style. Silenos reciprocates (102 χαῖρ’, ὦ ξέν’), additionally asking for Odysseus’ name and homeland: his question could not be linguistically plainer, as is Odysseus’ reply (103). Up to this point, then, what we have is a stylistically unexceptional conversation between strangers at their first encounter. A remarkable event occurs at 104: Odysseus is called a ‘clever chatterer’ and ‘son of Sisyphus’.6 Again, the point is not the contrast between Silenos’ ‘rustic’ register and Odysseus’ high-flown elocution, but the hostility unexpectedly created. Neither characterization of Odysseus is particularly ‘low’ or ‘comic’: his charlatanry was a commonplace across literary sources,7 while his descent from Sisyphus seems to have been a tragic motif in the first place.8 Silenos’ mockery is rejected by Odysseus with commendable restraint (105): that would be a good moment for Odysseus to elevate his style, but he speaks colloquially and informally (105 ἐκεῖνος αὐτός εἰμι),9 a choice that need not surprise in view of the average register used throughout the conversation.

4 To Eur. IT 513, Ar. Ran. 435, cited by Ussher 1978, 53, add Soph. OT 924–5, El. 660, OC 70, Eur. Hipp. 89, Ba. 1271, Ar. Vesp. 484, Plut. 1134. 5 See Xen. Mem. 3.13.1. 6 Pace Harrison 2005b, 238, the words are not an aside. 7 See O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 145. On κρόταλον/κρότημα designating chatterers (including Odysseus), see Soph. fr. 913, Ar. Nub. 260, 448, [Eur.] Rhes. 499 (with Fries 2014, 308). 8 For tragic parallels, invariably uttered in absentia (except Aesch. Hoplon Krisis fr. 175), see Seaford 1984, 123. Although Odysseus was a favourite target of mockery in comedy (including Epicharmus), there is no mention of Sisyphus’ parentage in the fragments (see Phillips 1959): in Cratinus’ Odysses, dramatizing the same events of Cyclops, Odysseus is once called Laertes’ son (= fr. 147). 9 On the idiom, see Janko 1985: αὐτός is L. Dindorf’s correction for transmitted οὗτος (see Seaford 1984, 123).

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Rather than a contrast of styles10 (exploited to sneer at Odysseus’ heroic posturing?),11 the conversation is a clash between diametrically opposed manners: Odysseus takes care to address his interlocutors as tactfully as possible, avoiding excessive bothering and making remarkable display of deference once dialogue is begun. Silenos, after a quiet start, immediately loses self-control, risking a premature breakdown in the communication, wisely avoided by Odysseus’ firm yet controlled riposte. The ways in which language use shapes interpersonal relationships are helpfully investigated by a relatively new-born branch of linguistics, crossing pragmatics, sociolinguistics, social psychology and anthropology: politeness theory. Most of the aforementioned linguistic features – the vocative (ὦ) ξένε/ξένοι,12 the optative question with φράσαιτ’ ἄν,13 the greeting formulas χαίρειν προσεῖπα14 and χαῖρε, the insulting κρόταλον δριμύ, Σισύφου γένος – make sense as polite or impolite moves. The present discussion is the first attempt to approach the satyric corpus from this hitherto neglected perspective. The proposed outline is as follows: Section 2 introduces the framework adopted in the subsequent discussion, Brown and Levinson’s; Section 3 sketches out the potential relevance of politeness theory for satyr drama; in Section 4, the bulk of the chapter, the politeness strategies attested in satyr drama are discussed, along Brown and Levinson’s taxonomy; in Section 5, three typical ‘deviations’ from ordinarily polite conversation are briefly considered, namely the exaggerated use of politeness (‘over-politeness’), its exploitation to cause offence (‘mock-politeness’) and impoliteness proper; in Section 6, conclusions are drawn and directions for future research suggested.

2 Politeness Theory: Basic Notions Politeness involves far more than table manners. Although a consistent crosslinguistic definition of ‘politeness’ remains elusive, especially if sought from the fluctuating opinions of the layperson and not qua scientific abstraction,15 most research in the field basically agrees on its main elements Robin Lakoff reduced 10 Thus Harrison 2005b, 237. 11 Against interpreting high language or serious themes in satyr drama as necessarily parodic, see Griffith 2006, 53 (contra, e.g. Sutton 1980a). 12 See Dickey 1996, 145–9; Lloyd 2006, 233. 13 See K-G i 233–4; Lammermann 1935, 73–8; Lloyd 2006, 234. 14 See Lloyd 1999 on tragic aorist. 15 On defining politeness, see Eelen 2001, 245–53.

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politeness to the threefold rule ‘Don’t impose, give options, make the interlocutor feel good’:16 this may seem naïve reductionism, but all three factors have played a major role in the influential framework elaborated by Penelope Brown and Stephen Levinson in 1970s.17 For Brown and Levinson, rational agents are endowed with ‘wants’ constituting their ‘face’ (compare the English ‘saving/losing face’). Two concerns inform face: (1) that one’s self-image and wants be found desirable by others (positive face); (2) that one be unimpeded by others (negative face). Individual face-wants thus defined can be satisfied only by the mediation of other social agents, who desire in turn their wants satisfied. Accordingly, verbal interaction is constitutively geared to threatening the interlocutor’s face, both positive (as for example in criticism, disagreement, delivery of bad news, expression of violent emotions, irreverence) and negative (as for example in orders, requests, threats, and also offers, compliments). Such threats are known as Face-Threatening Acts (FTAs) and politeness consists in redressing the hearer’s face by mitigating the ‘virtual offence’ arising from FTAs. Brown and Levinson postulate four18 independent super-strategies to communicate politeness, ranging from directness to indirectness. (1) Bald-on-record: communication of FTAs as directly, clearly and concisely as possible, that is, without face-redress. Bald-on-record puts pressure on the addressee to comply with the FTA, but is not necessarily impolite. For example, such a measure is required when dealing with urgent matters and can help the speaker gain credit for clarity, efficiency, outspokenness. (2) Positive politeness: redress of the hearer’s positive face, an ‘approach-based’ super-strategy by which speakers convey ‘sameness’ between themselves and their addressees (and between their wants). Unlike costlier superstrategies (strictly limited to the mitigation of FTAs), positive politeness routinely extends to broader manifestations of sympathy towards the hearer. (3) Negative politeness: redress of the hearer’s negative face, an ‘avoidancebased’ super-strategy by which speakers communicate their desire to avoid infringements on the addressee’s sphere. This way, speakers take the opportunity to show respect, add distance, give options. (4) Off-record: non-univocal communication of speaker’s intentions. Compared with the other super-strategies, off-record provides a shield to speaker and hearer (they can behave as if the FTA had not occurred), but also exposes the 16 See Lakoff 1973. 17 See Brown and Levinson 1987 (originally published 1978). 18 Brown and Levinson 1987 mention a fifth super-strategy, ‘Don’t do the FTA’ but do not discuss its outputs (plausible candidates are deliberate silences and reticence).

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speaker to the risk of appearing manipulative. Off-record occurs with violations of Grice’s Cooperative Principle and its Maxims.19 Besides the aforementioned ‘a priori’ payoffs, the choice among the available super-strategies is determined by the interplay of three context-dependent variables, as mutually manifest to the interlocutors: (a) Distance (D): symmetrically measuring the similarity/difference between the interlocutors. Assessments of D are based on interactional frequency and may, but need not, be dictated by social parameters, such as kinship. (b) Power (P): asymmetrically measuring how much a hearer could impose on the speaker, physically or metaphysically. Assessments of P are generally calculated on the basis of social hierarchy. (c) Ranking of Impositions (Rx): the extent to which a FTA interferes with the hearer in a given situation/culture, calculated in proportion to the expenditure of services and goods (time, effort, money) required from the hearer, the rights and obligations contracted by the interlocutors, the impossibility to act on either party, the enjoyment experienced in performing the FTA, and so on. These are just the bare bones of Brown and Levinson’s framework. It should be noted that every aspect of the framework has suffered tremendous attacks and variously successful attempts of revision.20 In particular, substantial criticism has attached to (a) Brown and Levinson’s preference for an ‘etic’ (deduced by scientists) over an ‘emic’ (extracted from speakers’ consciousness) definition of politeness, (b) the dualistic and universalistic notion of face, which is often judged an inadequate shorthand, (c) the privileging of micro-level over contextual analysis, (d) the robustness and ranking of the four super-strategies.21 In spite of such disagreement, Brown and Levinson’s framework has shown great resilience thanks to its solid pragmatic foundations and its intuitive correct-

19 See Section 4.4 below. 20 In particular, the turn to a ‘post-modern’ conception of politeness, programmatically disentangled from reductionist efforts, posed a major (though not entirely successful) challenge to Brown and Levinson 1987: see especially Ehlich, Ide and Watts 1992; Mills 2003; Watts 2003, and Linguistic Politeness Research Group 2011, 2–5 for a sample of disharmonic definitions. A salutary resurgence of data-driven methodologies has been seen in recent years: see Terkourafi 2001; 2002; 2005; 2007; 2008; 2014; 2015. For a history of im/politeness research, see Culpeper 2011b. For an up-to-date handbook, see Culpeper, Haugh and Kádár 2017. 21 For a synthetic response to each point, see Catrambone 2016, 174–6 (with references). Further inadequacies, e.g. failure to accommodate impoliteness, do not justify dismissal of Brown and Levinson’s framework.

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ness.22 Its usefulness has been tested on Greek texts, especially in Michael Lloyd’s ground-breaking papers on Greek tragedy and Homer,23 and further research is being conducted along similar lines.24

3 Politeness and Satyr Drama Politeness theory can be helpful for the study of satyr drama in at least three respects. Firstly, the genre’s definition. Alone or in combination with other linguistic evidence,25 the investigation of satyric politeness makes it possible to position satyr drama more accurately between tragedy and comedy.26 The basic conclusion suggested from the preliminary survey hereby offered is that substantial and consistent efforts are routinely made by satyric speakers to maintain, rather than destroy, the face of their interlocutors, while moments of gratuitous aggression, including mockery, remain brief and sporadic.27 Thus, satyr drama would mirror more the seriousness and decorum of tragedy than the unrestrained verbal freedom of Old Comedy, although with a fair number of incursions into incongruity not permitted to tragedy.28 Drawing clearer distinctions at this point, especially between satyr drama and Old Comedy,29 seems neither possible nor advisable, particularly because we lack a comprehensive description of im/polite22 For comparisons with other frameworks, see Dickey 2016, concluding that Brown and Levinson’s remains the best choice for empirical research on corpus-based languages. 23 See Lloyd 1999; 2004; 2006; 2009; Battezzato 2012, 318–21; Catrambone 2016, but sparse observations may be found even in works not strictly focused on politeness (Dickey 1996; Willi 2003, 157–97; Denizot 2011; Schuren 2015; van Emde Boas 2017b). On politeness in Latin, see Ferri 2008; Hall 2009; Unceta Gómez 2009; Dickey 2012; Barrios-Lech 2016. 24 See, an investigation of politeness mechanisms in Sophocles’ stichomythia, including a full survey of politeness strategies in tragedy. 25 Especially colloquialisms, research on which (see Catrambone 2019; Lämmle 2013, 64–76, with references) has produced the justified conclusion that satyr drama is closer to tragedy (see especially López Eire 2003; Griffith 2006). 26 For ‘generic’ comparisons between tragedy and comedy (barely touching on satyr drama), see Taplin 1986; 1996; Foley 2008. On the intermediate position of satyr drama, see Krumeich et al. 1999 32–4; Di Marco 2000 [= 2013, 11–27]; Griffith 2005, 163 with 191, n. 12. 27 On the limitations of satyric laughter (as opposed to comedy), see Di Marco 2007 [= 2013, 51–68]. 28 For a similar view, see Slenders in this volume. 29 On the (controversial) relationship between satyr drama and Old Comedy, see Zagagi 1999; Katsouris 1999; Voelke 2003; Bakola 2005; Storey 2005; Dobrov 2007; Lämmle 2013, 40–50; Shaw 2014. Surprisingly, linguistic evidence has been seldom exploited in these comparisons (see Redondo 2003 and Redondo in this volume for exceptions).

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ness dynamics in Old Comedy: areas where meaningful distinctions are likely to emerge include the quantitative and qualitative relevance of impoliteness (diffuse, violent and markedly obscene30 in Old Comedy; episodic and largely in satyr drama; dignified and well-motivated in tragedy), the frequency and intensity of redressive action against FTAs (higher in tragedy and satyr drama than in comedy), the frequency of social inversions exposed by peculiar politeness distribution (high in Old Comedy; low in satyr drama; virtually non-existent in tragedy), parodic imitations of polite behaviour (arguably present and possibly para-tragic in Old Comedy; certainly or probably absent in tragedy and satyr drama). Secondly, the characterization of satyric speakers. Politeness distribution suggests that the fictional social structures embedded into the plays are generally validated, rather than subverted, by its agents. With the understandable exception of antagonistic relationships, as between ‘ogre’ and ‘hero’, language in satyr drama is consistently calibrated so as to take account of the status of the interlocutor. Thus, high-P characters such as gods and ogres receive abundant face-redress from others, including the Satyrs, regularly portrayed as slaves at the mercy of a master. Even within the Silenos/Satyrs dyad, Silenos is paid the respect a father should have, regardless of whether the father/son relationship is occasionally dysfunctional. Also, the informality favoured by Silenos and the Satyrs indicates they are capable of entering friendly relationships, although such relationships may start with the appropriate distance.31 Finally, there are the relationships between Silenos and the Satyrs with the female sex: these are characterized by a mixture of misplaced familiarity (mostly advanced by the former out of their sexual appetites) and the friction inevitably resulting from the negative response given by female parties. Thirdly, the themes and plot-motifs of satyr drama. Here politeness adds a further element to the long-recognized seriality of the genre.32 Politeness increases or decreases according to the kind of situation staged. Informality predominates whenever the hyperactivity of the Satyrs is at its greatest unsurprisingly, the worst verbal and physical vexations of which satyr drama is capable are reserved for the Satyrs and Silenos, regularly scolded as childish, bestial, or cowardly. Politeness also serves the rhetorical persuasion critical to the resolu-

30 On obscene language (an important medium of impoliteness) in Aristophanes: Henderson 1991 remains fundamental, although the lexical arrangement of its material does not help trace back instances of contextually impolite obscenity. On obscenity in satyr drama (often felt as mild and subtle), see Lämmle 2013, 65, n. 4 with references. 31 As at Eur. Cycl. 96–105, discussed in Section 1 above. 32 For indexes of motifs, see Krumeich et al. 1999 28–32, 666–8; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 509–12; Lämmle 2013, 351–443.

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tion of many plots; furthermore, shifts from one to the other super-strategy might emphasize the changing mind-states of satyric characters, notably from sobriety to drunkenness. In the following sections, a survey of the politeness outputs attested in satyric corpus will be offered, with comments on these three aspects, whenever relevant. Moreover, significant facts about the distribution of individual outputs will be noticed whenever appropriate. Needless to say, an investigation of this kind must cope with the gaps in our documentation: as a general policy, ‘conversational’ passages will be privileged over non-dialogic sections, Euripides’ Cyclops and the better-preserved fragments over the shorter, more obscure scraps, and the unquestionably satyric fragments over those of disputed attribution.

4 Politeness Strategies in Satyr Drama: A Synopsis 4.1 Bald-On-Record Bald-on-record, the zero grade of politeness, is restricted to a narrow range of circumstances in satyr drama. Urgency and desperation typically provide compelling motivations. At Aeschylus, Diktyoulkoi fr. 46a, after unsuccessful attempts, one of the interlocutors33 begs help to neighbours to drag the chest out of the sea:34 see 18–20 π̣άντες γεωργοὶ δεῦτε κ̣ἀμπελοσκάφοι κτλ., where urgency is further increased by cries (cf. 17 β]οὴν ἵστημι τοῖσδ’ ἰύγμασιν).35 Impending emergencies necessarily abbreviate the communication of bad news or the issuing of requests: see Euripides, Cyclops 193 οἴμοι· Κύκλωψ ὅδ’ ἔρχεται· τί δράσομεν;, where Silenos36 worriedly signals Polyphemus’ entry, which endangers the transaction with Odysseus, and 488 σίγα σίγα, where the Satyrs fall silent as the drunken Polyphemus re-emerges. Extreme instances occur with free-standing

33 Most editors (e.g. Radt 2009, 163–5) assign lines 7–21 to speaker A (i.e. the one who takes orders at 1–7), but Werre-De Haas 1961, 30–3, and Dettori 2016, 11, assuming more speaker-changes in the preceding lines, give 17–21 to Speaker B (i.e. the one who gives orders at 1–7). No resolution seems possible because of the damaged condition of the preceding lines (14–16) in the papyrus. For the identification of the speakers, see below, n. 109. 34 See Eur. Hipp. 776–7 (the Nurse summons neighbours after Phaedra’s suicide). 35 See Also fr. 46c.6 βοηδρομεῖτε. 36 Pace Seaford 1984, 140, and O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 158, L. Dindorf’s attribution of 193 (accepted by Diggle 1984) is preferable to L’s attribution to Odysseus: 194, unequivocally spoken by Odysseus, must be the first line of his reply to Silenos (see ὦ γέρον).

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(extra metrum) interjections:37 note, in Sophocles’ Ichneutai, the reactions of Satyrs (131 ὓ ὓ ὓ ὕ) and Silenos (205 ἔ̣α̣) on hearing the lyre.38 Urgency can be ‘metaphorical’, or unevenly felt by the parties. Of this kind is Danaë’s appeal to the gods against Silenos’ advances at Aeschylus, Diktyoulkoi fr. 47a.773–81, including accusations (775 [ ]ο̣ι̣σ̣δε̣ κνωδ̣άλοις με δώσετε) and suicidal threats (778 ἀ̣γχόνην ἄρ’ ἅψομαι). At Aeschylus, Theoroi or Isthmiastai fr. 78c, Satyrs repeatedly reject the ‘playthings’ brought in by Dionysos with what would seem otherwise discourteous replies: see especially 53 ἐμοὶ μὲν οὐχί· τῶν φίλων νεῖμόν τι̣νι, and also 55 τί δὴ γανοῦσθαι τοῦτο; καὶ τί χρήσομαι;, 57 τί δ[ρ] ᾶ̣ν; τί ποιεῖν; [τοὐ]πίπλουν μ’ οὐχ̣ ἁνδάν[ει.].39 Bald-on-record imperatives are also ordinarily used to gain attention (Aesch. Theor. fr. 78a.5 ἄθ̣ρ̣η̣σ̣ον40; Soph. Ichn. 138 ἄ[κουε δή]) or for trivial requests, such as saying (Silenos at Eur. Cycl. 138 σὺ δ’ ἀντιδώσεις, εἰπέ μοι, χρυσὸν πόσον;),41 or doing something (Polyphemus at Eur. Cycl. 558 ἀπολεῖς· δὸς οὕτως,42 565 ἆ ἆ, τί δράσεις;). Bald-on-record is justifiable in task-oriented conversations, as being more polite on the part of the speaker would impair communicative efficiency. Scenes of this kind are an exclusive prerogative of the Satyrs. Worth mentioning are the instructions exchanged inside Poseidon’s temple at Aeschylus’ Theoroi fr. 78a (see especially 4 ἄκουε δή πᾶς· σῖγα,43 10 χώρει μάλα,44 18–20 εἷα δὴ σκοπεῖτε δ̣ῶμα ποντίου σεισίχθο[νος | κἀπιπασσάλευ’ ἕ̣κα ̣ στος τῆς κ[α]λῆς μορφῆς | ἄγγελον etc.) and the ‘hunting-scene’ at Sophocles’ Ichneutai 100–22 (see especially 101 ἴσχε, μὴ̣ ̣ ρ ̣ [ ̣ ̣ ]̣ 45 τ̣ ει, 102, 103 σίγ[α], 107 ἰδοὺ ἰδού, 109 ἄθρει μάλα, 111 χ[ώ]ρει δρόμῳ, ἔχου, 114 οὐκ εἰσακούω̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ φθ̣[έγ]ματ̣ος, 119 αὐτὰ δ’ εἴσιδε), initiated by Silenos (93 ἄγ’ εἷ̣α δὴ πᾶς̣).46 37 See Nordgren 2015, 48–51 (omitting the examples below). 38 The distant juxtaposition makes Silenos appear a worse coward than his sons, whom he had rebuked (see Pearson 1917, 225). 39 As restored by Henry and Nünlist 2000, 16. 40 Regardless of whether the verb introduces an indirect question (as in most reconstructions), or is used absolutely (as suggested by Iovine 2016). 41 The ‘urgency’ here is Silenos’ venality; see Seaford 1984, 128; 2003, 1–7. 42 Judging from the numerous comic parallels (listed by Seaford 1984, 206; Olson 2002, 195) compared to tragedy (Soph. Trach. 1008, El. 831, Agathon fr. 13), ἀπωλεῖς seems an exaggerated but fairly innocuous (and colloquial: see Stevens 1976, 11) expression of disappointment. 43 On the text (punctuation before or after πᾶς equally admissible); see Di Marco 1969–1970, 386–7 [= 2013, 124–5]. 44 I accept Fraenkel’s accentuation (printed by O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 272); Lobel 1941, 27, preferred χωρεῖ. 45 I read the traces as in Hunt 1912, 43 (contra, Radt 1999, 282): π]ά̣τει (Robert 1912, 543) seems very likely. 46 Bald-on-record further assimilates this scene to Soph. Aj. 866–914 (see Sutton 1971, 60–7 for a comparison).

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Bald-on-record is obviously acceptable if the FTA is done in the interest of the speaker: in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Pyrkaeus, Prometheus warns the Satyrs against their foolish idea to kiss the fire (fr. 207 τράγος γένειον ἆρα πενθήσεις σύ γε); in Sophocles’ Ichneutai, responding to the Satyrs’ failure to guess the animal from which Hermes’ lyre was produced, Cyllene encourages them to try again (306 ἄλλον τιν’ ἐξευροῦ τρόπον). Temporary removals or inversions of P-differential are allowed in such cases, so that inferior speakers become temporarily entitled to impose on their superiors: see the Satyrs’ ἐμ[ο]ὶ πιθοῦ, addressed to their uncooperative father Silenos at Sophocles’ Ichneutai 140, or the unidentified speaker (a herdsman?) of Aeschylus’ Glaukos Pontios fr. 25e, trying to convince his interlocutor that the miraculous epiphany of Glaucus he is about to report is true (see 4 ἴσθι). A few occurrences imply disregard for the hearer’s face, which may border on impoliteness if the threat to the hearer is particularly aggressive or gratuitous. One reason for disregarding the hearer may be that the speaker is simply more powerful and/or does not fear retaliation. That happens whenever the Satyrs are rebuked, justly or otherwise, for their behaviour. In Sophocles’ Ichneutai, having seen his children on all fours, Silenos launches a violent reprimand by which he seeks explanation for their strange behaviour, comparing them to animals (124–30, 132–5, 137);47 in Euripides’ Cyclops, the Satyrs are equally rebuked by the title-character immediately after his arrival (203–11 ἄνεχε πάρεχε etc.), as he censures their idleness (203–4), reminds them that they are no longer enslaved to Dionysos (204–5), and asks about the chores they were supposed to complete in his absence, namely the preparation of the meal (214, 216, 218). In both passages, high-P characters ‘put on record’ the undisciplined conduct of their subordinates by the accumulation of τίς/τί-questions (see e.g. Soph. Ichn. 127 τίς ὑμῶν ὁ τρόπος;, Eur. Cycl. 203–4 τί τάδε; τίς ἡ ῥᾳθυμία; | τί βακχιάζετ’;).48 The rudeness becomes quite acceptable by virtue of the social asymmetry between the interlocutors, and perhaps also because the reprimands are directed toward gaining the expected compliance rather than to humiliating the addressee. A lower-status character may on occasion show indifference for her/his interlocutor. In Sophocles’ Ichneutai, despite Cyllene’s recommendation of not accusing Hermes for the theft of the cattle, the Satyrs reply with nonchalance: see 371–2 στρέφου λυγίζου τε μύθοις, ὁποίαν θέλεις | βάξιν εὕρισκ’ ἀπόψηκτον· οὐ γάρ με ταῦτα πείσεις, 377 μ]ή με τᾶ[σδ’ ἐ]ξ ὁδοῦ βίβαζε). Although they are not under the tutelage of Cyllene

47 On this scene, see ANTONOPOULOS in this volume. 48 See Also Soph. Ichn. 177–8 τί μάτην ὑπέκλαγες, ὑπέκριγες, | ὑπό μ’ ἴδες;, 180 ἐν πρώτῳ τίς ὅδε τρόπ[ος;] (Silenos to the Satyrs: see Antonopoulos 2014b, 251).

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(which gives them a right to retort), their behaviour is nonetheless childish and arrogant (causing the altercation at 379–404). Heracles similarly resists obeying his interlocutor (probably the ‘ogre’ Syleus)49 at Euripides, Syleus fr. 687 πίμπρη, κάταιθε σάρκας, ἐμπλήσθητί μου | πίνων κελαινὸν αἷμα· πρόσθε γὰρ κάτω | γῆς εἶσιν ἄστρα, γῆ δ’ ἄνεισ’ ἐς αἰθέρα, | πρὶν ἐξ ἐμοῦ σοι θῶπ’ ἀπαντῆσαι λόγον): Philo (Quod omnis probus liber sit 100), the source quoting the fragment, appropriately comments on Heracles’ words as an example of free speech and nobility as opposed to flattery, the mark of slavery.50 Finally, there is a class of bald-on-record ‘oriented to face’, that is, aimed at pre-emptively relieving the interlocutor from potential embarrassment in impinging on the speaker: such are many conversational rituals, including ‘postgreetings’ (‘Come in!’), farewells (‘Don’t care for me’), and offers (‘Take X’), none of which is attested in satyr drama’s fragmentary corpus.

4.2 Positive Politeness Positive politeness redresses the hearer’s desire that her/his wants and/or self be deemed desirable or admirable by others. Three higher-order strategies normally convey positive politeness, each of which is realized by a plethora of different outputs. The first higher-order strategy is to claim (i.e. assume, assert, recall) common ground with the hearer. For example, the speaker may take notice of positive aspects of the hearer or deny embarrassment if a FTA is done by the latter against her/his own face: similar ‘niceties’ are not found in satyr drama, perhaps because of its propensity to revolve around incongruity, something which is condoned or obscured in these strategies. Fairly widespread is, instead, the use of exaggeratedly favourable reactions to the hearer. In the transaction-scene of Euripides’ Cyclops 96–174, Silenos repeatedly shows enthusiasm: see 140 ὦ φίλτατ’ εἰπών, οὖ σπανίζομεν πάλαι (after the wine is firstly proposed in exchange for food), 148 καλήν γε κρήνην εἶπας ἡδεῖάν τ’ ἐμοί (once reassurance is given on the amount of drink available), 153 παπαιάξ, ὡς καλὴν ὀσμὴν ἔχει (having smelled the wine), 156–7 βαβαί· χορεῦσαι παρακαλεῖ μ’ ὁ Βάκχιος. | ἆ ἆ ἆ (after the tasting). The examples above sufficiently illustrate the range of linguistic markers typically triggering this output, namely interjections (some of which unattested in tragedy, like παπαιάξ), assenting and/or emphatic particles, evaluative adjectives: see further 49 Thus, rightly, Pechstein 1998, 258; Krumeich et al. 1999 470; contra, O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 409, assume the addressee to be Hermes, but Heracles would be in that case unnecessarily defiant. 50 See Further Pechstein 1998, 255–61.

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Aesch. Theor. fr. 78a.3 ἦ κάρτ’, Soph. Inach. fr. 269c.23 αὐτὸ̣ν̣ ε̣ἶπ̣ας, αὐτόν̣51, Eur. Cycl. 110 and 572 παπαῖ, 381 ὦ ταλαίπωρ’, 586 ναὶ μὰ Δί᾿, Achaeus’ Moirai fr. 28 βαβαὶ βαβαί.52 Positively-polite exaggerations may extend to form hyperbolic sentences: see for example Eur. Cycl. 443–4, 464–5 ἰοὺ ἰού· | γέγηθα μαινόμεσθα τοῖς εὑρήμασιν, and also 473–5, 596, 654–5 (Satyrs react excitedly to Odysseus’ plan to blind Polyphemus). Except Cycl. 572 and 586, spoken by drunken Polyphemus, all the instances listed above belong to Silenos or the Satyrs: this is significant, as verbal excess is symptomatic of their vitalism and inadequate self-restraint (though a mark of ‘sociable’ rather than ‘anti-social’ behaviour).53 Another strategy to claim common ground is to stress the membership(s) shared with the hearer. In satyr drama (and tragedy), this is preferentially done via the insertion of address-terms (vocatives) within utterances featuring FTAs.54 Politeness offers a satisfactory explanation for this phenomenon, frequently unnoticed or dismissed as irrelevant by scholars. In the simplest form, addressterms consist of the hearer’s first name only (Eur. Cycl. 132 Ὀδυσσεῦ) or of the appropriate age-term (Eur. Cycl. 145 γέρον, 194 ὦ γέρον: Odysseus to Silenos). At the conclusion of his famous plea (Eur. Cycl. 285–312), Odysseus redresses in this way his advice to Polyphemus that hospitality should be preferred over impiety (309 ἀλλ’ ἐμοὶ πιθοῦ, Κύκλωψ), with Silenos doing the same while advising the opposite thing, that Odysseus should instead be devoured (313–5 τῶν γὰρ κρεῶν | μηδὲν λίπῃς τοῦδ’ … | … Κύκλωψ). Both speakers legitimately redress Polyphemus’ positive face, but the reduplication colours the flattery with comic shades. Vocatives may recall the kinship between the interlocutors: see for example Eur. Cycl. 587 ἀπόλωλα, παῖδες (Silenos to the Satyrs, while carried offstage by Polyphemus to be raped) and Soph. Ichn. 142 ἄκουσον αὐτὸ̣ς̣ ν̣ῦ̣[ν, πά]τε̣ρ̣, χρόνον τινά (the Satyrs to Silenos, after unsuccessful bald-on-record

51 For the attribution of 23 (a reply to 22) to part of the Chorus, see Pfeiffer 1938, 39; Carden 1974, 86. 52 For the attribution to Silenos, indicated by Hsch. N 722; see Cipolla 2003, 214. 53 For Satyrs as anti-types, see Lissarrague 1990a; 1990b; 1993; Hall 1998; 2006, 142–69; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 9–17, but the view needs to be corrected with a more generous assessment of their ethos (see especially Voelke 2001, 211–59; Griffith 2005, 172–86; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 17–22): their ability to engage in supportive relationships was surely part of this sympathetic portrayal. 54 Further outputs are not attested, such as code-switching (as in tragedy, all characters speak the same idiom) or the use of secretive ellipsis (an inapposite move in performances aiming first and foremost at audience comprehension). As to the use of jargon/slang, note possibly Eur. Cycl. 152 ἐγκάναξον (Valckenaer’s correction for L’s ἐκπάταξον) and 158 διεκάναξε, whereby the lexical near-repetition highlights the all-male complicity implied in drinking together.

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attempts to gain his attention).55 Alternatively, vocatives could refer to an existing philia, be it friendship or kinship:56 see φίλοι at Aesch. Dikt. fr. 47a.821 (Silenos to the Satyrs?),57 ὦ τᾶν at Soph. Ichn. 104 (a Satyr to his fellow) and Eur. Cycl. 536 (Odysseus to the drunken Polyphemus).58 Thirdly, polite vocatives are suitable between strangers: see (ὦ) ξένε/ξένοι at Eur. Cycl. 116 (Silenos to Odysseus), 320 and 510 (Polyphemus to Odysseus). Finally, they can be exploited in cross-sex conversations: see Soph. Ichn. 335 γύναι, within the Satyrs’ pre-emptive attempt (332–5) to assuage Cyllene while accusing Hermes of the cattle theft.59 Addressterms perform three other functions, all related with politeness: (1) ‘calls’ (usually at line-beginning: see for example Soph. Ichn. 203, Eur. Cycl. 96, 519); (2) ‘greetings’, namely acknowledgments of the addressee at the earliest possible occasion since conversational opening (Eur. Cycl. 82 ~ 84, 102, 175, 229 ~ 230, 275 ~ 279); (3) ‘speaker-selection’, namely the choice of a specific interlocutor when more than one is available (Eur. Cycl. 539, 540, 548, 551, 566, in the three-way conversation among Odysseus, Polyphemus and Silenos). In (1) and (2), vocatives mitigate the FTA of failing to address the hearer appropriately; in (3), they help avoid confusion in the management of turns during conversation.60 Two related strategies to claim common ground consist in seeking agreement or avoiding disagreement with the hearer. Recourse to safe topics (for which agreement is easier) is routinely exploited across languages as a ‘rapportinspiring’ move, particularly in first encounters. A plausible instance is found in the earliest conversation between Odysseus and Silenos at Euripides’ Cyclops 96–162: after the greetings (96–105: see Section 1 above), Silenos asks information about Odysseus’ journey (106, 108), the two discover they were equally driven to Sicily by forceful circumstances (110–12) and Odysseus asks multiple questions about Sicily, its geography, inhabitants, government, food, policy towards guests (113, 115, 117, 119, 121, 123, 125, 127, 129). Such innocent exchange of trivial information, insofar as it instils a friendly disposition in the interlocutors, crucially helps

55 Carden’s ν̣ῦ̣[ν πά]τε̣ρ̣ (1971, 42) is accepted by Diggle 1998, 51 (see O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 354), even though he questions αὐτὸ̣ς̣ (Maas 1912, 1076), accepted instead by Radt 1999, 285 and Krumeich et al. 1999, 287). On the negative politeness of 142–4, see Section 4.3 below. 56 On friendship in satyr drama, see O’SULLIVAN in this volume. 57 For the attribution, see n. 84 below. 58 For ὦ τᾶν (a friendship term), see Stevens 1976, 42–3; Dickey 1996, 158–60; Collard 2018, 97–8. 59 The hesitant wording indicates the delicacy of the issue; on 336–7, see Section 4.3 below. 60 Turn-taking is investigated by Conversation Analysis, a useful methodology which cannot be discussed here: see Sacks, Schegloff and Jefferson 1974; Schegloff 2007 and, for empirical applications to tragedy, van Emde Boas 2017a and Catrambone 2019.

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Odysseus prepare to make his major request (131, 133).61 Another agreementseeking strategy is to pick up (all or part of) the words previously spoken by the interlocutor: at Aeschylus, Diktyoulkoi fr. 46a.1–2, Speaker B replies ξυνῆκα to Speaker A’s question ξυνῆκ̣[ας…;, and although no other word survives from 1–2, the repetition suggests the collaborative mood of the dialogue.62 To avoid disagreement, that is, to agree as far as possible, speaker may prefix an agreement-token to otherwise disagreeing utterances: at Sophocles’ Oineus(?) fr. 1130.3–5, the speaker (Oineus?) accepts to reveal (3 ἀλλ’ ἐξεροῦμεν) some (textually unclear) piece of information previously requested by the Satyrs (1–2), but preliminarily asks for his interlocutor’s identity (3–5 ἀλλὰ πρῶτα βούλομ[αι] | γνῶναι etc.). In Euripides’ Cyclops, the drunken title-character twice tempers disagreement during his conversation with Odysseus (519–89): (1) replying to why he hates the wineskin if he is indeed delighted by the liquid therein contained (528), he says μισῶ τὸν ἀσκόν· τὸ δὲ ποτὸν φιλῶ τόδε (529); (2) to Odysseus’ point that revels cause riots (534, to dissuade Polyphemus from visiting his brothers), he replies μεθύω μέν, ἔμπας δ’ οὔτις ἂν ψαύσειέ μου (535), whereby the implied disagreement in refusing Odysseus’ dissuasion is tempered by the admission that Polyphemus is indeed drunken.63 Turn-initial particles like καὶ μήν,64 καὶ δή,65 and even γε, can mark efforts to avoid disagreement (Eur. Cycl. 151, 541, 542, Achaeus’ Hephaestus fr. 17.5, Python’s Agen fr. 1.14–16). Even more frequent is the use of conclusory discourse markers (comparable with English then or so), which allow speakers to convey that what may seem a self-willed FTA actually springs from a reasoning (truly or allegedly) carried out cooperatively with the hearer. Satyr drama (like tragedy and comedy) is filled with positively-polite markers of ‘pseudo-agreement’, particularly νυν and οὖν: see Soph. Inach. fr. 269c.28, Ichn. 136,66 436; Eur. Cycl. 155, 162, 441, 476, 530, 543, 546, 563, 568, 630, 649; Achaeus’ Aithon fr. 9.3. Token- and pseudo-agreement occur consecutively at Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi fr. 46a just mentioned: realizing that the sea is smooth (5), Speaker B begs Speaker A to watch at the crevices (6 δ̣έρκου νυν ἐς κευ[θμῶνα), to which A confirms he already did this (7 καὶ δὴ δέδορκα τῷδε). 61 Enquiries about locality are attested since Pers. 230–45; at Soph. OC 64–74, as in Cyclops’ passage, small talk precedes Oedipus’ request. In all three cases, the heaping of questions and answers tangentially illuminates on the places being described (on ‘satyric’ Sicily, see O’Sullivan 2012). 62 On this dialogue, see also below and Section 4.3. 63 Add Aesch. Dikt. fr. 47a.827 καὶ θαῦμ’ οὐδ̣έν, if there is speaker-change (see below, n. 84). 64 See Wakker 1997, 215–8, but its assent-giving function is confusedly captured by Denniston 1954, 353. 65 See Denniston 1954, 251–2; van Erp Taalman Kip 2009, 125; Drummen in Bonifazi, Drummen and De Kreij 2016 iii §51–2. 66 With Murray’s σ[ίγα μὲν οὖν.].

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Common ground may further be asserted via two kinds of ‘flips’. The former (‘point-of-view operation’) consists in manipulations of personal (from ‘I’ to ‘you’), temporal (from past to ‘vivid’ present), spatial (preference for proximal over distal anchorage) deixis.67 To limit discussion to personal deixis, satyric characters are not infrequently ‘precipitated’ into their interlocutors’ words: illustrative instances are utterances such as ὡς ὁρᾷς/ὁρᾶτε (Soph. Achilleos Erastai fr. 153; Eur. Cycl. 145; Lycophron’ Menedemos fr. 2.2), ‘tag questions’ (for example Soph. Inach. fr. 269c.26 ἐσορᾷς;),68 and (I submit) utterances embedding τοι (≈ English you know),69 regularly co-occurring with embarrassing FTAs (Aesch. Prom. Pyrk. fr. 204b.6–8 = 15–17, Soph. Ichn. 391/38670, Eur. Cycl. 124, Skiron fr. 678). The latter ‘flip’ involves manipulation of presuppositions: for example, speakers may assert personal knowledge of the hearer, as in assent-seeking questions with μῶν and ἦ (Soph. Ichn. 203, Eur. Cycl. 158, 378, 528, Achaeus’ Aithon fr. 9), the hearer’s knowledge of the speaker (Eur. Cycl. 134 οὐκ ἔστιν, ὥσπερ εἶπον, ἄλλο πλὴν κρέας ‘There is, as I said, nothing else except meat’: Silenos recalls Odysseus’ memory of his previous words to mitigate the reminder), or advance familiarity even when such familiarity would be inappropriate (Eur. Cycl. 418 φίλτατε ξένων: Odysseus reports how Polyphemus cheered him for the offering of the wine;71 437 ὦ φίλτατ’: the Satyrs accept Odysseus’ offer to sail back to Greece).72 One last strategy used to claim common ground deserves special mention, as it is absent from tragedy:73 jokes. Although satyr drama is filled with hilarious moments, relevant here are only those jokes aimed at the intra-dramatic audience.74 Playful and humorous (rather than genuinely terrified) must have 67 See in general Edmunds 2008; Schuren 2015, 160–6. 68 On ‘tag-questions’, see Willi 2003, 185 (Aristophanes). 69 On τοι, see Denniston 1954, 537 ‘[i]ts primary function is … to establish … a close rapport between … the speaker and … another person’ (see also 540, on ‘soothing’ τοι): a similar explanation seems basically correct, but is inconsistently defended by Denniston, who unnecessarily postulates a variety of additional nuances (‘boasting’, ‘threatening’, ‘hortatory’, ‘deprecatory’, etc.) clearly incompatible with this core function. 70 I accept the left-hand adjoining of 390–4 to 385–9 (see Diggle 1996, 15–17). 71 On Polyphemus’ motivations (drunkenness and greed), see O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 183–4. 72 Satyr drama mirrors the distribution of φίλτατε in tragedy, where it is either a mark of intimacy or a sign that the hearer comes as a ‘saviour’ for the speaker (see Sommerstein 1990 [= 2010, 202–8]). 73 Except for isolated passages where it remains debatable whether the effect should be laughter: see Soph. Ant. 317, Eur. Tro. 1050 and Seidensticker 1982. 74 Lämmle 2013, 73–4 lists jokes on bodily functions, but most entries (e.g. Soph. Ichn. 168, Eur. Cycl. 327–8) are hardly meant for the interlocutor’s amusement (contrast, perhaps, the vertiginous list of Satyrs’ skills at Soph. Oin.(?) fr. 1130, culminating at 15–16 with the ridiculous τῶν κάτω | λάλησις).

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been, at Aeschylus’ Theoroi fr. 78a, the reactions of the Satyrs at the sight of the ‘likenesses’ to be fitted as votive gifts in Poseidon’s temple75: the story about the Satyrs’ mothers’ possible amazement at seeing her child’s reproduction (13–17) is nothing but a gag to create fun within the group (and cause audience’s laughter).76 Polyphemus makes at least two jokes: at Euripides’ Cyclops 220–1, he ‘reassures’ the Satyrs he does not intend to eat them, since they could kill him by starting dances inside his belly; later on, already drunken, he ‘blames’ and ‘threatens’ Silenos because of his insane passion for the cup (546–7, 554), with the latter teasing in turn his master with absurd justifications (555). Besides asserting common ground, positive politeness may be communicated by indicating that speaker and hearer are co-operators relative to a certain FTA. For example, a speaker may put the FTA as if s/he were displaying concern for the hearer, for example by improving his condition: see Eur. Cycl. 155 γεῦσαί νυν, ὡς ἂν μὴ λόγωι ‘παινῆις μόνον (Odysseus offers the wine to Silenos), and also 143, 546, 561, 676, Soph. Ichn. 169–70, all of which triggered by final clauses with ὡς/ὅπως/ἵνα. Extremely frequent is to make offers and/or promises to anticipate the payoffs awaiting the addressee. This strategy is common to characters of all ranks, including gods. In Sophocles’ Ichneutai, Apollo promises rewards to hire personnel in his search for the cattle, until he meets Silenos: see 8–9, 42–4, and possibly 5577 (note Silenos’ counter-promise at 56), 57,78 63.79 The Odysseus of Euripides’ Cyclops is a master of this strategy: he tempts Silenos with money (160), the Satyrs with homecoming (428–30), Polyphemus with the delights of sleep (573–5) and to get him drink the wine and drench his belly). By contrast, the offers/promises made by Silenos/Satyrs in the play appear both buffoonish and utopian: Silenos promises Polyphemus he will become smart and talkative if he ‘chews’ Odysseus’ tongue (313–15)80; the Satyrs, unable to lend physical support

75 The number and identity of the votive gifts is endlessly disputed: I find the consistent identification of all the objects mentioned throughout fr. 78a with masks the most plausible solution (see Fraenkel 1942, 245; Marconi 2005; Cipolla 2011b); for different opinions, see O’Sullivan and Collard 2013; Ferrari 2013; Iovine 2013; Sonnino 2016; ANTONOPOULOS in this volume. 76 See further O’Sullivan 2000, 359–63. 77 If δ]ώ̣σ̣ω (Siegmann 1941, 9, accepted by Radt 1999, 279) is correct (Bucherer 1913, 580 already suggested μισθόν γε δώσ]ω), but see Antonopoulos 2013b, 78 for scepticism. 78 The offer is suggested by ἑτ̣[οῖμ]α δ̣[έ]: for possible supplements (resting on different interpretations of the traces); cf. Radt 1999, 279. 79 See ἐλεύθερος σὺ[, with Wilamowitz’s exempli gratia (in Hunt 1912, 71) [πᾶν τε γένος ἔσται τέκν]ων. 80 See Seaford 1984, 163.

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to Odysseus in the blinding of Polyphemus, propose the ‘old wives remedy’ of an Orphic incantation to make the firebrand move (646–8).81 The opposite of promises/offers occurs if a speaker presumes the hearer wants for the speaker what the speaker wants for her/himself. Such positivelypolite ‘optimism’ looms large, albeit paradoxically, in the scene with Danaë and the Satyrs at Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi fr. 47a. At 765–72, the speaker (Silenos, I think)82 speaks as though Danaë had already accepted his protection (768 πρόξενόν, 769 προπράκτορα), which she obviously did not. From this, Silenos is brought to fantasize about his future role as Perseus’ old nurse (770 μαῖαν ὡς γερασμίαν); at 802–11 (strophe), having addressed the (presumably recalcitrant) baby with endearing vocatives (802 ὦ φίντων, 807 ὦ φίλος), Silenos or the Satyrs83 describe at length Perseus’ future in the arms of his new nurses, his future delights and sleeping in bed with mum and ‘dad’ (see 806 ἵ̣ξῃ, 808 τέρψῃ, 810 κοιμήσῃ), additionally tempting the baby with further positively-polite promises (812–20, antistrophe: see 812 παρέξει, 818 παρέξεις, 820 πελατεύσεις). Finally, at 821–32 (anapaests) the Satyrs appear to depart to make preparations for the ‘wedding’ under the (too) optimistic assumption that Danaë is willing to accede (824–6 καὶ τήνδ̣’ [ἐ]σορῶ νύμφην ἤ̣[δ]η̣ | πάνυ βουλομένην τῆς̣ ἡμετέρας̣ | φιλότητος ἅδ̣η̣ν κορέσασθαι), an impression reinforced by their hazardous claim that she should be sexually attracted by Silenos because of her long-standing abstinence (827–32).84 Were Danaë compliant, Fraenkel would have been right to

81 See O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 216; Faraone 2008, 21. Odysseus’ unenthusiastic reply (649–53) demystifies its effectiveness. 82 With Siegmann 1948, 76. 83 The speaker-distribution of 802–11 ~ 812–20 is contentious. There is no compelling reason why the Satyrs could not sing part or all of the strophic pair, but since the following anapaests of 821–32 (or at least 821–6) might be a typically hyper-(re)active response to on-going stagebusiness by the Satyrs, it is possible that 802–20 be sung entirely by Silenos (see Dettori 2016, 159–60). On the other hand, it is unprecedented for Aeschylean tragic characters and for Silenos in satyr drama generally to perform monodies – a circumstance which encourages the attribution to the Satyrs (see Sommerstein 2008, 52–3). 84 The paragraphos between 826 and 827 has been thought to indicate speaker-change (thus Siegmann 1948, 113, n. 1 and, recently, O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 263, n. 11): if so, 821–6 and 827–32 should be assigned to different speakers, either half-choruses (Halleran 1989, 269) or individual Satyrs (Werre-De Haas 1961, 70). But Henry (in Henry and Nünlist 2000, 13–14) may be right to take the paragraphoi as marking off anapaestic periods: notice their ‘metrical’ employ at 802 and 812 to separate strophe and antistrophe (for parallels, see Savignago 2008, 156; pace Henry, however, there seems to be no paragraphos at 823). In that case, 821–32 are to be assigned entirely to the Satyrs (Chourmouziadis 1984, 68–9) or to their coryphaeus (Dettori 2016, 186), who might urge departure at 821.

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call this ‘one of the loveliest pieces of Greek poetry’.85 As things stand, however, positive politeness rather highlights the incongruity of Silenos’ desires, although Silenos’ predominantly light-hearted and dreamy tone makes the threat fairly innocuous.86 A further strategy to convey cooperation is to ‘include’ speaker and hearer in the activity, for example, by pluralizing the relative FTA when singular would be more appropriate: see Aesch. Dikt. fr. 47a.805 δε̣ῦρ’ ἐς παῖδας ἴωμεν (Silenos to Perseus); Eur. Syl.87 fr. 694 βαυβῶμεν εἰσελθόντες (Heracles’ sexual come-on to Xenodice), Cycl. 435 σώθητι μετ’ ἐμοῦ (Odysseus invites the Satyrs to depart with him), 557 φέρε διασκεψώμεθα (Silenos ‘checks’ the wine, as though he is doing jointly with Polyphemus).88 A less attested move is to assume reciprocity while doing a FTA. In Euripides’ Cyclops, once Odysseus eventually tells his name to Polyphemus (549 Οὔτιν), he readily assumes that some favour is owed to him for this (549 χάριν δὲ τίνα λαβών σ’ ἐπαινέσω;):89 Polyphemus’ answer (550), it is true, is not particularly encouraging (Odysseus will just be devoured after his comrades), and yet his clemency can still be regarded as an appropriate reciprocation to a politeness move, though from the perspective of an uncivilized monster. Positively-polite reciprocity is typically conveyed by utterances of the form ‘I do X for you, you do Y for me’: see Sophocles, Ichneutai 172–5, where Silenos encourages the Satyrs to start the hunting as he will supervise them by whistling (and, it seems, by providing verbal and visual instructions).90 The most attested strategy to convey cooperation is the twofold move of giving reasons for why a speaker wants what s/he wants or asking about the reasons for which the hearer does not want what the speaker wants from her/him. The ask-reasons output, most often triggered by assent-seeking questions of the

85 See Fraenkel 1942, 241, whose verdict was influenced by the (wrong) assumption that Danaë’s interlocutor was Dictys. 86 See Griffith 2005, 186–90 for a perceptive reading of the scene. 87 The strategy might occur at fr. 691 κλίθητι καὶ πίωμεν, spoken by Heracles to Syleus, but the words there are a challenge and Philo, Quod omnis probus liber sit 102 is right to call them εὐτολμώτατα (‘very bold’). 88 See Also Eur. Cycl. 94–5 (Silenos to the Satyrs), 131 (Odysseus to Silenos), 563–4 (Silenos to Polyphemus), 634 (the Coryphaeus to the Satyrs), 652–3 (Odysseus to Satyrs). In all these passages, the inclusion is expressed in the form of reasons advocated for doing the FTA: see e.g. 94–5 ἀλλ’ ἥσυχοι γίγνεσθ’, ἵν’ ἐκπυθώμεσθα | πόθεν πάρεισι Σικελὸν Αἰτναῖον πάγον, and below on the (positively-polite) give-reasons output. 89 On Odysseus’ politeness, see Ussher 1978, 143, citing Polyphemus’ promise at Od. 9.355–6. 90 Thus Antonopoulos 2014b, convincingly arguing for a division of 176–202 (a lyric passage) between Silenos and the Satyrs.

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type ‘Why don’t do X?’ (instead of the imperative ‘Do X!’), is apparently not found in satyr drama,91 but the give-reasons output is, and very frequently so. Plausible motivations adduced as redress to substantial FTAs (such as requests, rebukes, criticism or disagreement, non-cooperation, and the like) are the speaker’s good intentions (Cyllene to Satyrs at Soph. Ichn. 298), the desire to be helpful (Silenos to Apollo at Soph. Ichn. 48–9, Cyllene to Satyrs at 300; Satyrs to Odysseus at Eur. Cycl. 443–4, 471, 598, Odysseus to Polyphemus at 519–20), a future reward awaiting the addressee (such as the satisfaction of her/his desires: Soph. Ichn. 171; Eur. Cycl. 558–9), the hearer’s personal qualities and characteristics (Speaker A’s kindness at Aesch. Theor. fr. 78a.3; the Satyrs’ youth at Eur. Cycl. 434, and their awareness of the situation at 476), and even the speaker’s personal needs, particularly those which the hearer would be willing to satisfy (see, in Euripides’ Cyclops, Silenos’ forgetfulness and desire of the wine at 157, 191–2, Polyphemus’ desire to join a party at 345–6, Satyrs’ sexual abstinence at 439–40). The give-reasons output is commonly triggered by utterances introduced by γάρ (usually added to the preceding FTA), causal (with ὡς or ἐπεί), final (with ἵνα), or temporal clauses (with οὐ πρίν), participial clauses with causal nuance. In all the aforementioned passages, the reasons provided consist in positive factors encouraging acceptance of the FTA by the hearer: this differentiates the output from the superficially comparable negatively-polite apologies made by providing ‘overwhelming reasons’, whereby the ‘reasons’ are undesirable circumstances beyond speaker’s control (see Section 4.3 below). The third and last positively-polite higher-order strategy is to fulfil the hearer’s positive face directly, notably by out-of-the-blue manifestations of sympathy or understanding for the addressee. Two examples from Cyclops will suffice: on entering the conversation with the Satyrs (175), Odysseus not only accepts their request, but additionally ‘gifts’ his interlocutors with the prize of friendship (176 καὶ μὴν φίλοι γε προσφέρεσθε πρὸς φίλον); slightly earlier, Silenos remedied his inability to guess Odysseus’ unspecified request (132 οὐκ οἶδ’, ‘Οδυσσεῦ: note the polite vocative) with πᾶν δέ σοι δρῴημεν ἄν, a comment suggesting the former’s (too hasty?) readiness to side with the hero.92

91 The strategy seems equally absent from tragedy (see only Eur. Or. 107), even though it is abundantly attested in Old Comedy and Plato (see Lammermann 1935, 70–2 for parallels). 92 For Satyrs as allies to the principal (another sign of their sympathetic depiction), see Griffith 2002, 200, n. 14 [= 2015, 9, n. 14].

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4.3 Negative Politeness Negative politeness conveys speakers’ attempts at not infringing on the hearer’s preserve. Compared with positive-face redress, negative politeness is more conventionalized in form (as its syntactic realizations are relatively stable) and less easily derivable in terms of practical reasoning, as the individual outputs often satisfy more negative-face wants at a time. Basic ways to be negatively-polite consist in avoiding/minimizing assumptions/presumptions about the hearer or avoiding her/his coercion by not assuming s/he is able/willing/likely to do the FTA desired by the speaker. Satisfaction of these wants gives rise to two different outputs. First, speakers may explicitly hedge their assumptions about the hearer and/or question the latter’s ability/ willingness to do the FTA (question/hedge output). The speakers of the trochaic tetrameters at Sophocles’ Inachos fr. 269c, unsure of the identity and intentions of the mysterious newcomer (Hermes), speak tentatively (22 ε̣ἰ̣κ̣ά̣σαι πάρεστιν Ἑρμῆν π̣[ρὸ]ς̣ τὰ σὰ ψοφήματα, 24 δευτέρους πόνους ἔοικας πρὶν μύσαι κενοὺς ἐλᾶν), as does also the Chorus at fr. 269a when declaring themselves uncertain whether to condemn the actions done by the mysterious stranger (31 τ̣αῦτ’ οὐκέτ’ ἴδρι̣ς εἰμ[ὶ] δειν̣[).93 Polyphemus ‘hedges’ at two crucial points of the ‘deception-scene’ (Eur. Cycl. 518–609):94 advised by Odysseus to stay (530), he asks οὐ χρή μ’ ἀδελφοῖς τοῦδε προσδοῦναι ποτοῦ; (531), leaving to Odysseus whether this should be the case; later on, nearly brought to capitulation by Odysseus (538), he turns to the opinion of Silenos (539 τί δρῶμεν, ὦ Σιληνέ; σοὶ μένειν δοκεῖ;).95 Both 531 and 539 are surprisingly ‘democratic’ moves for a despotic, high-P creature like Polyphemus: has he been mollified by the effects of alcohol?96 Hedged requests are typically expressed via the insertion of εἰ-clauses: Danaë thus asks Zeus to send help at Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi fr. 47a.783 ]π̣εμπ’ ἀρωγόν, εἰ δοκεῖ, τιν̣α̣97 and the Satyrs try gently to dissuade Silenos from his announced retreat at Sophocles’ Ichneutai 205 μέν’, ε[ἰ] θέλεις. A speaker may also test the hearer’s willingness to accept a FTA (see Odysseus’ offer of unmixed wine at Eur. Cycl. 149 βούλῃ σε γεύσω

93 Diggle 1998, 43 plausibly supplements δείν[᾿ εἰ χρὴ καλεῖν (cf. 32 εἰ δεινά;). 94 On the scene, see Hamilton 1979. 95 Pace O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 200, there is no ‘paratragic mock seriousness’, as Polyphemus’ hesitation is real. 96 For Seaford 1984, 204, this shift to polite elocution marks Polyphemus’ turn to more urbane, Hellenic customs, already denounced by his desire to share wine and join a komos. But what determines the change is left unexplained. 97 Acknowledgment of εἰ δοκεῖ as negatively-polite hedge offers a parsimonious explanation to the discussion in Dettori 2016, 154–8 (with references); see Collard 2018, 156–7.

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πρῶτον ἄκρατον μέθυ),98 or state that the FTA comes as her/his own personal desire (Eur. Cycl. 275–6 θέλω δ’ ἐρέσθαι…;99 313–5 παραινέσαι σοι βούλομαι…; Python’s Agen fr. 1.8–10 ἐκμαθεῖν δέ σου ποθῶ…). Periphrastic constructions with βούλομαι, θέλω, or the like are used in these passages, but shorter, conventionalized forms did exist,100 such as the deliberative subjunctive101 or the optative with ἄν (see Eur. Cycl. 96 discussed in Section 1 above). Under appropriate circumstances, avoidance of presumptive claims can be communicated by the same sort of τίς/τί-questions already discussed under bald-on-record (Section 4.1 above). This reveals the important general point that there is no stable one-to-one coincidence between specific syntactical forms and specific politeness outputs.102 In this case, a possible criterion to separate negatively-polite from bald-on-record instances is to observe whether the speaker uses or not unfavourable formulations about the hearer: for example, Cyllene’s initial rebuke of the Satyrs at Sophocles’ Ichneutai 221–4, while readily comparable with Silenos’ earlier reprimands (124–30), is in fact not discourteous and motivated more by Cyllene’s failure to understand the Satyrs’ cries than by the wish to blame the interlocutors (note, at 224, the allusion to the Satyrs’ otherwise respectful behaviour in the past).103 To avoid presumption/coercion to a greater degree, speakers may express pessimism about the fulfilment of the FTA. The most unequivocally ‘pessimistic’ formula is the negatively-oriented question (see for example Achaeus’ Hephaestus fr. 17.4 ὕδωρ … οὐ πρόσθεν δίδως;: contrast the possibly rude οὔκουν + future at Eur. Cycl. 241–3, 632–4), but some realizations are simply more cautious and tentative variants of the outputs discussed under the question/hedge output: note the ‘hedging’ ἐὰν + subjunctive instead of εἰ + indicative (Eur. Cycl. 217, 426–7, Skiron fr. 675), or the Satyrs’ roundabout request to share in the blinding of Polyphemus (Eur. Cycl. 469–70 ἔστ’ … ὅπως ἂν … | κἀγὼ λαβοίμην …;). Negative face may also be redressed by manipulating the sociological variables D, P, or Rx to minimize the FTA. Rx, for example, is reduced by inserting adver98 On βούλει/θέλεις + subjunctive, see Stevens 1945, 103; 1976, 60–1; Willi 2003, 179; Schuren 2015. 99 The words should express Polyphemus’ ‘incongruous … urbanity’ (thus Seaford 1984, 156–7), because of the heaping of questions used therein (πόθεν ἐπλεύσατ’, ὦ ξένοι; ποδαποί; τίς ὑμᾶς ἐξεπαίδευσεν πόλις;), but from the viewpoint of politeness they are blameless. 100 On ‘conventional indirectness’, see Searle 1975; Brown and Levinson 1987, 132–45. 101 Willi 2003, 179 is right that βούλει + subjunctive is more polite than the deliberative subjunctive. 102 See Brown and Levinson 1987, 22. 103 See further Aesch. Dikt. 47a.804 τί κινύρη̣[; (Silenos to the baby Perseus), Eur. Cycl. 545 τί δῆτα τὸν κρατῆρ’ ὄπισθ’ ἐμοῦ τίθης; (Polyphemus to Silenos).

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bial μόνον (Soph. Ichn. 55, Eur. Cycl. 161 χάλα τὸν ἀσκὸν μόνον· ἔα τὸ χρυσίον, and also 215, 219, 556, 568), by shortening the time required from the hearer (Soph. Ichn. 142 ἄκουσον … χρόνον τινά), or by scaling down the request (Eur. Cycl. 651–2). Speakers may also manipulate P and/or D, especially by displaying deference. Standard realizations of this output involve vocatives in a way similar to positive politeness, though with the obvious difference that negatively-polite vocatives show respect rather than advancing intimacy. Negatively-polite honorifics are normally reserved for the Olympian gods, either in absentia (Pratinas, fr. 3.16–17;104 Aesch. Dikt. fr. 46a.10, Theor. fr. 78a.22; Soph. Ichn. 79; Eur. Cycl. 1) or when present (Aesch. Theor. fr. 78c.6,105 Soph. Ichn. 48), but other divine or half-divine characters such as Inachos, Cyllene, Polyphemus may receive the same treatment (Soph. Inach. fr. 270, Ichn. 243, 258, 339;106 Eur. Cycl. 250, 286, 291, 413 and possibly 212– 3).107 Outside of this range, deference can become suspicious: Silenos lavishly flatters Odysseus as ἄναξ while producing the sheep to be exchanged with wine (Eur. Cycl. 189), and Odysseus pompously addresses the Satyrs when it is time to incite them to action (590 Διονύσου παῖδες, εὐγενῆ τέκνα).108 At Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi fr. 46a Speaker A, true to his role throughout the dialogue (he shows concern for Speaker B’s understanding at 1, responds to his inquiry at 5, reassures him at 7 about the completion of a task) proposes to guard something on behalf of Speaker B (3 τί σοι φυλάσσω …;), thus making clear the superior rank of his interlocutor: so, the evidence from politeness theory strongly suggests that Dictys should be not Speaker A, but Speaker B, namely the target of Speaker’s A negative-face redress as well as the one who receives information (2) and imparts orders (4, 6).109 If avoiding coercion is unfeasible, speakers may communicate their intention not to impinge upon the hearer. This could be done explicitly, by apologizing for the FTA. Negatively-polite apologies include (a) admitting the impingement, (b)

104 If satyric, as argued by D’Alessio 2007. 105 Accepting ἄν]αξ (Kamerbeek 1955, 8). 106 Accepting ὦ πρέσ]β̣ε̣ιρα (Wilamowitz in Hunt 1912, 83). 107 In the latter passage, to Polyphemus’ request to be looked in the eyes (211), the Satyrs reply that their heads are now bent towards Zeus, the stars and Orion: whether ‘Orion’ refers to Polyphemus or not, the whole comment pays homage to his majesty. 108 Pace O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 208, there is nothing ‘mock-heroic or mock-solemn’ in Odysseus’ flattery, as Satyrs’ collaboration is badly needed. 109 The identification of Speaker B with Dictys, proposed by Lloyd-Jones 1957, 532–3, is accepted by Werre-De Haas 1961, 30–3, as against Pfeiffer 1938, 18, who identified Dictys with Speaker A (the idea is still accepted by Krumeich et al. 1999 121–2, n. 51; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 256). As to Speaker A’s identity, a Fisherman (Werre-De Haas) is likelier than Silenos (Lloyd-Jones), but no safe conclusion can be reached.

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begging forgiveness, (c) indicating reluctance to transgress, (d) providing overwhelming reasons. Except for one example of (c)110 and one doubtfully recoverable of (b),111 both from Sophocles’ Ichneutai, the only strategy attested in satyr drama is (d). The overwhelming reasons adducible vary greatly: in Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi, for example, Danaë motivates her appeal to the gods with fear (fr. 47a.781 δέδοικα γάρ); another female character, Cyllene in Sophocles’ Ichneutai, justifies her first rebuke of the Satyrs by sion (230), and both she (230–40) and Silenos in the prologue of the same play (45–6) motivate their entry with the cries or calls they have heard from offstage, although with different attitudes toward their interlocutors, the Satyrs and Apollo. Like positively-polite offers/promises (Section 4.2 above), Odysseus is a skilled user of this strategy: he relies on indigence when begging food (Eur. Cycl. 133), on divine responsibility while making amends for the Trojan expedition (285), on the need to save his comrades when urging the Satyrs to obey him unconditionally (478–9), on particular requirements of the on-going situation (including danger) when giving instructions about the blinding of Polyphemus (472, 591–5, 628–9, 630–1). Again, when other characters in Cyclops use arguments from force majeure, their justifications sound specious, if not ridiculous: Silenos maintains that the wine ‘kissed’ him to justify his theft of the drink (553: see also 559–60), and Polyphemus justifies his failure to keep silent on account of his inebriation (569). A speaker may also communicate desire to not impinge indirectly, by disentangling her/himself or the hearer from the FTA. Negatively-polite dissociations are conveyed by obscuration of some or all the pragmatic references to speaker and/or hearer. Brown and Levinson allow finer-grained distinctions between impersonalization (use of impersonal constructions), generalization (use of proverbs or general statements), and nominalization (preference for nouns and adjectives over verbs), but distinguishing among the three outputs is often difficult. In Sophocles’ Ichneutai, Cyllene variously makes use of impersonalization when forced to reveal details about the mysterious noise (262–6). Firstly, she introduces the information as something the Satyrs ‘need’ to know rather

110 Soph. Ichn. 336–7, when the Satyrs pre-emptively beg Cyllene’s patience while accusing Hermes: σὺ δ’ ἀντὶ τῶνδε μὴ χαλεφ̣θῇς ἐμοὶ δὲ δυσφορηθῇς. Whether one chooses δυσφορηθῇς, as in P. Oxy. 1174, or δυσφορήσῃς, conjectured by Diggle 1996, 14, makes no difference. 111 Soph. Ichn. 339, following Wilamowitz’s attractive restoration (in Hunt 1912, 83) [οὐ μὰ Δία σ’, ὦ πρέσ]βειρα, χειμάζειν [θέλω], although merely an exempli gratia. See Eur. Med. 869–70 for a famous request of forgiveness in tragedy, Arist. Rhet. 2.1380a 3 (with Konstan 2012) on the importance of admitting impingement. On the existence of forgiveness in Greek/Roman world, see the opposed views by Konstan 2010 (sceptical) and Cairns 2011 (optimistic).

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than one she herself wants to tell them (262 ὑμᾶς μὲν αὐτοὺς χρ̣ὴ̣ τάδ’ εἰδέναι σαφῶς). Secondly, threatening the Satyrs if they disclose the secret, she speaks of a punishment that will come to them (264 αὐτοῖσιν ὑμῖ̣[ν ζ]η̣μία πορίζεται), without mentioning the agent who should enforce the penalty. Thirdly, ahead of revealing Hermes’ birth as the result of Zeus’ escapade with Maia, she anticipates that ‘the matter is kept hidden’ among the gods in order to avoid Hera’s anger (265–6 καὶ γὰρ κέκρυπτ̣[αι] τοὖργον ἐν [θ]ε[ῶ]ν̣ ἕδραις, | ῞Ηραν ὅπως μ[ὴ πύ]στ[ι] ς ἵξετα[ι] λ̣όγου). Cyllene’s politeness in this part of the scene is in accordance with the Satyrs’ respectful and deferential attitude (cf. 258–61).112 The harmony, however, will last only so long as the Satyrs make their accusation against Hermes (332–5), after which a tremendous reversal inevitably occurs.113 As seen above, impersonal χρή standardly triggers impersonalization (e.g. Aeschylus’ Sisyphos fr. 225; Soph. Ichn. 369–70; Euripides’ Eurystheus fr. 375), as do other impersonal constructions, such as δεῖ,114 ἔστι/πάρεστι/ἔξεστι as markers of possibility,115 and third-person (instead of second-person) imperatives.116 Though with a lesser degree of pragmatic obscuration, a comparable negatively-polite nuance can also be attributed to periphrases including verbal adjectives in -τός (Soph. Oin.(?) fr. 1130.19) or -τέος (Eur. Cycl. 561: Polyphemus is urged to wipe his mouth), and perhaps also the imperatival infinitive (Eur. Syl. fr. 694), insofar as that construction stresses the procedural aspects of the FTA as opposed to the blunt imperative, denoting instead an imposition issued by a specific speaker on a specific addressee.117 A metalinguistic comment from Cyclops reveals how important impersonalization was regarded in matters of rhetorical persuasion: explaining his plan for Polyphemus to the Satyrs, Odysseus suggests that the monster must be convinced that wine should not be shared by means of an ‘impersonal’ advice (451–2 λέγων | ὡς οὐ Κύκλωψι πῶμα χρὴ δοῦναι τόδε). Since in the following dialogue Polyphemus makes exactly the opposite claim (531, with χρή; 533), Odysseus will have to resort to the simpler argument that drunkards should stay home, again in impersonal language (536 ὦ τᾶν, πεπωκότ’ ἐν δόμοισι χρὴ μένειν). Not surprisingly, most occurrences feature in distant (high D) and/or in asymmetrical (high-P) relationships. On the other hand, if used between intimates (low-D

112 On Cyllene’s tone, see Wilamowitz 1912, 459–60. 113 On the scene, see Conrad 1997, 117–20. 114 Eur. Cycl. 472; Ion’s Omphale fr. 21. 115 Soph. Inach. fr. 269c.22, Oin.(?) fr. 1130.17; Eur. Cycl. 215. 116 Ion’s Omphale fr. 23; Achaeus’ Aithon fr. 7. 117 From a politeness-oriented perspective, this is the likeliest conclusion to be drawn by a the discussion in Allan 2010.

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relationships), impersonalization might look excessively formal, giving rise to humour. In Sophocles’ Ichneutai, for example, Silenos eventually steps back from the hunting with οὐκ ἔστιν (206), unexpectedly granting the Satyrs with complete freedom of action, including the opportunity to enjoy Apollo’s prizes (206–9 ἀλλ’ αὐτὸς σὺ ταῦ̣θ̣ ’ ὅπῃ θέλεις | ζήτει τε κἀξίχνευε̣ etc.).118 Silenos’ sudden withdrawal and distancing cannot be satisfactorily motivated except by his cowardice, culminating in a hasty retreat offstage (209). Impersonal statements frequently coincide with proper generalizations, better known in Greek tradition as gnomai and aimed at presenting the FTA as a socially sanctioned rule. Odysseus’ persuasion of Polyphemus to stay home (Eur. Cycl. 531–8) is exceptionally dense with gnomai: at 530, Polyphemus suggests it is right to share wine with friends, to which Odysseus replies that if the monster chooses to keep the wine, he will gain honour (532); Polyphemus rebuts that sharing goods with friends makes one more useful to them (533), but Odysseus recalls that a revel can bring harm (534); to Polyphemus’ further objection that no one could lay hands on him (535), Odysseus retorts that that drunks should stay home (536), but Polyphemus replies that the man who drinks and despises revels is a fool (537): the dispute is won by Odysseus’ observation that the drunk who stays home is wise (538): ὃς δ’ ἂν μεθυσθείς γ’ ἐν δόμοις μείνῃ σοφός. The sequence features impressive verbal capping characteristic of tragic stichomythia, but we have no such thing as an ‘unevenly balanced’ contrast between the ‘uneducated’ Cyclops and the ‘clever’ Odysseus:119 although Odysseus wins, the two opponents show comparable rhetorical skills and degrees of ‘urbanity’. Overall, the passage shows that in dangerously face-sensitive situations, especially in high-D interactions gnomai may be helpful to have FTAs accepted without prevaricating the interlocutor. The passage discussed above may host a possible instance of nominalization (Eur. Cycl. 534 πυγμὰς ὁ κῶμος λοίδορόν τ’ ἔριν φιλεῖ, itself a gnome). But two unequivocal occurrences of this latter output are found in the transaction-scene between Odysseus and Silenos: at 137, Odysseus urges Silenos to bring meat and milk by adding that φῶς γὰρ ἐμπολήμασιν πρέπει, another way to say ‘Let me see it before I buy it’; at 150, Silenos accepts Odysseus’ offer to taste the wine (δίκαιον) by commenting ἦ γὰρ γεῦμα τὴν ὠνὴν καλεῖ, a ‘nouny’ variant of ‘Let me taste it before I decide’. Lastly, to redress the hearer’s negative face, speakers may state their indebtedness or avoid indebting the hearer. Silenos states his debt towards Speaker

118 On the text of 206, see Antonopoulos 2013b, 86. 119 Thus Collins 2004, 44–6.

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A at Aeschylus’ Theoroi fr. 78a.3 ἦ κάρτ᾿ ὀφείλω τῶνδέ σοι· πρόφρων γὰρ εἶ, where ὀφείλω and πρόφρων might suggest the conversation to be one between strangers.120

4.4 Off-Record Off-record is communication of FTAs with no unambiguous interpretation on the speaker’s part. Off-record provides both speaker and hearer with an escape: the hearer can behave as if nothing happened, while the speaker is granted immunity, as s/he can cancel the implicated FTA without falling in self-contradiction. An example of off-record in English is ‘It’s hot in here’, which may or may not be taken as a request to open windows in a room, and may be easily self-corrected by any speaker unwilling to impose on her/his interlocutor, for example by ‘I think I’ll take off my sweater’. Brown and Levinson maintain off-record to coincide with violations of Grice’s Cooperative Principle (CP),121 which stipulates that speakers inevitably speak ‘as required … by the accepted purpose or direction of the talk exchange’ in which they are engaged.122 CP is made up of four Maxims: (a) ‘Be relevant’ (Relevance Maxim), (b) ‘Give no less or more information than required’ (Quantity Maxim), (c) ‘Be sincere’ (Quality Maxim), (d) ‘Avoid obscurity, ambiguity, prolixity or disorderly speech’ (Manner Maxim).123 The important fact is that speakers do not follow the Maxims all the time, but any deviation from them is nonetheless interpretable with a deeper adherence to the CP by the speaker.124 Off-record sits ill in satyr drama, perhaps because of the mismatch between the inherent formality of this super-strategy and the light-hearted atmosphere of the plays.125 Although the material is insufficient to provide instances of all the outputs charted by Brown and Levinson, off-record is not totally absent from

120 This does not exclude any identification of Speaker A proposed so far: the best solution is probably to assume a νεωκόρος (Setti 1952, 214, followed by many). 121 See Brown and Levinson 1987, 210–12. 122 Grice 1975, 45 [= 1989, 26]. 123 See Grice 1975 [= 1989, 22–40], Levinson 1983, 97–166, for fullest discussions. 124 So, Grice’s logic pervades every stage of verbal (and non-verbal) interaction. Its relevance for Brown and Levinson’s framework is better understood once the basic distinction is noticed between ‘off-record’ and the other three super-strategies (i.e. bald-on-record, positive and negative politeness), which Brown and Levinson call ‘on-record’ because no flagrant violations of the CP occur in those super-strategies. 125 In this respect satyr drama diverges from tragedy, where off-record is very frequent: see Catrambone 2016 on off-record in a sample of Sophocles’ dialogues.

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satyric corpus, mostly as a preliminary move to the on-record communication of FTAs. At Euripides’ Cyclops 131, after brief moments of small talk (Section 4.2 above), Odysseus asks Silenos οἶσθ’ οὖν ὃ δρᾶσον, ὡς ἀπαίρωμεν χθονός;. Odysseus’ desire to make a request is transparent, and yet he still does not reveal its content. Thus, Silenos is left free to decide whether to reply ‘No’ (and give way to Odysseus) or pre-emptively deny his help. Odysseus violates Grice’s Relevance Maxim by exploiting a technique frequently attested in tragedy, namely the prefixing of an οἶσθα-question at the beginning of a dialogic sequence.126 Notice that the imposition could not have been avoided with any other on-record strategy, including negative politeness (e.g. ‘Would you do me a favour?’). Off-record is useful to anticipate communication of bad news. In Euripides’ Cyclops, upon his re-emergence from the cave, Odysseus, like many tragic messengers, hesitates to report the death of his comrades (375–6): ὦ Ζεῦ, τί λέξω, δείν’ ἰδὼν ἄντρων ἔσω | κοὐ πιστά, μύθοις εἰκότ’ οὐδ’ ἔργοις βροτῶν;. He is probably violating all four Maxims, especially the Quality Maxim (self-asking about things he knows well) and the Manner Maxim (speaking allusively). Later on, when he has to explain his plan to the Satyrs, he equally eschews clarity, but delicately introduces the issue (441–2), gives clues about Polyphemus’ intents (445–6) and anticipates the deceptive nature of his plan (449), without ever specifying what he wants, to the effect that the Satyrs fail completely to grasp his intentions (447–8).127 Odysseus variously flouts the Relevance, Quantity and Manner Maxim, and while the conversation might superficially be read as a deliberately extreme contrast between ‘cleverness’ and ‘slow-wittedness’, Odysseus’ moves are perfectly justifiable with the caution needed to involve the Satyrs (in a mission which apparently goes beyond their interest) without making a direct request which may easily incur rejection. Ways to go off-record are also via rhetorical questions in replacement for disagreement, criticism, or contradiction: in Sophocles’ Ichneutai, the Satyrs thus express their disbelief that the sound of the lyre could come from the ‘dead’ shell of a tortoise (299); in Euripides’ Cyclops, Silenos doubts Odysseus could have lost his way on return from Troy (108) and that he himself should play Ganymede’s part with Polyphemus-as-Zeus (585), Polyphemus that Silenos could reject his sexual advances (588), the Satyrs that Odysseus could blame their cowardice for being unable to help (643–5). Some of these examples suggest off-record could be exploited to produce comic effects at the speaker’s expenses, especially if that speaker is Silenos: in Cyclops, to escape Polyphemus’ anger in seeing the mess inside the cave, Silenos

126 See Mastronarde 1979, 44–5; Denizot 2011, 115–20. 127 On ‘false guesses’ in tragic stichomythia, see Dubischar 2007a; 2007b.

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painfully cries, alluding to beating allegedly received from the visitors (228); later on, carried off by Polyphemus to be raped, he metaphorically alludes to the expected punishment (587, 589).

5 Satyric Deviations: Over-Politeness, Mock-Politeness, Impoliteness The vast majority of politeness outputs discussed in Section 4 are shared by satyr drama with tragedy: in all these passages, politeness satisfies its basic goal of redressing the virtual offence inherent to FTAs. But satyr drama is equally replete with situations where politeness is used above and beyond its scope, or where it is conspicuously absent. Three types of deviations from ordinarily polite conversation deserve separate discussion. The first is over-politeness, roughly definable as an abnormal short-ranged accumulation of politeness strategies by the same speaker. While over-politeness is alien to tragedy, as it would impeach the dignified status of its characters, in satyr drama it effectively produces humour and buffoonery. Two macroscopic examples occur in Euripides’ Cyclops. Detected in his lie that it was Odysseus with his comrades who stole milk and sheep from the cave, Silenos turns to Polyphemus for indulgence: having sworn by a full list of sea-deities (262–6), he repeatedly uses endearing vocatives: see 262 ὦ Κύκλωψ, 266–7 ὦ κάλλιστον ὦ Κυκλώπιον, | ὦ δεσποτίσκε. The accumulation sounds ridiculous (demonstrating Silenos’ fear and insincerity) and is furthermore distinctively ‘un-tragic’, as suggested by the diminutives, absent from tragedy but well-attested in Old Comedy.128 Heracles’ quotation of the flattery received by the Satyrs (Achaeus’ Linos fr. 26 ὦ κάλλιστον Ἡρακλεί) indicates the critical importance of this strategy.129 The second example occurs when the Satyrs, despite having professed readiness to help Odysseus with the blinding, eventually waver. The Coryphaeus firstly delays by urging Odysseus to select those who should stay at the forefront (632–4), then individual groups of Satyrs invent negatively-polite excuses to withdraw from the operations: someone is too far to push the brand (635–6), others feel their legs weak (637, 638–9), or lament dust in their eyes (640b–1). Under appropriate circumstances, the justifications might have been credible, but their juxtaposition

128 On diminutives, see Lämmle 2013, 65–6, with references. 129 See Cipolla 2003, 214.

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reveals fear and risible lack of commitment.130 The irony in the scene is twofold, as Euripides simultaneously exploits both the cliché of Satyrs’ cowardice and the conventional inaction of tragic choruses, such as that of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (see especially 1346–71). The second major deviation is mock-politeness, the deliberate use of politeness for non-polite purposes, including mockery, sarcasm and threats. Mockpoliteness features prominently in Dionysos’ speaking part at Aeschylus’ Theoroi. Upon his arrival, he comments about his previous failure to spot the Satyrs, whom he tauntingly calls ὠγαθο[ί] (fr. 78a.23).131 Then, in order to put their escape ‘on record’, he ironically denies he will say ‘it is not clear you were travelling’ (24 οὐ τοῦτ’ ἐρῶ σ’· ‘οὐ δῆλος ἦσθ’ ὁδοιπορῶν’): the negatively-polite strategy of avoiding presumptions is exploited here, but only to deny such avoidance, and Dionysos further boosts his FTA at 25 αὐ[τὴ] κέλευθος ταῦτά μοι προσεν[νέπει,132 a ‘negatively-polite’ advocacy of overwhelming reasons. Mock-politeness is continued at 26–36, including a combination of ironic compliments (31: on Satyrs’ hard training) and reprimands (32–6: on their neglect for Dionysiac dances and improper spending of Dionysos’ money), until the Satyrs’ presumable protest causes an altercation (fr. 78c. col.I + 78a. col.II + 78c. col.II.37-48),133 at the end of which they still resolutely decline to leave Poseidon’s temple. It is at this point that Dionysos produces the notorious ‘new playthings, freshly-made from adze and anvil’ (fr. 78c.50-1 ἐγ̣ὼ [φέ]ρ̣ω σοι νεοχμὰ [....] ἀθύρματα̣ | ἀπὸ [σκε]πάρνου κἄκμ[ονος ν]εόκτ[ιτα) as a ‘gentle’ offer to the Satyrs: this is further ‘redressed’ by a ‘positively-polite’ giving of reasons/expression of concern (49 ἐ̣π̣ε̣ὶ̣ [τ]ὰ καινὰ ταῦτα μα̣[νθά]νειν φιλεῖ[ς)134 and punctuated by Dionysos’ physical approaching the Satyrs in order to ‘put’ the gift on their bodies (51 τουτ[ὶ τὸ] πρῶτόν ἐστί σοι τ[ῶ]ν π̣αι̣γ̣[νίω]ν). Even after the Satyrs’ multiple denials, Dionysos does not lose his patience, but keeps on ‘relieving’ his interlocutors, insisting they should not refuse the gift ‘because of the bad omen’ (54) and that the toys perfectly suit their new activities (56, 58). All of this is crudely sarcastic, suggesting the ἀθύρματα to

130 The distribution of 635–6, 637, 638–9, 640b-1 that most appropriately conveys the effect is with three different speakers (Ussher 1978, 158: 638–9 and 640b-1 assigned to the same speaker). 131 See Also Aesch. Theor. fr. 78c.54 ὠγαθέ. The address-term, unattested in tragedy, is frequently found in Old and New Comedy: see Wendel 1929, 106; Dickey 1996, 139; Olson 2002, 156. 132 Pace Fraenkel 1950, ii 172, n. 2, Lobel’s προσεν[νέπει (1941, 27) is virtually certain. 133 I accept the ordering of the fragments proposed by Snell 1956 and confirmed by Henry and Nünlist 2000, 14–15. 134 For the text, see Sommerstein 2008, iii 96, combining supplements by Barigazzi 1954, 340 and Setti 1952, 244.

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be extremely unpleasant means of coercion.135 Another long sequence of mockpoliteness is found in the dialogue between the blinded Polyphemus and the Satyrs in the final scene of Euripides’ Cyclops, whereby the Satyrs show ‘polite’ concern for their master’s accident and health, while actually deriding the monster (664, 669, 670, 671, 672, 673, 674, 675, 678). Thirdly, satyr drama deviates from polite conversation by recourse to overt impoliteness. Brown and Levinson regrettably did not discuss impolite behaviour, but the lacuna has been quite satisfactorily filled, among others, by Culpeper and Bousfield.136 Again, although a stable definition remains a desideratum, a good approximation might be to define impoliteness as gratuitously face-aggravating behaviour intentionally aimed at causing offence.137 Most impoliteness frameworks explicitly mirror Brown and Levinson’s taxonomy, positing distinctions between on-record and off-record (mock-politeness) strategies and/ or between positive and negative impoliteness.138 Discussion will be restricted to few satyric passages where impoliteness is strikingly and unambiguously displayed. A typical instance occurs whenever a speaker curses the hearer, for example with κακῶς ὄλοιο or equivalents: in Euripides’ Cyclops, Silenos reacts to Odysseus’ counter-accusation that it was Silenos who sold milk and sheep (not Odysseus who stole them) with κακῶς γ’ ἄρ’ ἐξόλοι’ (261), repaid by Odysseus with εἰ ψεύδομαι.139 Similar expressions, although not absent from tragedy,140 were probably too colloquial, hence more suitable to light drama141: their rudeness is possibly trivialized by the laughable circumstance that Silenos and the Satyrs call for the annihilation of third parties even when the only relevant curse would be against themselves, namely in oaths or solemn assertions (Aesch. Dikt. fr. 47a.800; Eur. Cycl. 268–9, 271–2).142 Impolite is also κλαίειν σ’ ἄνωγα (Eur. Cycl. 701), addressed by Odysseus against Polyphemus, but there, too, rudeness is justifiable by the hostility between two enemies and Odysseus’ desire to refute Polyphemus’ mention of the gloomy oracle concerning his fate 135 This is compatible with only few identifications hitherto proposed, e.g. fetters (most recently O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 269), shackles (Sommerstein 2008, iii 83), pillories (Di Marco 1992 [= 2013, 161–73]), bits (Ferrari 2013, 205–8). 136 See Culpeper 1996; 2011a; Bousfield 2008. See Also Lachenicht 1980; Bousfield and Locher 2008. For a review of impoliteness research, see Culpeper and Hardaker 2017. 137 See Bousfield 2008, 72. 138 Thus, e.g., Culpeper 1996. 139 See Also Aesch. Theor. fr. 78c.2, possibly Dionysos’ curse against the Satyrs during their altercation. 140 See (hearer-oriented examples) Soph. El. 291, Phil. 961–2, 1035. 141 Cilia 2006, 26, n. 101 lists parallels from satyr drama and Old Comedy. 142 See Seaford 1984, 156.

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(698–700).143 Threats of physical punishment, not absent from satyr drama, are issued by high-P characters: see Aesch. Theor. fr. 78c.41, Eur. Cycl. 666–7 (Dionysos and Polyphemus respectively, in reaction to to insubordinate behaviour). Fairly common is also to address interlocutors with derogatory appellations, some of which would be unworthy of tragedy: Soph. Ichn. 381 ὦ παμπονη[ρ, 399 τ[ί]ς, ὦ πόνηρ’, ἔχει; (Cyllene, quarrelling with the Satyrs); Eur. Cycl. 316 ἀνθρώπισκε, 689 ὦ παγκάκιστε (Polyphemus to Odysseus), 667 οὐδὲν ὄντες (Polyphemus against his punishers); Lyc. Mened. fr. 2 παῖδες κρατίστου πατρὸς ἐξωλέστατοι (Silenos to the Satyrs). Quite predictably, it is the Satyrs’ and Silenos’ behaviour that is most often violently attacked, especially by high-P characters: in Aeschylus’ Theoroi, Dionysos brilliantly performs this task, as he variously belittles the Satyrs’ engagement with Isthmian competitions (fr. 78a.34–6: note especially 34 σὺ δ’ ἰσθμ̣ιάζεις; fr. 78c.37–40) and vividly rejects their criticism of himself (fr. 78a.61–72: note especially 65 σπείρεις δὲ μῦθον τ[ό]νδε, 66 ῥηματίζεις, 71 πλύνεις); Polyphemus similarly feels free to mistreat his interlocutors: note, for example, Euripides’ Cyclops 283 αἰσχρὸν στράτευμα (to Odysseus, about the Greek army), 559 οἱνοχόος ἄδικος (to Silenos), 273 ψεύδεσθ’, 675a σκώπτεις, 687 κερτομεῖτε (to the Satyrs). By contrast, characters other than the Satyrs’ masters speak impolitely against them only sporadically: see only Cyllene at Sophocles’ Ichneutai 403 ἤδ̣η με πνίγεις καὶ σὺ χα[ἰ βόες σέθεν144 and Odysseus at Euripides’ Cyclops 642 ἄνδρες πονηροὶ κοὐδὲν οἵδε σύμμαχοι. It is appropriate to conclude this survey with the most spectacular example of gratuitous rudeness surviving from satyr drama: Silenos’ tirade against the Satyrs at Sophocles’ Ichneutai 145–68. Its contents have been already brilliantly elucidated by Antonopoulos,145 and the following comments will merely point out the extraordinary accumulation of face-aggravating moves within the speech. Having reproached the Satyrs with a request for an explanation (145), Silenos launches into a series of derogatory qualifications (146–53), concerning the Satyrs’ weakness (146, by analogy with soft wax?),146 their (dung-like?) nature (147),147 uncontrollable fear (148), deficient organization (149–50), enjoyment

143 See further Eur. Cycl. 174, 340 (to absent addressees) and Stevens 1976, 15–16; Olson 2002, 344; Collard 2018, 49–50 for parallels with κελεύω. 144 See Also 381, 399 quoted above). 145 See Antonopoulos 2013c; 2014a; 2018. 146 Antonopoulos 2013c, 86. 147 Accepting Walker’s ὀνθ[ί’ (1919, 452), defended by Diggle 1996, 8, and O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 354 (but not printed by Radt 1999, 285 and Krumeich et al. 1999, 287).

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of leisure and pleasure (150–1, including masturbation),148 proverbial untrustworthiness (151–2), and bestiality (153). As befits Silenos, he adds boasts of his own accomplishments (another positively-impolite output), namely that he left ‘monuments’ of his exploits in the houses of the Nymphs, whatever such ‘monuments’ may be (154–5 οὗ πόλλ’ ἐφ’ ἥβης μνήματ’ ἀνδρείας ὕπο | κ[ε]ῖται παρ’ οἴκοις νυμφικοῖς ἠσκημένα),149 and that he made an unrivalled display of bravery – the quality he finds most defective in his sons (156–60). Having offered such a bombastic paradigm of virility, he further rebukes the Satyrs because they are missing the money and freedom offered by Apollo (161–5, as though Silenos himself had offered any help so far!), and finally threats them with physical punishment, making clear they will cry and ‘make a noise’ (168 ψοφή[σ]ετε), perhaps out of their father’s beatings (166–8).150

6 Conclusion The discussion above should have made clear why politeness theory can refine the analysis of satyric conversation. If im/politeness distribution is a mirror of how relationships are shaped, the safest general conclusion inferable from satyr drama is that the genre overwhelmingly replicates the same kind of social equilibrium that tragedy (with all its problems) consistently reinforces. Also, the fact that im/politeness is adjusted to the needs of the conversation makes satyr drama thoroughly different from Old Comedy, where inversions of social order are among the most effective resources of humour. Order does not come without disorder, however: as noted in Section 5, im/politeness is successfully exploited to convey or amplify the comic incongruity of satyric characters, most notably Silenos and the Satyrs, whose exuberance is exposed by the linguistic texture of their utterances: unsurprisingly, the vast majority of ‘deviations’ involves, actively or passively, these characters. Future investigations of im/politeness in satyr drama might profitably exploit the data here offered in at least three directions: (1) refining the sociolinguistic conclusions derivable from the distribution of the super-strategies across particu-

148 The interpretation of γ]λ̣ῶ̣σσα (151) remains uncertain: it could refer to chattering, gluttony or fellatio (see O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 355, n. 28). 149 Antonopoulos (2018) finds that hunting or martial exploits are more likely alluded here, but even sexual prowess might be at stake. 150 I agree with Antonopoulos 2014a, 584, citing Aesch. Theor. fr. 78c.41 and Eur. Cycl. 210–11 in support.

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lar categories of characters – an enterprise hopefully to be complemented by a side-by-side comparison with tragedy and Old Comedy; (2) applying politeness theory to close readings of larger scenes in order to show how politeness dynamically shapes the relationships between satyric characters and/or punctuates the unfolding of satyric plots; (3) exploiting these preliminary findings about satyric politeness in the textual reconstruction of Cyclops (where uncertainties still remain) and those fragments for which a minimum of context is recoverable.151

151 I am grateful to Luigi Battezzato, Glenn Most and the colleagues of the Research Seminar in Greek Philology at Scuola Normale Superiore for their observations, to Giulio Iovine and Martin Reinfelder for allowing me access to their unpublished works on Aeschylus’ satyr drama, to the editors for their support: none of them is responsible for the views hereby expressed or for any remaining error. Special gratitude goes to my occasional copywriter Leonora for her love and patience.

Jordi Redondo

7 Satyrs Speaking like Rhetors and Sophists Preliminary In every attempt to clarify the relationship between the three dramatic genres, the question of satyr drama seems to deserve a central place, but rarely yields satisfying conclusions.1 Following Aristotle, scholarly consensus has been that satyr drama adopted the literary language of tragedy,2 while some argue for a composite literary language sharing features sometimes with tragedy, sometimes with comedy.3 The purpose of this paper is to check if and how satyrs, as the main character of the genre, display a special language, which features make it recognizable and to what extent they are related either to the tragic of to the comic language.

1 Translations of the Sophoclean fragments are taken from Lloyd-Jones 2003 unless otherwise noted. 2 Sutton 1980, 142; Rossi 1989, 222–3; Paganelli 1989. 3 Seidensticker 1974, 234, on the middle style of satyr-drama; 235–6 on the places of both lexis and metrics of satyr-drama at a middle stage between tragedy and comedy; see also SLENDERS and CATRAMBONE in this volume. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-008

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1 The Literary Language of Satyr Drama Linking satyr drama closely to tragedy is a fairly modern view;4 satyr drama as a mixed medium,5 goes back at least as far as Marius Victorinus in the fourth century who wrote that satyr drama made no room for heroes and kings,6 even though formally it followed the structure and diction of tragedy. Perhaps the best way to look at, as I suggest, is not how satyr drama follows tragedy or comedy but how it diverges from both.7

4 See Rossi 1989, 222–3: ‘interne Gründe wie Thematik, dramatische Struktur, Sprache und Metrik (die formalen Elemente) haben gezeigt, daß das Satyrspiel der Tragödie so nahesteht, daß es in Wirklichheit eine Einheit mit ihr bildet: das Satyrspiel ist Tragödie’; further on, see Rossi 1989, 229–30: ‘Im 5. Jahrhundert ist der Autor des Satyrspiels normalerweise derselbe, der auch die Tragödien schreibt. ... Ferner ist das Satyrspiel für die alexandrinischen Philologen bei der Zusammenstellung der Materialen ... keine gesonderte Kategorie, getrennt von der Tragödie. ... Während auf der einen Seite Tragödie und Komödie klar getrennt sind, gibt es andererseits keinerlei Unterscheidung zwischen Tragödien- und Satyrspielsschauspielern’; see also Paganelli 1989; Griffith 2006, 57. Slenders 2012, 155 reflects the traditional – not his own – view for the identity of both literary languages, that of tragedy and that of satyr drama; see also Shaw 2014, 149: ‘Satyr drama in ancient Greece had a complex relationship with tragedy and comedy, sharing formal associations with the former and conceptual connections with the later’. More nuanced arguments in Sutton 1980a, 142: ‘The language of the satyr play is substantially the same as that of tragedy, but for humorous purposes it is modified, or perhaps one should say contaminated by the admixture of non-tragic elements. The most prominent such modifications are various types of colloquial and comic diction involving un-tragic phrases, constructions, and vocabulary items. Diminutives and sundry exclamations are especially prominent. Also found are anachronisms and indecency’; the same argumentation in Seidentiscker 1999, 15. 5 Slenders 2012, 165: ‘From a linguistic point of view, satyr play follows tragedy but also shows a slight deviation towards comedy whenever motifs require. In addition, satyr play presents more elements of spoken language, but the deviation from tragedy is rather of a quantitative than of a qualitative nature. … In general, satyr play has a ‘tragic’ vocabulary and only borrows from the ‘comic’ vocabulary when motifs or themes foreign to tragedy require it to do so. The largest degree of liberty compared to tragedy is found in the stylistic field: the use of a looser syntax, of more colloquial expressions ... and interjections ... catches the eye’. According to Seidensticker 1974, 234, satyr drama uses a middle style, different from both tragic and comic: ‘im Ton frisch und lebendig, natürlich und unpretentiös, syntaktisch einfach und klar, dramatisch prägnant und direct’; he also places lexis and metrics of the satyr drama at a middle stage between tragedy and comedy (p. 235–6). This view depends on Hor. Ars Poet. 220–33. See also Slenders 2007. 6 Mar. Vict. Ars gram. 2.4, ed. Keil 1874, 81–2: Superest satyricum, quod inter tragicum et comicum stylum medium est. Haec apud Graecos metri species frequens est sub hac conditionis lege, ut non heroas aut reges, sed satyros inducat, ludendi iocandique causa etc. His words are quoted by Casaubon 1605, 116 (= 1989, 13). 7 Mar. Vict. Ars gram. 2.4, ed. Keil 1874, 81.

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Perhaps the default for satyr drama should be tragedy since satyr drama in Athens, and in several other Greek cities, in the fifth century was performed in tandem with tragedy and was written by tragic, not comic, poets. Scholars, such as Willi, go further and suggest that the tragic literary language should be accorded the status of Kunstsprache in all Attic dramatic production.8 What this means, as many critics point out, is that tragedy and satyr drama use a ‘cultured language’ which satyr drama undercuts by mock seriousness and humour. I would, instead, argue for the autonomy of every dramatic genre. Already in 1990, Bertolín was right in stating that satyr drama must be recognised as a singular genre endowed with its own literary language.9 The same view was simultaneously argued by López Eire,10 writing at the same time elaborated: The language of satyr drama occupies an intermediate stage between the language of Tragedy and that of Comedy. … Satyr drama is neither a Tragedy nor a Comedy, neither a parody of Tragedy nor a special kind of Ancient Comedy. Its effect rests on the mixture of two unharmonious elements, the tragic and the satyric, a mixture clearly reflected in its language, sometimes noble, sometimes full of licentiousness and impudence.11

In a recent paper, Toševa-Nikolovska has amplified the view that satyr drama deserves to be understood as an independent genre, originally created alongside tragedy and comedy.12 While satyr drama inhabits the same literary milieu as tragedy and comedy, it did not oblige it to take its constitutive elements in a balanced way from each of these genres. From a sociolinguistic point of view, all the dramatic genres put on the stage different and contrasting linguistic registers, literary and non-literary. Comedy and satyr drama created comic effect by means of parody, yet one in the ancient Greek equivalent of Hoch Deutsch and the other in vernacular idiom. Yet

8 Willi 2002, 118. In our opinion, there is not only room for giving to every genre its own position within the Attic literary system; in a diachronical analysis, the language of comedy and the language of satyr drama were created according with their corresponding traditions, both of them independent of, even if related to, from a broader perspective, the language of tragedy. 9 Bertolín 1990, 98–9: ‘El drama satírico como género propio, aunque estrechamente vinculado a la tragedia, utilizaba un lenguaje propio adecuado a sus propias convenciones internas’. 10 López Eire 1991b, 137: ‘La lengua del drama satírico no se confunde con la lengua de la tragedia ni con la de la comedia, sino que, al igual que la función de este género dramático mantiene su independencia frente a las de las otras dos especies del drama, la lengua de este género literario asimismo se nos muestra bien distinta y peculiar’. 11 López Eire 2003, 386–7. See also López Eire 2000, 94: ‘Así pues, hay tres especies de drama en la Atenas del siglo V a.C., a saber, la tragedia, el drama satírico y la comedia, y los tres se nos aparecen bien caracterizados y distintos entre sí’. 12 Toševa-Nikolovska 2012, 281.

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can we say that tragedy and satyr drama circled each other in a shared literary language? It would make more sense that the main characteristic of the satyric language is its blend of an extremely sophisticated tragic language with colloquialisms, including a non-extreme vulgar diction, loanwords, neologisms, gnomic material and riddles, which it does not necessarily share with comedy.

2 The Intellectual Language in Classical Athens The Athenian intellectual dialect can be defined as an elaborated diction, full of morphologic and syntactic innovations and devoted to the aim of an exact expression, even sometimes clumsy, and also labelled with an emphatic tone which is distinct from daily speech.13 Diego Lanza, for example, has observed the important role of Thucydides in reproducing the strong tension at work in contemporary Athens, where written literary language pushed the dialect in a specific direction, while conversational Attic opened itself to many influences, mainly from its resident mercantile elite.14 The dramatic genres similarly experienced the creation of a distinct literary language, partially through revitalizing the old epic, religious, and sacralised language of the traditional heroes. This risks circular argument since our principal source of documentation is the literature itself for tracking changes in the Athenian intellectual speech. Literary authors, however, took upon themselves the main responsibility for creating and diffusing new linguistic solutions pliable enough and attractive enough to be adopted by rhetoricians and historians. Equally, drama and literary prose were as likely to be conduits for a large amount of innovations produced by professionals, such as physicians, orators, and architects, among others.15 Their contribution to the constitution of a standard Attic language was of the highest value, since they provided the literary language with the functions of flexible stability and intellectualization.16

13 See Cassio 1981; Redondo 1995. 14 Lanza 1979, 112: ‘Chi intende appieno e adopera questa duplicità della nuova lingua colta, aperta alle oscillazioni innovative del parlato, tollerante di scarti e di variazioni, e tesa d’altra parte ad una nuova capacità di significazione, fondata sulla sinergica solidarietà connotativa delle parole, è Tucidide’. A contrary trend pervades the traditional Attic Umgangssprache with its literary reflect on both public and private epigraphy; cf. Schwyzer 1940. 15 Redondo 2016. 16 On flexible stability, see Mathesius 1932; on intellectualization, see Havranek 1964.

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3 The Intellectual Language of Satyr Drama: A Mythological Explanation The language in the extant corpus of satyr drama shows itself to be, in general, a stylized version of this language in its many morphological, syntactical, and lexical innovations similar to the specialized sociolects of the new professional class, including prominently rhetors and sophists.17 This runs contrary to the view of some critics who support the view that satyr drama had a popular origin and was intended to satisfy banal or bawdy theatrical expectations of ordinary people with no acquaintance with the stylized literary traditions cultivated in the city. Language sometimes suggests that care was taken to distinguish different social registers and expectations of characters in satyr dramas, as Cilia has shown in a very interesting paper on the language of the epic heroes.18 Satyrs suggest rusticity; their lexis is a non-literary one. Yet, from a literary point of view, the language of satyr drama inherited from the dithyramb the high lyrical tone conveyed in many passages,19 and a fondness for linguistic innovations. While enriched by current scholarship, our analysis depends exclusively on the linguistic autopsy of the texts themselves. The language of satyr drama is not a natural language; it is, rather, an intellectualized sociolect. This artificial creation of the human mind ranged among the results of mythological discourse; therefore, the methodological means to analyse this sociolect must include hermeneutics of myth. As was common at his time (1890s), when Roscher analysed centaurs hei concluded that they were personifications of wild men living in the mountains.20 Also for Mannhardt centaurs were personifications of natural powers that had their origin in pre-Homeric culture.21 Nilsson described the satyrs as natural beings, close in behaviour and aspect to the Silens and Centaurs.22 He noted further that satyrs are not known to have had any kind of religious cult.23 Comparable to

17 For which see, especially, O’ SULLIVAN in this volume. 18 Cilia 2006. 19 Hanemahn 2012, 173: ‘Although the idiom of satyr drama admits colloquial and vulgar expressions foreign to tragedy, it would be a mistake to conclude that the genre has no place for verses of deep meaning and great beauty ... In my opinion the verses are so remarkable as to deserve to be collected, translated, and read for their own sake as a piece of poetry; treatment currently reserved for the fragments of the lyric poets’ (about Soph. fr. 149, from Achilleos Erastai). 20 Roscher 1890–1892, 1058–69 (his first paper on the matter was published in 1872). 21 Mannhardt 1877, 39–102. 22 Nilsson 1967, 232–3. 23 Nilsson 1967, 250.

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centaurs, represented in art from Mycenaean times,24 Burkert assigned to the satyrs a kathartic function in the inversion of the usual situation.25 Our understanding of what the satyrs were is still complicated by the disagreement over their origin, either as an inherited Indo-european creation, as Dumézil tried to show,26 or as a completely Greek innovation, as Kirk argued.27 In a different approach, Bremmer rightly dealt with the positive and negative aspects of the ambivalent nature of the centaurs:28 originally, centaurs were associated principally with mountains,29 but later on they were civilized by means of the sympotic culture. That is to say, a deep evolution took place in the crossing from the Archaic to the Classical Age, in which the similar hybrid nature of satyrs is given a positive or negative interpretation depending on whether their wild nature or their paideia is emphasized. Our image of the satyrs has been coloured by our preconceptions, as well. First of all, satyrs do not belong to the single type of the adult, bearded male; for instance, it is clear that some satyrs are beardless.30 On the representation of the satyrs, both ancient writers and modern scholars demonstrate multiple characterizations, suitable for different characters, different contexts, and therefore different dramatic situations. Second, a very extended view suggests that satyr drama was always linked to an extra-polis, that is, not-urban setting, so that from the physical and anthropological perspective – for both aspects were linked in the Greek perception of how to understand reality – satyrs lived in a world ruled by power and emotion, and, from a social and political perspective, they were pre-democratic, if not comparable to barbarians, that is, unaware of reason and law. Satyr drama, therefore, had to be locked into a pre-cultural landscape, not yet managed by farmers, but by shepherds and fishermen. This is not a new idea; it is the stated view of Vitruvius in a very well-known passage.31 The sets of our extant plays, however, include

24 Nilsson 1967, 229. It is to be taken into account that Ridgeway 1910, 50–5, especially p. 53 and 55, underlined the Thracian origin of the satyrs – and the Bacchants as well –, so that among historians of Greek literature there was already at work a certain topical image of the character. 25 Burkert 1985, 104. 26 Dumézil 1929. On the role of satyrs regarding the Indo-European function of transformation, see Napier 1986, 65. 27 Kirk 1973, 154–7. 28 Bremmer 2012, 44. 29 Bremmer 2012, 27; on satyrs and mountains, see SEAFORD in this volume. 30 Seidensticker 1999, 13: ‘Pollux 4.112 nennt drei verschiedene Satyrmasken: den grauhaarigen, den bärtigen und den bartlosen Satyrn’. This is the text, Pol. Onom. 4.142, ed. Dindorf 1824, 220: σατυρικὰ δὲ πρόσωπα, Σάτυρος πολιός, Σάτυρος γενειῶν, Σάτυρος ἀγένειος, Σειληνὸς πάππος; Pollux lists four different satyr masks (see PRICHETT, HEDREEN and SMITH in this volume). 31 Vitruv. 5.6.9: Genera autem sunt scaenarum tria: unum quod dicitur tragicum, alterum comicum, tertium satyricum. Horum autem ornatus sunt inter se dissimili disparique ratione, quod

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places such as temples and palaces, so that satyrs perfectly could act and interact far from the wild ambiance of uncivilized nature.32 Depictions on vases represent satyrs at social locations fulfilling religious rites, or celebrating a sympotic meeting.33 Moreover, an accurate analysis of the evidence shows that satyrs were even provided with a bucolic character after Euripides,34 while satyr drama was increasingly thought of as settled in a civilized scenario.35 Other topics are not directly related to the satyrs, but to the genre. For instance, the structure of the satyr drama should, of course, follow that of tragedy, but is not supported by the evidence.36 Pigeon-holes as rural and rustic, scholars have argued that satyrs should speak in a non-civilized language, while gods, heroes and kings know and use the formalized language of tragedy.37 In our opinion, the language used by satyrs in satyr drama has a double and complementary component: on the one hand, they show a coarse and rough language, marked with vulgar words and sentiments (for which see SLENDERS in this volume), and with colloquialisms and non-literary innovations, as well; on the other hand, they also use a highly stylized language, embellished with all the possible rhetorical tropes that are typical of the intellectual sociolect.38 tragicae deformantur columnis et fastigiis et signis reliquisque regalibus rebus; comicae autem aedificiorum privatorum et maenianorum havent speciem profectusque fenestris dispositos imitatione communium aedificiorum rationibus; satyricae vero ornantur arboribus, speluncis, montibus reliquisque agrestibus rebus in topeodi speciem deformati. 32 Seidensticker 1999, 12, n. 67, lists Aeschylus’ Isthmiastai or Theoroi, Sophocles’ Inachos and Euripides Syleus, Busiris and Eurystheus, the former one being placed in front of a temple, and all the other in front of palaces. 33 Seidensticker 1999 displays several representations including satyrs; see pl. 1a, 8–9, 15b, 16a, 17a and 17b. The scenes are, respectively, a πομπή, the wedding symposium of Dionysos and Ariadne, the Panathenaic πομπή, the exercises made up in palaestrae and gymnasiums, a shrine and again a symposium. 34 Jiménez Justicia 2015, 31. 35 See Sharankov 2009 for a recent archaeological find, a ceramic fragment including the name of Aeschylus and a representation of Circe in a domestic, not to say palatial, scene and SHAW in this volume. 36 Taplin 1977a, 59: ‘Compared with tragedy, satyr play has a loose and rambling continuity which does not really fall into parts’. 37 Seidensticker 1999, 15–16: ‘Die Tatsache, daß sich derartiges in den erhaltenen Texten fast ausschließlich in Versen Silens und den Satyrn findet, hat zu der Theorie von den zwei Stilebenen des Satyrspiels geführt. Danach ist den ‘ernsthaften Helden die gehobene Sprache wie das Kostüm der Tragödie zu eigen, während die Satyrn und Silenos eine einfachere und derbere Sprache sprechen. Denn im großen und ganzen ist die Sprache’. 38 Redondo, 1999, 323 (= 2015, 214): ‘S’ha de destacar que els parlaments d’Apol.lo i Cil.lene són particularment rics en poetismes, com correspon al seu caràcter. ... Però l’abundor dels registres a què al.ludim s’estén també a la llengua dels sàtirs, uns presumptes esclaus que parlen, tot i

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4 Characteristic Features of Extant Sophoclean Satyr Drama Fragments Why Sophocles? From a purely methodological perspective, no satisfactory corpus exists in any of the three main authors since the paucity of the preserved fragments does not allow any far-reaching survey. It can be observed, however, that satyrs are not given as prominent a role in the extant Aeschylean and Euripidean fragments as in Sophocles. Additionally, Aeschylus and Euripides display a different attitude towards the character of satyrs: there are not, for example, sufficient dialogues surviving from their satyr dramas. What is more, Euripides’ Cyclops seems far from being a representative model of the genre as a whole.39 As pointed out above, satyr drama tends to imitate a high level of language. The numerous examples that comprise the balance of this paper will demonstrate this conclusively through a sample of the most representative features that belong to the stylized literary sociolect, used by poets, philosophers and scientists. The frequency of these trends in satyr drama does not mean by itself that it is just satyrs who use them. What is important is that the literary language of the genre as a whole and not just of individual characters becomes quite clear. I apologize in advance to the reader if what follows looks like a catalogue. The evidence, doubly compelling by its amount and distribution throughout Sophocles, demands this organization. Among tragic poets Sophocles has the greatest number of neologisms, especially in his late plays.40 The morphological types included are abstract nouns in41 are attested in fr. 149.1 (Achilleos Erastai) νόσημα, fr. 225.1 (Herakles) l’aparença i la conducta amb què l’espectador els veia, un grec d’allò més florit’. This last view has been emphasized by Griffith 2006, whose observations imply the whole of the genre from Aeschylus onwards. 39 Seidensticker 1999, 2: ‘Der Kyklops ... kann, wie die fragmentarisch erhaltenen Aischyleischen und Sophokleischen Satyrspiele zeigen, nur sehr bedingt als repräsentativ für die Gattung angesehen warden’. 40 Long 1968, 31–2 and 34–5, cf. p. 34: ‘Sophocles introduces 11 new words in the Philoctetes and Oedipus Coloneus compared with 9 for all Euripides’ extant plays. … He borrows less and coins more, but only in his latest style’; see also Batezzato 2012, 311. 41 See on the general matter of -μα forms Long 1968, 38: ‘Sophocles introduces more -σις nous in the latest plays and continues to use -μα nouns freely, since both types of word enables him to distinguish his language from corrent speech; Zimmermann 1986, 151: ‘Substantive auf –μα sind bezeichnend für den modernen Stil und werden von Aristophanes häufig parodiert’; López Eire 1996, 24, ascribes these terms in -μα to the ‘emphatic and grandiloquent style’; see also Griffith 2006, 57; Martín-González 2008, 520: the frequency of -μα forms in Ichneutai is double

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ἐκκαύματα, fr. 241.3 (Thamyras, probably a satyr drama) στέρημα, fr. 269 c.22 and 287 (Inachos) ψοφήματα and ἐπίκρουμα, fr. 314 (Ichneutai) κήρυγμα (ter), χρῆμα (4 times), φώνημα (bis), κλέμμα, παράδειγμα, δράμημα, βήμα (bis), ῥοίβδημα, φθέγμα (5 times), τάγμα, μνῆμα, σύριγμα, πήδημα, λάκτισμα, κέλευμα, ἄλκασμα, πρᾶγμα (bis), κοίμημα, θαῦμα, θήρευμα, αἰόλισμα, φάσμα and βράβευμα,42 fr. 328.1 (Kedalion) ἀρτύματα, fr. 440.1 (Nausika, probably a satyr drama) ὄχημα, fr. 486 (Pandora or Sphyrokopoi, also a probable satyr drama) χήλευμα, fr. 537 (Salmoneus) φιλημάτων, fr. 623 (Troilos, maybe a satyr drama) μασχαλίσματα, fr. 675 (The Phaiakes, probably a satyr drama) and 709 (Phineus, another probable satyr drama) ἀρτύματα, fr. 715 (Phineus) κηρίωμα.43 A noun in -μός appears in fr. 314.123 (Ichneutai) κυκησμός, and a second one in fr. 537 (Salmoneus) κνισμός. Nouns in -σις occur in fr. 171.1 (Dionysiskos) βρῶσις – instead of βρῶμα –, and fr. 314 (Ichneutai) δόσις, σύλησις, ἐλευθέρωσις, βάσις, μετάστασις, πύστις, βάξις, fr. 568.2 (Syndeipnoi) δύνασις, fr. 909.1 (incerta fabula, probably from a satyr drama)44 πρᾶσις, fr. 1130.15-16 (dubious, maybe Oineus) μέτρησις, ὄρχησις, λάλησις, fr. 1133.45.6 (Oineus) πλᾶξις. A noun in -σύνη is attested at fr. 1026a ἀτιμοσύνη, but there is no indication about the genre of the play. The type provided by the suffix -μων appears in fr. 198d (The Epi Tainaro Satyroi) ἀργέμων, and fr. 613 (Triptolemos) ἀφράσμων.45 The suffix -τήρ is also attested, but not in fragments coming beyond any doubt

than in the tragedies. Yet the feature can be detected all along the Sophoclean satyr dramas. For instance, in fr. 149.1 (Achilleos Erastai), we read τὸ γὰρ νόσημα τοῦτ᾿ ἐφίμερον καλὸν, where the term νόσημα has been directly borrowed from the technical language of medicine, as Thucydides did in his Histories: cf. Th. 2.49.6; 51.1 and 6; 53.1; 57.1. Among the tragic authors, Sophocles had a clear predilection for this word, cf. σπαψε Soph. Ai. 338, ιταλιψσ 307 and 1293, Ph. 755 and 900, as did also the late Euripides, El. 656, Io 1524, Or. 883. On the abstract formations in the Sophoclean production, see also Redondo 1997a, 56 and 59. 42 The terms σῶμα (146) and δέρμα (314) have been excluded, for they do not convey any abstract signification. 43 Other instances occur in adespota fragments, so that there is even less information on its genre: fr. 769 ἐσθήματα, fr. 840 δήγμα, fr. 913.1 κρότημα, fr. 971 ἄγασμα, fr. 1102 ἀμπυκώματα, fr. 1018 ἀπαιόλημα, and fr. 1073 ξάσμα. 44 Griffith 2006, 52: ‘At least as many more of the play that are normally listed as tragedies must therefore in fact have been satyric’. 45 See also fr. 659.8 (Tyro) ἀνοικτίρμων, fr. 730c (incerta fabula) δηλήμον᾿, and fr. 884 (incerta fabula) σκηπτροβάμων.

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from satyr dramas.46 The suffix -τής conveys also a high style to the text; among the four Sophoclean coinages, three belong to fragments, a very noticeable frequency, from which one is attested in fr. 269c.15 (Inachos) ὠμότης.47 It needs to be mentioned that this formation is always limited to the lyric sections. Moreover, the suffix -ίτης is attested in fr. 226 (Herakles) χωρίτην. The adjective type in -ήρης is far from being a common one in Classical Greek, so that it could be defined as a poetic feature.48 It is attested in fr. 7 (Athamas, maybe a satyr drama), ἀχήρης, and fr. 113 (Amphiaraos), πινοτήρης. The -ηρός type is registered in fr. 606 (Triptolemos) ταριχηροῦ.49 The -ικός type occurs in fr. 314.71 and 173 (Ichneutai) πατρικός and συνορτικός.50 The -σιμος type is attested in fr. 240 (Thamyras) τρόχιμα and βάσιμα.51 The adjectives in -τήριος are also quite frequent, as in fr. 537.2 (Salmoneus) νικητήρια.52 There are also some examples of the adjectival type in -ώδης; cf. fr. 407a (Muses) σισυρνώδης.53 This elaborated diction close to the sophistic style also includes medial aorists and futures in -θην, as we pointed out formerly.54 This happens in fr. 314.49 (Ichneutai) ἐπεσσύθην.55

46 Cf. fr. 432.8 (Nauplios) ποιμαντήρ, fr. 771.2 (incerta fabula) αἰνικτήρ. 47 Mignot 1972, 29, 45, and 68–9. The other instances taken from fragments are fr. 369 (Lakainai) δανότης, and fr. 846.2 (incerta fabula) μαργότης. 48 It is somewhat strange that this formation is not commented by many authors, see Schwyz., vol. I, 513–14; Chantraine 1933, 424–9. 49 See also fr. 306 (Iphigenia) ὀξηρός, and fr. 475.2 (Oinomaos) αὐχμηρός. 50 See Redondo 1999, 324; see also fr. 437 (Nauplios) νυμφικός and fr. 1130.10 (dubious, maybe Oineus) ἱππικός. 51 See also fr. 651 and 658 (Tyro) ἔχθιμα and μάχιμος, in fr. 745 (incerta fabula) ἀκούσιμος, in fr. 953 (incerta fabula) μόρσιμος, and in fr. 991b (incerta fabula) ἀκούσιμος. 52 See also fr. 432.7 (Nauplios) σημαντήρια, fr. 474.1 (Oinomaos) θηρατηρία, fr. 526 (Polyxene) ἐνδυτήριον, fr. 699 (Philoctetes at Troy) and 1140 (dubious) ῥακτήρια, fr. 758 (incerta fabula) λυτήριον. 53 See also fr. 553 (Skyrioi) ἀνεμώδης, fr. 687a (Phaidra) μυξώδης, and fr. 1098 (incerta fabula) στομώδης. 54 See Redondo 1997b, 320–1. This innovation, consisting of the use of passive forms with the same function of the corresponding middle forms, has a very recent origin within the history of the Greek language. At a post-Homeric stage, when future and aorist forms in -θη were created, their correlate middle forms continued to be used with their ancient, primary middle function and with the secondary, passive function as well. Therefore, during the Classical Age we find the inverse procedure: clearly passive forms are attested with an evident middle function. It seems to us very clear that this hypercorrection did appear at those linguistic levels featured by a special use of language, when the speaker intends to be extremely accurate, in spite of his solecisms. 55 See also fr. 646.3 (Tyndareus) διεκπεραθῇ, and fr. 837.2 (incerta fabula) δερχθέντες.

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5 Poetic Features Epic is the model, for example, for some of Sophocles’ most stylized features, such as the cluster ἴδρις with genitive, as in fr. 314.230 (Ichneutai).56 In fr. 198a (Epi Tainaro Satyroi) we find the particle τοιγάρ, which occurs in comedy only in paratragic sections.57 Other devices belong to the later developments of the lyric genres, for instance, with several types of compound adjectives which are very usual in the poetry of Bacchylides.58 To begin with morphological features, pronominal and verbal dual forms lend to the text a high, poetical diction as well as a strong colloquial touch, as in fr. 210.9 (Eurypylos) ἐρρηξάτην, fr. 297 (Iobates) νῷν, fr. 596 (Triptolemos) δράκοντε ... εἰληφότε, fr. 730e.15 (incerta fabula) δύοντε, fr. 861.2 (incerta fabula) θροοῦντε, fr. 881 (incerta fabula) ἐδοξάτην ... τὼ δύ᾿ ἠπείρω. The pronoun οὔτις, which is only found in the most stylized genres and in tragedy, is attested in fragments 326 (Kamikoi) and 766.1 (incerta fabula).59 Of note also is the double form ἧμιν in fr. 215a.11 (Eurypylos), 730b.18 and 730g.11 (incerta fabula), and ἇμιν in fr. 1133.44.10 (Oineus). As for adjectives, we must consider in fr. 152.1 and 164 (Achilleos Erastai) the poetic compounds διχόστομον and δίπτυχος,60 in fr. 867.1 (incerta fabula) διχόστατος, and in fr. 359 (Kreousa) and 363 (Kophoi) the compounds ἰσοθάνατος and ἰσόσπριος. In fr. 164a (Daidalos) we find the term χειροβόσκον, and in fragment 473 (Oinomaos) the term χειρόμακτρον (compare Herodotus 4.64.2).61 This type of compound adjective is at home in high Classical poetry, and Sophocles had a strong penchant for it, as shown by the hapaxes χειροδάϊκτος and χειρόδεικτος.62 In fr. 395.3 (Manteis) we read the third-person 56 This cluster is also attested in fr. 34 (Aichmalotides), that very probably belongs to a tragedy. 57 See Denniston 1954, 565, and n. 2. The examples quoted are Ar. Lys. 516, 901 and 902. 58 Sánchez i Bernet 2015b. 59 All along the Sophoclean tragic production, this pronoun seems to be used increasingly both in lyrical and in narrative sections. In the most ancient plays, the only lyric example is Ai. 424; in a second stage it also occurs once in the lyrics, OT 1333; however, in the latest plays it occurs four times; cf. El. 188 and 513, Ph. 680 and 860. In a similar way, the recitative examples are Ai. 725 and 1062, Ant. 1044, OT 819, and El. 276, 290, 847, 949, 1328 and 1369. 60 In the seven tragedies, this type is attested once in a recitative section: OC 900 δίστομοι but six times in lyric sections (Ai. 248 δίπαλτος, Ai. 251 and Ant. 146 δικρατής, Ant. 1125 δίλοφος, and OC 1055 δίστολος). 61 On the possible Herodotean influence, see Rasch 1912, 21. 62 Soph. Ai. 219 χειρόδαικτος, OT 901 χειρόδεικτος. Moreover, as we pointed up several times during a predoctoral course on the language of the Sophoclean tragedy (Universitat de València, 1993–94, see Redondo 1997a), the language of Stesichorus coincides in many features with that of tragedy; moreover, the coincidences between Stesichorus and Sophocles are so relevant that it would be all but unjustified not to suggest that there is a direct influence. Consider, for instance,

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pronoun σφε, since the attested σφ᾿ excludes the form σφι: in this case the poet should not elide the final -ι before vowel.63 There is also a very unusual form attested twice in fr. 471 (Oinomaos), namely the third-person pronoun ἵ.64 In the field of verbal morphology, in fr. 546.3 (Skythai) we find the imperfect βλαστάνεσκε, a -σκ- formation without augment which is attested twice in the Antigone.65 We could also quote the form στάζε, without augment, in fr. 687 (Phaidra), but it is a correction made by Tsantsanoglou instead of the present form στάζει given by the manuscripts. In fr. 422 (Momos) the form ἄνθρῳσκε, as in fr. 314.175 (Ichneutai) the form παρμένων, reflect a case of apocope, which in the Attic dialect was restricted to such a conservative field of language as anthroponymy, such as in Ἀνδοκίδης, Παρμένων. Regarding the inflexibilia, in fr. 269c (Inachos) we can remark the preposition ὑπαί, which is also attested in tragedy;66 in fr. 431 (Nauplios), the adverb τώς; and in fr. 1131.7 (dubious) the connector ἰδέ, which occurs only once in tragedy.67 As for syntactic features, the evidence is much more interesting and varied: in fr. 210.70 (Eurypylos) we read ἀμφὶ πλευραῖς καὶ σφαγαῖσι κείμενος, an example of the poetic cluster ἀμφὶ with locative. This construction is completely alien to the Attic prose and to the Aristophanic comedy as well. Some of the poetic features attested in the Inachos’ fragments have been remarked by Pfeiffer and Carden, namely the active use of σκοτόω (fr. 269a.30)68 and the accusative after

in fr. 222b ed. Davies, the so-called ‘Lille Papyrus’, the terms φιλότατ᾿, μαντοσύνας, μόρσιμον and λυτήριον, whose morphological types are quite common in the Sophoclean tragedy, and the word μέριμνας – a non-Homeric poetic feature which is attested from Hesiod onwards and especially in the lyric authors as Sappho and Theognis –, also attested in Sophocles Ant. 857, OT 728 and 1460. There are other interesting aspects: as a clear precedent of the tragic genre, Stesichorus – a kind of nickname, since his real name was Teisias; according to Suda Σ 1095, 4.433 ed. Adler, Στασίχορος ἐκλήθη διότι πρῶτος κιθαρῳδίᾳ χορὸν ἔστησε: he was the πρῶτος εὑρετής of a special metre for ἀγγελικαὶ ῥήσεις, the so-called ἀγγελικὸν μέτρον. The ancient critics also remarked that Stesichorus’ characters were featured with a high-flown diction and a magnificent dignity as well, cf. D.H. Iurit. 2.7, and Quint. Inst. Or. 10.1.62. Now we should remind in Stesichor. fr. 4 the hapax χειροβρώς as another stylistic coincidence between both poets. On compound adjectives in the Sophoclean satyric language, see Griffith 2006, 54–7, and 70–2. 63 See Solomon 1987. 64 See on the attested forms in the poetic tradition Sánchez and Bernet 2015a, 19–20. 65 Soph. Ant. 949 ταμιεύεσκε, 963 παύεσκε, cf. Aesch. Pe. 656 and Ag. 723 ἔσκεν, in the second passage as a very tenable conjecture suggested by Casaubon, and fr. 298 (= Ath. 11.491a) κλαίεσκον. 66 Soph. Ant. 1035, El. 711 and 1418. 67 Soph. Ant. 967 (lyr). 68 Carden 1974, 62; cf. Soph. Ai. 85.

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ἴδρις instead of partitive genitive (fr. 269a.31).69 In fr. 314.265–6 (Ichneutai) a verb of movement has the simple accusative, the so-called lative accusative: καὶ γὰρ κέκρυπται τοὖργον ἐν θεῶν ἕδραις, / Ἥραν ὅπως μὴ πύστις ἵξεται λόγου. A hapax occurs in fr. 565.1-2 (Syndeipnoi), namely the construction of ἀμφί with instrumental, ἀλλ᾿ ἀμφὶ θυμῷ τὴν κάκοσμον / οὐράνην / ἔρριψεν οὐδ᾿ ἥμαρτε etc. In fr. 938 (incerta fabula) we read the (quasi-)gnomic phrase μικροῦ δ᾿ ἀγῶνος οὐκ ἔρχεται κλέος. Let us to remark here an ablative without preposition, a rare construction in Sophocles. Moorhouse points up to five examples in tragedy, and we could list another instances in fr. 341.2 (Kolchides) μητρὸς ἐξέδυ, and fr. 534.2 (Rizotomoi) στάζοντα τομῆς.70 In fr. 958.2 (incerta fabula) we point up the emphatic use of the pronoun αὐτός in the instrumental case, a Homeric feature which does not appear in Sophocles, as far as we know.71 In fr. 314.142-4 (Ichneutai) we find the old use of the demonstrative pronoun as relative: ἄκουσον νῦν πάτερ χρόνον τινὰ / οἵῳ ᾿κπλαγέντες ἐνθάδ᾿ ἐξενίσμεθα / ψόφῳ, τὸν οὐδεὶς πώποτ᾿ ἤκουσεν βροτῶν; a second instance occurs at fr. 326 τὴν οὔτις ᾔδειν ἐκ θεοῦ κεκρυμμένην; in this instance the agent is expressed by means of ἐκ, another poeticism.72 In fr. 477.2 (Oinomaos) occurs the double conjunction πλὴν ὅταν, which is to be considered both a poetic feature and an innovation as well.73 In fr. 581.7 (Tereus) and 931.1–2 (incerta fabula), the use of ἡνίκ᾿ ἂν – with subjunctive – also deserves our attention. In fr. 88.4-5 (Aleadai) we should remark the coordinative sequence οὔτε ... τε. Lexical poetic features are, of course, attested since their use is one of the characteristics of the genre,74 such as in fr. 198b (The Epi Tainaro Satyroi) ἄγανος; fr. 210.35 (Eurypylos) διαίνω; fr. 212.8 (Eurypylos) πλησιαίτατος; fr. 255 (Thyestes) αἶα, this word also being found in tragedy;75 fr. 269c.39 and fr. 269c.43 (Inachos) ἀραβεῖν, στατίζειν; fr. 337 and 338.2 (Kolchides), and fr. 538 and 539 (Salmoneus), πέμφιξ; fr. 334 (Klytaimnestra) περιδινέοντα; fr. 403 (Meleagros) ἰξοφόρους δρύας, a Homeric phrase; fr. 328 (Kedalion) δέατος instead of δέους; fr. 512 (Poimenes) ἄμυρος; fr. 592.4 (Tereus) ζοά; fr. 624a (Troilos) ψέφαιος; fr. 842 (incerta fabula)

69 Pfeiffer 1938, 17; cf. Soph. Tr. 649. 70 See Moorhouse 1982, 66. Tragic instances: Soph. OT 142, 152 and 808, Phil. 1002, OC 226. 71 This feature is not recorded by Moorhouse 1982, 139–40. 72 See George 2005, 210–12. 73 Οn the innovation of πλήν substituting ἀλλὰ, see López Eire 1991a, 59–60. 74 López Eire 2000, 111: ‘Hay, pues, en el drama satírico una clara tendencia a la innovación lèxica, al empleo de palabras exóticas, chocantes, propias de una jerga o lengua especial, e incluso a veces de poetismos’. 75 El. 95 and Ph. 1162.

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μαργῶντες; fr. 879a (incerta fabula) τανύφλοιος, fr. 996 (incerta fabula) ἀλκάθω. Regarding the stylistic figures, it is noteworthy in fr. 4 (Athamas) ὡς ὢν ἄπαις τε κἀγύναιξ κἀνέστιος, and in fr. 314.151 (Ichneutai) ἄνευρα κἀκόμιστα κἀνε[λε]ύθερα, the threefold sequence of *ἀ- compound adjectives.

6 Innovations Sophocles is fond of innovations taken from the language used by professionals such as physicians, lawyers, rhetors, and poets. For example, in fragment 236 (Erigone) we read the following lines: νῦν δ᾿ εἰρὴ ὕποφρος ἐξ αὐτῶν ἕως / ἀπώλεσέν τε καὐτὸς ἐξαπώλετο. This construction with ἕως and a past tense has (Il. 11.342 and Od. 9.233) parallels in Homer76 in the Hippocratic Epidemies, as Pérez Cañizares rightly established,77 and in Herodotus (7.23.1 and 7.100.1). Furthermore, Aeschylus had already used this feature, but only in his first production, as it is limited to Persae 424, 464, and 710. Euripides Alcestis 718, is also a hapax,78 but Aristophanes exploited this construction from the point of view of an Attic-speaker, as he used it in three passages, no one of them paratragic.79 Yet ἕως with a past tense was a frequent construction in fourth century BC Attic: in his History, probably in a double way between the aim for innovation and for selected syntactical choices as well, Thucydides used it in six instances;80 in Lysias it is attested four times;81 in Demosthenes, eighteen times.82

76 See on the matter Chantraine 1953, 265. 77 Pérez Cañizares 1995, esp. p. 300–1; cf. Hp. Epid. 5.206.20; 208.5; 210.9; 218.22; 224.22; 228.12; 7.368.1; 378.14; 410.13; 440.8, and 462.16. 78 Eur. Alc. 758. 79 Ar. Pa. 71, where our construction is embedded within colloquial utterances and gives to the whole sentence a sense of paradox and constrast; Th. 503, again surrounded by conspicuous colloquialisms; and Pl. 744, in the same linguistic context. It is noteworthy that in Pax and Plutus the speakers are slaves – Mnesilochus is the speaker in Thesmorphoriazusae. 80 Th. 2.19.2 and 81.4, 3.93.2, 6.44.2 and 62.3. All five examples occur in narrative sections. 81 Lys. 1.15, 12.71, 22.12, 25.26. 82 Dem. 4.1, 9.64, 18.30.48, 295 and 303, 19.286, 24.135 and 136, 26.6, 27.13, 47.59 and 61, 48.35, 49.35, 50.19, 30 and 52.

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7 How the Fragments Really Sound A short sample of texts will help to understand our point of view on the satyrs’ language. First of all we will take into account a fragment from the satyr drama entitled Dionysiskos (fr. 171): ὅταν γὰρ αὐτῷ προσφέρω βρῶσιν διδούς, τὴν ῥῖνά μ᾿εὐθὺς ψηλαφᾷ κἄνω φέρει τὴν χεῖρα πρὸς τὸ φαλακρὸν ἡδὺ διαγελῶν For when I offer him the drink I’m giving him, at once he tickles my nose, and brings up his hand to the smooth surface, smiling sweetly.

No mother or nurse should say that the food given to her child can be called βρῶσις, a rare term coined after the model of the -σις formations. It is, however, a word used by Homer and Hesiod,83 that is to say, there is a literary tradition blended with the professional use of the term.84 Nevertheless, such a coinage is far from daily speech. On the other side, the coarse sentiments spoken by Silenos finish with an explicit sexual allusion.85 A complete contrast of language and intention is provided by the same character, Silenos, in Ichneutai fr. 314.145-9: τί μοι ψόφον; φοβ[…]. κα[.] δειμαίνετε μάλθης ἄναγνα σώ[μα]τ᾿ ἐκμεμαγμένα κάκιστα θηρῶν ὀνθ[..]ν [π]άσῃ σκιᾷ φόβον βλέποντες, πάν[τα] δειματούμενοι, ἄνευρα κἀκόμιστα κἀνε[λε]ύθερα … Why does a mere noise alarm and scare you? Tell me, you damned waxwork dummies, you worthless animal dung! You see terror in every shadow, scared at everything! Useless assistants –spineless, slovenly, unenterprising!

83 Hom. Il. 19.210, Od. 1.191, Hes. Th. 797. 84 Hp. Epid. 5.6, Acut. 28, Flat. 1, Morb. 4.45, et passim. 85 Perfect contextualization of the passage in Shaw 2014, 73–5, where a parallel sexual use of the term φαλακρός is underlined in the Aeschylean satyr drama Diktyoulkoi, Aesch. fr. 474.786-8.

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The diction of the final line is very poetic, with a sequence of three compound adjectives with ἀ-.86 The same construction is attested in fr. 4 (Αthamas) ὡς ὢν ἄπαις τε κἀγύναιξ κἀνέστιος (as being without child or wife or hearth … ). But this fragment also contains the verbal forms δειμαίνετε87 and δειμαιτούμενοι,88 which are so closely related to the language of tragedy that only Herodotus (6.3.1) among the fifth century writers uses it, and only Plato does in the fourth century. It would be a mistake to think that linguistic variety is restricted to Silenos. In fact, our extant texts attest that every satyr is able to use a polished and sophisticated language, such as in fragment 1130.6–18 (incerta fabula, maybe Oineus): ἅπαντα πεύσῃ· νύμφιοι μὲν ἥκομεν, παῖδες δὲ νυμφῶν, Βακχίου δ᾿ ὑπηρέται, θεῶν δ᾿ ὅμαυλοι· πᾶσα δ᾿ ἥρμοσται τέχνη πρέπουσ᾿ ἐν ἡμῖν· ἔστι μὲν τὰ πρὸς μάχην δορός, πάλης ἀγῶνες, ἱππικῆς, δρόμου, πυγμῆς, ὀδόντων, ὄρχεων ἀποστροφαί, ἔνεισι δ᾿ ᾠδαὶ μουσικῆς, ἔνεστι δὲ μαντεῖα παντάγνωτα κοὐκ ἐψευσμένα, ἰαμάτων τ᾿ ἔλεγχος, ἔστιν οὐρανοῦ μέτρησις, ἔστ᾿ ὀρχησις, ἔστι τῶν κάτω λάλησις· ἄρ᾿ ἄκαρπος ἡ θεωρία; ὧν σοι λαβεῖν ἔξεστι τοῦθ᾿ ὁποῖον ἂν χρῄζῃς, ἐὰν τὴν παῖδα προστιθῇς ἐμοί. You shall learn all! We come as suitors, we are sons of nymphs and ministers of Bacchus and neighbours of the gods. Every proper trade is part of our equipment –fighting with the spear, contests of wrestling, riding, running, boxing, biting, twisting people’s balls; we have songs of music, we have oracles quite unknown and not forged, and tests for ways of healing; we can measure the skies, we can dance, our lower parts can speak. Is our study fruitless? You can avail yourself of whatever thing you like, if you assign your daughter to me.

86 See on the use of this device in tragedy Fehling 1968, 142–55. 87 Aesch. Pe. 600, Su. 74; Soph. Tr. 89, 481, OC 49 and 492; Eur. Me. 39, Andr. 874, Hec. 54, 184, Hipp. 529 and 1032, Su. 554, Pho. 257, El. 834, Io 686, Or. 6 and 544. 88 Eur. Andr. 42; Hdt. 6.3,1.

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The passage conveys a high lyrical tone, for there we find stylistic devices such as polyptoton,89 polysyndeton,90 isocolon,91 and anaphora,92 besides syntactical motifs only attested in very literary texts.93 Moreover, the lexical choice is also interesting: ἥκομεν suggests a practice known from tragedies for the arrival of a main character, usually a god, especially in Euripidean tragedies.94 We will leave without comment the Ionicism δορός.95 The technical terms ἴαμα, μέτρησις, ὄρχησις and λάλησις enhance the image of the satyrs as speakers of a cultivated and pretentious language. So, the direct observation of our texts brings us the occasion to appreciate how the linguistic devices of the satyric language work. In this case the bombastic effect is produced by the accumulation ἰαμάτων τ᾿ ἔλεγχος ... μέτρησις … ὀρχησις … λάλησις which conveys a parodic tone because of its simplicity, as the product of a failed attempt at elaborated language. Verbal accumulation has been recognised as a frequent instrument of the Aristophanic language,96 and satyric lexis follows the same pattern of mixing a high style with a fumbled misapplication of the chosen tools. One example especially comes to mind, fr. 314.45-50 (Ichneutai): ]σου φώνημα τὼς ἐπέκλυον [βοῶ]ντος ὀρθίοισι σὺν κηρύγμασ[ιν, [σ]πουδῇ τάδ᾿, ἣ πάρεστι πρεσβύτη[ι [σ]οί, Φοῖβ᾿ Ἄπολλον, προσφιλὴς εὐε[ργέτης θέλων γενέσθαι τῷδ᾿ ἐπεσσύθην δρ[ό]μω[ι ἄν πως τὸ χρῆμα τοῦτό σοι κυνηγ[έ]σω. When I heard a god’s voice thus raised in loud proclamation, I hurried, fast as an aged person may, when the news came, to accomplish this, eager to be your friend and benefactor, Phoebus Apollo, running as you see, hoping to hunt this treasure down for you.

89 See νῦμφιοι – νυμφῶν. 90 See νύμφιοι μὲν ἥκομεν, παίδες δὲ νυμφῶν, Βακχίου δ᾿ ὑπηρέται, θεῶν δ᾿ ὅμαυλοι. 91 See νύμφιοι μὲν ἥκομεν, / παίδες δὲ νυμφῶν, / Βακχίου δ᾿ ὑπηρέται, / θεῶν δ᾿ ὅμαυλοι· / πᾶσα δ᾿ ἥρμοσται τέχνη / πρέπουσ᾿ ἐν ἡμῖν. The sequence shows the alternation of 7-syllable and 5-syllable κῶλα. 92 See ἔνεισι – ἔνεστι, ἔστιν – ἔστ᾿ – ἔστι. 93 See the τε solitarium in ἰαμάτων τ᾿ ἔλεγχος, and the initial relative in ὧν σοι λαβεῖν. 94 See Aesch. Ag. 504, Cho. 3 and 838; Soph. Ph. 1413–14; Eur. Alc. 614, Andr. 309 and 1232, Hec. 1, Tro. 1, HF 1163, El. 87, Ion 5 and 1555, IT 93, Ba. 1. 95 See López Eire 2002, 42. 96 See Spyropoulos 1974.

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Even if our attention focuses on the sequence φώνημα … κηρύγμασι … χρῆμα, two further observations are worth making: first of all, the Ionian form θέλων is usual in tragedy;97 second, the medial use of a passive ‘aorist’ is a striking syntactical innovation (see n. 53). Similarly, medical language was also available for literary imitation, since it was specialized form of communication that was a special preserve of selected, clever people. Silenos speaks the following lines at fr. 314.172-5 (Ichneutai), an example of the sophisticed composition capable in satyr drama: ἐγὼ πα[ρ]ὼν αὐτός τε προσβιβῶ λόγῳ, κυνορτικὸν σύριγμα διακαλούμεν[ος, ἄλλ᾿ εἶ᾿ [ἐ]φίστω τριζύγης οἴμου βάσιν· ἐγὼ δ᾿ ἐν [ἔ]ργοις παρμένων σ᾿ἀπευθυνῶ. I’ll come, and win you to my way of thinking, with a cheer for all like the call of the hunter to the hounds! Come on, take your stand where the three paths meet, and I will stand at the scene of action and set you on your way!

This fragment, just four verses, presents three interesting features, the first one the group κυνορτικὸν σύριγμα, with a name in -μα and an adjective in -ικός; the second, the name βάσις, also a poetic utterance as shown by the attested cases;98 and third, the apocope παρμένων.99 On the -ικός formation, López Eire has written convincingly on the sociolinguistic bias of these adjectives.100 Poeticisms, such as βάσις and παρμένων, contribute to create this blended language of the satyrs. In some cases, given its fragmentary transmission our evidence lacks a tenable context, so that there is only room for hypothesizing who the speaker was. It is, in general, fairly easy to assign lines to satyrs as opposed to other potential speakers. For example, in fr. 198a (Epi Tainaro) we read, after a quotation taken from Athenaeus, the sentence τοιγὰρ †ϊωδὴ† φυλάξαι χοῖρον ὥστε δεσμίαν (‘so, watch over the gilt as worthy of bondage’ As formerly commented, the particle 97 See López Eire 1981, 28. 98 Pi. Py. 1.2; Aesch. Eum. 36, Cho. 452; Soph. Ai. 8 and 42, Ph. 691, El. 718; Eur. El. 532, Hec. 837. From a sociolinguistic perspective, López Eire 1996, 21–2, points up that these terms are ‘muy gratos a la capa de población culta de la Atenas de su época y con frecuencia empleados en la lengua altisonante de la tragedia’, as also elsewhere. 99 López Eire 2000, 104–5. 100 López Eire 1996, 21: ‘Las capas menos sobresalientes culturalmente se resisten a emplear adjetivos acabados en -ικός, o, por lo menos, no los usan con tanta profusion y abundancia como las más cultas y avezadas a las lenguas especializadas de la literatura y la ciencia del momento. Los sofistas jonios inundaron el ático de la literatura, la filosofía y la ciencia a base de adjetivos en -ικός’. On the Aristophanic use of this formation see Peppler 1910 and Labiano Ilundain 2004.

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τοιγάρ has been borrowed from tragic language, and it is once again interesting to point out the contrast with the substantive χοῖρος, which is generally avoided in the poetic genres,101 but is attested in comedy with the same allusive sense which is probable in this Sophoclean fragment.102 This amalgamation of sophisticated and poetic devices with other pointed out by their vulgarity and crudity fits with the character of a satyr.

8 Conclusions The language of the Sophoclean satyr dramas puts the lie to a woodland setting being inescapably rude and rustic. It is not possible to maintain the view that this genre was restricted to the countryside, far from the polis and its institutions of culture where intellectuals and politicians interact among themselves; rather, satyr drama, especially Sophoclean satyr drama, created its own literary language, a special lexis that must be distinguished from that of tragedy and comedy. As characters, our satyrs are the best masters of the most innovative utterances displayed by the professionals of the spoken and the written word.103

101 This term is not attested in the tragic authors – meanless to remind that they were the same people who wrote satyr dramas. The epic poets use the term σῦς or ὗς (cf. Hom. Il. 5.783, 7.257, 8.339, 9.539, 10.264, 12.146, Od. 18.29, etc.) with the exception of Hom. Od. 14.14 and 73. 102 Of course comedy does not avoid using χοῖρος; cf. Ar. Ach. 764 ss., Ec. 724, Th. 289 and 538, Pl. 308 and 315. 103 I am most thankful to George W.M. Harrison for his careful reading of an earlier version of the paper and his helpful emendations.

Lucy C.M.M. Jackson

8 Metre, Movement and Dance in Satyr Drama The lyric metres of satyr drama add a valuable extra layer to our understanding of the genre. In this chapter we shall consider the various metres used by the satyr choruses.1 As well as providing an introductory survey of these metres, we shall also consider how metrical matters intersect with the onstage activity of the chorus. This activity is often discernible via the running commentary given by the characters themselves, but our understanding of ‘stage business’ in satyr drama is also informed by the descriptions of choreographic figures (schemata) in later writers and lexicographers, as well as the images of satyrs in action on pottery. After due consideration of how satyr choruses might have sounded, what emerges is a picture of a different kind of dramatic chorus and one that is distinct from those found in the related genres of fifth-century BC tragedy and comedy.2 It will be salutary to acknowledge at the very outset some of the limitations we face when attempting to bring the musical and choreographic elements of satyr drama into better focus. Where texts have been corrupted or severely damaged, as the majority of the satyric fragments have, the identification of different metrical units (metra) and phrases (cola) must remain provisional. The role played by the accompanying music in accentuating rhythm or determining the tone is wholly obscure. The same must be said of how movements such as the raising or stamping of feet, may have underscored the rhythmic delivery of recited speech and song.3 While the images of satyrs on various vases offer tantalising glimpses of their possible postures, we cannot use such items as straightforward illustrations of dramatic dance.4 We know there were a number of treatises written about the technique and schemata of dance from at least as early as the Hellenistic

1 For recent discussions of satyric metre, movement, and dance see Seidensticker 1999, 21–3; Voelke 2001, 91–182; Seidensticker 2003 and 2010; Cerbo 2015; Di Marco 2013, 58–9 and 97–9. All text of Eur. Cyclops is cited from Diggle 1984. 2 The generic boundaries of satyr drama, along with comedy, appear to have shifted in the fourth century BC see Shaw 2010, 1–18 and Cohn 2015, 545–72. 3 ‘… the ancients were well acquainted with the practice of beating time to music or to recited verse by clapping, snapping the fingers, or tapping the foot’, West 1982, 22, n. 40. On the problematic concepts of the arsis and thesis in Greek metre, see Lynch 2016. 4 See Seidensticker 2003, 101–2 and 2010, 219. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-009

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period, but these are essentially lost5 and we must rely on authors like Athenaeus, Pollux, Hesychius, and Photius who were writing at a considerable remove from the performance practices of Classical satyr drama. It is important to remain circumspect about gaining any precise sense of the choreography from the terms these authors provide. And yet, the task of considering metre, movement, music, and dance remains a rewarding one. Aside from an appreciation of the visual and musical capabilities of the satyr chorus in performance, these skills are an intrinsic part of their mythical character.6 It is in the Satyrs’ power to learn but also pass on this knowledge through dance and song (in Eur. Cyclops 492–3, for instance, they propose to educate the Cyclops in how to sing party songs [κῶμοι]). Their expertise in the art of dance and song, too, forms an important connection to their patron god Dionysos, the nominal honorand at all dramatic festivals in fifth-century BC Attica.7 Looking at the fragments of Aeschylus and Sophocles, together with our only complete extant satyr drama, Euripides’ Cyclops, it is possible to identify some common features in dramatic satyr choruses.8 Beginning with metre, we see a narrower range of metrical ingredients used in the lyrics of satyr drama compared with the wide variety observed in tragedy and comedy.9 In satyr drama, we find a good number of passages in an aeolic metre (where the choriamb [lkkl] is a definitive element). The dochmiac (xllkl), the only metrical element that can be consistently linked to a particular mood (joyous or distressed excitement), is also regularly visible. Anapaests (typified as kklkkl though often apparent in a more varied form), both in their spoken, non-lyric and in their sung, lyric form are prominent throughout the fragments.10 The relatively small number of lyric dactyls (lkk or the ‘spondee’ form ll) is notable in comparison to tragedy,

5 Well before the Hellenistic period, Sophocles wrote a work On the Chorus (TrGF 82 F1). The Hellenistic Aristoxenus’ On Tragic Dancing (fr. 103-12 Wehrli) and Chamaeleon’s On Satyrs (fr. 37 Wehrli), written around a hundred years after Sophocles, will have reflected later, fourth-century trends in performance. On dance in ancient drama see (recently) Gianvittorio 2017. 6 Voelke 2001, 91–182; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 17–22; Power 2018, 353–7. 7 See Voelke 2001, 44–51, 91–2. 8 For metrical consideration of the intriguing, but generically ambiguous, fragment of Pratinas (TrGF fr. 3), see Cerbo 2015, 101–4. 9 For an English-language introduction to the metres of tragedy and comedy, see Dale 1968. For the metres of tragedy see Battezzato 2005 and for the metres of comedy see Parker 1997. 10 The difference between lyric and non-lyric anapaests broadly lies in the freedom with which long syllables might be converted (‘resolved’) into two short syllables. The anapaestic metron might be more accurately summarised as tyty with non-lyric anapaests conforming to a smaller range of possible forms.

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where the metrical group known as ‘dactylo-epitrite’ is conspicuous.11 There are a few other kinds of metre such as the ionic metre (typically either llkk or kkll) which have a limited profile amongst the extant fragments, but it is difficult to pronounce definitively if this was characteristic of satyr drama or no. What does seem to be common in satyric choral lyric is the use of so-called ‘mixed metres’, that is metrical phrases that variously combine one or two iambs (xlkl), trochees (lklx), cretics (lkl), bacchiacs (kll), alongside anapaests, choriambs, dochmiacs or the occasional dactyl to create lyrics that have their own a distinctive character. This use of different metrical elements in larger units has been described as ‘atomistic’.12 The same metrical elements may appear in a variety of formulations but some of these formulations may be repeated within the ode. An example of this kind of lyric is found in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Pyrkaeus (fr. 204b) where iambs, cretics, bacchiacs and dochmiacs form different phrases: the combination of an iamb, a cretic, and a bacchiac (klkllklkll ) is used as a repeated phrase in lines 8 and 17 (Προμηθ̣έ̣ω̣ς δῶ[ρ]ον ὡς σεβούσας), and the same phrase is also a possibility in corresponding lines 3 (χιτῶν̣α πὰρ πυρὸς ἀκάματον αὐγάν) and 12 (φερέσ̣βιός τ̣ . […] . [] σπευσίδωρ[ος.). Odes in these ‘mixed metres’ contrast with those that consist of repetitions of the same element (or variants of that metrical element), as in passages of lyric iambic or anapaestic dimeters/trimeters.13 A second identifiable trend in the lyrics of satyr drama is the frequent reiteration of the same metrical cola within a single ode. The clearest example of this is in a lyric exchange between actor and chorus in Euripides’ Cyclops 495–518 (see below). An eight-line stanza is repeated three times, first sung by the chorus, then the Cyclops, and then by the chorus again, with six consecutive lines within those eight as identical versions of an ionic colon – the anacreontic (kklklkll).14 Even in ‘stichic’ metres where the same metrical phrase is repeated line-by-line such as dactylic hexameter (the metre of Homer and Hesiod) such a reiteration of identical combinations of short and long syllables, one after the other, is hardly ever seen. Although some might view this iterative use of identical or similar metrical phrases as monotonous, we shall see below how such apparent simplicity might serve to support other kinds of variety in the satyric chorus’ soundscape.

11 See Dale 1968, 178–94. 12 Cerbo 2015, 88. We find a similar mix of metrical elements in late archaic lyric (Simonides is thought to have ‘invented’ this kind of metre) and throughout Aeschylus; see Cerbo 2015, 88, n. 62. 13 See e.g. Aesch. Pers. 549–55, 559–65, Ag. 439–46, 458–65; Soph. Trach. 205–24; Eur. HF. 107– 29. In the passages below I follow the colometry in Cerbo 2015. 14 See also Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi fr. 47a.803–20 with discussion below.

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A third tendency in the metres of satyr choruses is for long syllables to be ‘resolved’ into two short ones, especially in anapaests and cretics. While in tragedy, anapaests are more likely to appear in a wholly-long form (llll),15 in satyr drama the resolved ‘proceleusmatic’ form (kkkkkkl) is much more common. Such highly-resolved anapaests are likely to have been seen in the parodos of Sophocles’ Ichneutai (see below for a full discussion of these fragmentary lines), and are clearly identifiable in his Inachos (fr. 269c.16-18 and 19-20).16 Cretics, too, are more likely to be found as ‘paeons’ (lkkk or kkkl), again as possibly seen in the Ichneutai parodos (e.g. 68, 70, although again see below for fuller discussion).17 Although it is much more typical to find resolved forms of iambic metres in lyric passages more generally, this feature in the lyric iambs of satyr choruses coheres with a more general trend for rapidity within the genre, a rapidity that marks the songs of satyr drama as distinctive. We can also observe similarities in how the choral lyrics are structured. As far as our extant plays can show, satyr choruses usually sang stand-alone, astrophic odes rather than ‘strophic’ odes, where a series of metrical phrases is replicated in a second ‘corresponding’ verse.18 Euripides’ Cyclops is much closer to the form of tragedies such as Medea or Sophocles’ Antigone in having three odes that have a strophe and antistrophe. Beyond the Cyclops, we only find a strophic pair in Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi (fr. 47a.803–20), his Prometheus Pyrkaeus (fr. 204b), and two separated strophic pairs in Sophocles’ Ichneutai (243–50 ~ 290–7 and 332–7 ~ 371–7). The performance of astrophic lyric was considered to be more of a challenge than strophic lyric by later, fourth-century theorists of musical performance,19 something that might partly explain why the astrophic odes of satyr drama are usually quite short. These short astrophic lyrics are embedded in a much more metrically diverse context than in tragedy or comedy. The strophic pairs in satyr drama are, more often than not, divided in some way; by a ‘mesode’ (a metrically independent stanza, e.g. Eur. Cycl. 49–54), or an ‘ephymnion’ (a metrically independent stanza 15 E.g. in Eur. Ion. 151–5. 16 Cerbo 2015, 75. This form of the anapaest was linked to the satyr drama in particular by Aphthonius, writing around late fourth/early fifth century AD: hoc metro veteres satyricos choros modulabantur, quod Graeci εἰσόδιον ab ingressu chori satyrici appellabant, metrumque ipsum εἰσόδιον dixerunt, ‘The ancients used to sing satyr choruses in this metre, which the Greeks named ‘introductory’, from the entrance of the satyr chorus, and they said the metre itself was ‘introductory’ (6.99 Keil). 17 Cf. also the paeons in a fragment of the poet Achaeus (fr. 27); see Cerbo 2015, 95. 18 Voelke 2001, 180; Antonopoulos 2013a, 54. 19 Arist.[Pr.] 918b 22–3 notes how the greater melodic freedom in astrophic odes suits a solo rather than choral singer (μεταβάλλειν γὰρ πολλὰς μεταβολὰς τῷ ἐνὶ ῥᾷον ἢ τοῖς πολλοῖς).

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that is repeated after both strophe and antistrophe, e.g. Aesch. Pyrk. fr. 204b.6–8 and 15–17), or by passages of ‘recited’ (as opposed to spoken or sung) verses, e.g. four trochaic tetrameters in Soph. Inach. 269c.21–4. There are unusual transitions into choral lyric in satyr drama, too, as we see in Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi where a passage of choriambic dimeters (fr. 47a.786–801) possibly introduces the satyr chorus’ ode beginning at line 802. Fr. 78a of Aeschylus’ Theoroi or Isthmiastai, although extremely damaged, also shows signs of just how varied the transition in and out of choral lyrics might be; spoken iambic trimeters (1–4, 6–7, 11, 13) are mixed in with choral lyrics (5, 8–10, 12, 14–17) leading into a passage of trochaic tetrameters (18–22). Between the parodos (64–78) and the first ode (176–202) of Sophocles’ Ichneutai are brief snatches of other choral lyrics (88–90), iambic trimeters that were likely to have been delivered by smaller groups of choral performers, or potentially even individual performers (100–23),20 as well as numerous short exclamations in verses of their own (107, 109, 117, 131, 136, 138, 140), all of which show choral lyric forming an organic part of the scenes, as opposed to dividing one scene from another. As well as giving satyr drama a particular structural quality, there may be a practical purpose to such frequent pauses and interventions; after a particularly vigorous song and dance, the choral performers may well have needed a change of pace to catch their breath. As well as the variety in how the lyrics are configured in and around other spoken or recited lines and passages, there are a number of instances in the fragments where there are indications of frequent changes of speaker amongst the chorus itself.21 While such intra-choral dialogue can occasionally be observed in tragedy too, the frequency with which Satyr choruses seem to have a conversation amongst themselves, or perform certain lines in smaller groups (and the fact we can see it even in the limited fragments that we have), suggests that this was a feature of the genre and its chorus. Marginal markings that usually indicate a change of speaker are by no means definitive,22 but in conjunction with other features of the metre, these support a reading of such changes of speaker. Keeping the potential for this difference in how the Satyrs’ speech and song

20 N.B. the stunning complete resolution of all (visible) long syllables in the iambic trimeter of line 100. The freedom, including frequent resolution, in the iambic trimeter of satyr drama resonates with its usage comedy rather than tragedy; see West 1982, 88–90. 21 Aesch. Diktyoulkoi fr. 47a.821–32, Soph. Inachos fr. 269c.21–4, Ichneutai 100–23, Eur. Cyclops 174–8 (with Seidensticker 2010, 228), and 483–94 (Cerbo 2015, 74). See Kaimio 1970, 103–12; Seidensticker 2003, 117–8. 22 See Antonopoulos 2014b, 250, n. 19.

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was delivered allows us to appreciate the unique texture of satyr drama’s choral soundscape.23 It is possible to observe some general tendencies in how (and how frequently) the chorus move around the performance space in satyr drama, something that accords with the liveliness of their speech and song more generally. Euripides’ Cyclops and the fragmentary plays are replete with references to such movement. The overall impression we get is of vigour and energy with moments of apparent anarchy. The entrance of chorus is, in all three dramatic genres, an opportunity for spectacle. The chorus of the Cyclops enter herding sheep (36–7); the chorus of Ichneutai more like hunting dogs, scattering and sniffing (93–8). In Sophocles’ Inachos two fragments (270 and 271) of lyric anapaests are thought to be from the parodos.24 The decidedly long nature of these anapaests might, interestingly, indicate a more controlled or formal entrance (see below). But even after the parodos, in these plays and others, the activity of the Satyrs remains central throughout the scenes, reacting, responding, and initiating action. They are by no means confined to action during their odes. The character of their movement can be glimpsed through the descriptions by other performers: in both the Cyclops (36–40, 204) and the Ichneutai (133), individuals comment on how ‘bacchic’ the movement of the Satyrs is. In the Cyclops, Polyphemus says that their tendency to leap and kick (220–1) is his reason for not eating them, fearing the digestive ramifications. Silenos in the Ichneutai refers to their action of ‘squatting double’ (96 διπλοῦς ὀκλάζω[ν). A speaker in a fragment from Aeschylus’ Theoroi describes the formation of the ‘two-liners’ (fr. 78c.37–8 τῶνδε διστοίχω[ν [sc. ‘choruses’]), although we cannot be sure this relates to what was going on onstage at the time, and another fragment records a comment about their ‘look out’ dances (fr. 79 τῶνδέ σκωπευμάτων), again, a move that may or may not have just been performed. Satyrs describe their own movements as they are doing them, or before they do them, too: in Cyclops 483–625 they describe their preparations for attack; the Satyrs of the Ichneutai talk about their planned noisy dancing to summon the inhabitant in the cave (217–20 ἀλλ’ ἐγὼ τάχα/ φ[έρ] ω̣ν κτ̣ύ[π]ο̣ν πέδορτον ἐξαναγκάσω/ π̣[η]δήμ̣ασιν κραιπνοῖσι καὶ λακτίσμασιν/

23 The role of the coryphaeus in performance is only infrequently discussed, and even less frequently challenged (see Wiles 2000, 135; Wilson 2000, 353, n. 92; Marshall 2004, 34). Detailed arguments for whether the coryphaeus, a smaller group of choral performers, or an individual choral performer delivered any given line falls outside of this chapter’s focus and so I have maintained the possibility of any of those three options in the discussion that follows. As noted by Sutton 1974e, 19–23, there is some overlap in satyr drama with the role of Silenos. 24 See Sutton 1979, 9–10, 56. 25 Cf. 492–3.

8 Metre, Movement and Dance in Satyr Drama 

 201

ὥ̣[σ]τ̣’ εἰσακοῦσαι … ‘but I’ll quickly make the ground ring with repeated jumps and kicks, and force him to hear me …’); the language of choral dance abounds too in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Pyrkaeus (see below). Metrical features can add something to our understanding of the nature of satyric movement on stage. The rhythm of speech and song was understood by ancient authors to be the most important factor when it came to movement.26 It is likely, then, that highly-resolved metrical phrases (for example, proceleusmatic anapaests) engendered a faster pace of movement, and that phrases with many long syllables were performed, in general, at a slower pace. The trochaic tetrameter which we find in and around satyric choral lyric was also associated with a fast pace of movement.27 The ‘atomistic’ metrical style, so prevalent in the astrophic odes of satyr drama, might also be connected to the type of movement the Satyrs would perform; the rapid changes between different metrical elements might, perhaps, indicate something desultory in the Satyrs’ choreographic attitudes.28 As noted by Cerbo, a series of cola that are acephalous (missing their expected first element/beat) or catalectic (missing one of their final expected elements/beats), such as lines 656–62 in Euripides’ Cyclops, might indicate a more halting set of movements brought on, she suggests, by (feigned?) tiredness after particularly energetic dancing.29 Beyond the above general statements, it is notoriously difficult to sketch satyric movement in any more detail. As already noted above the depictions of satyrs on pottery can gesture towards a type of movement, but even scholars intimately familiar with both the iconography and the ancient terminology for dance schemata advise caution.30 That said, the general indications that energetic and strenuous activity was typical of the genre cohere with what we see in the iconography. Typical moves seem to include kicks sideways and backwards, with one or both hands on hips or with one or both arms stretched out, palms up.31 Another more stationary move that is seen on pottery seems to have involved standing with feet together, legs slight bent and performing an ‘obscene undulating or rocking movement’.32 The names given by ancient authors to some of the quintessential satyric 26 See e.g. Pl. Cra. 424c and Resp. 399e–400b (esp. 400a), and Pratinas fr. 3 with Voelke 2001, 117–20. 27 So Arist. Rh. 1408b 36–7, ἔστι γὰρ τροχερὸς ῥυθμὸς τὰ τετράμετρα, ‘tetrameters have a running rhythm’. 28 Cerbo 2015, 88. 29 Cerbo 2015, 87. 30 Seidensticker 2003, 101–2 and 2010, 219. 31 This move in various forms has been termed the ‘snub-nosed hand’ (see Seidensticker 2010, 200). Cf. the energetic satyr performer named ΝΙΚΟΛΗΟΣ on the Pronomos vase (ARV2 1336.1). 32 Seidensticker 2003, 113 notes one such figure on an Attic red-figured kalpis (470–460 BC), attributed to the Leningrad Painter (Boston MFA 03.788 = ARV2 571.75).

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moves speak directly to the type of movement we might envisage. The name of the sikinnis (σίκιννις), said to be the archetypal satyric dance, could well have its roots in describing the rapidity of movement (κίνησις) required to perform the dance.33 Other names for satyric schemata similarly point to specific, rapid and rowdy movements: στρόβιλος – ‘whirler’ , σοβάς – ‘racer’ or ‘raver’, and κονίσαλος – ‘dust-raiser’.34 We now turn to look at some specific examples of how focusing on the metres and movement of the choral performance can enhance our understanding of the plays and the genre of satyr drama as a whole.

1 Euripides’ Cyclops We begin with our only complete example of a satyr drama, Euripides’ Cyclops. As shall become clear, there are a number of ways in which the chorus of this play and their dramaturgical role in the drama are not typical of the genre. Nevertheless, the fact that we can gain a sense of the choral role in its entirety provides a fascinating piece in a larger puzzle. Even before the Satyrs appear on stage, we have been given a sense of their movement by their father Silenos. Having described their predicament (1–35) and their current work as shepherds (27–8) this speaker of the prologue (as often happens in Euripides) introduces the chorus.35 Silenos’ words inform us not just of the fact of their entrance, but about the manner in which they enter (36–40). ΣΙΛ. ἤδη δὲ παῖδας προσνέμοντας εἰσορῶ ποίμνας. τί ταῦτα; μῶν κρότος σικινίδων ὁμοῖος ὑμῖν νῦν τε χὤτε Βακχίῳ κῶμος συνασπίζοντες Ἀλθαίας δόμους προσῇτ’ ἀοιδαῖς βαρβίτων σαυλούμενοι;

40

SIL. But now I see my sons driving home the flocks. What’s this? Can it be you now move to the same beat of the sikinnis as when, you joined up alongside Bacchos for the revel at Althaea’s house, and sashayed in to the strains of the barbitos?36 33 Aristoxenus described the sikinnis as typical of satyr drama, in the same way that the emmeleia was in tragedy, and the kordax in comedy (fr. 104 and 106 Wehrli). See Festa 1918; Lawler 1964, 106–21; Seaford 1984, 103–4; Voelke 2001, 138–51 and 176–7; Seidensticker 2010, 217–19. 34 Seidensticker 1999, 23 and Seidensticker 2003, 112 and 116–7. 35 Cf. Eur. Hipp. 54, Su. 8, IT 63, Or .132, Ba. 55. Although cf. also Aesch. Cho. 10. 36 TrFG vol. II. Translation of this passage is my own. All following translations are from O’Sullivan and Collard 2013.

8 Metre, Movement and Dance in Satyr Drama 

 203

Silenos has already noted how they have swapped the bacchic for the pastoral in captivity (25–6), but here describes the Satyr chorus as combining the two in how they move. The mention of the barbitos, a musical instrument often depicted with satyrs on vases,37 and a further description of the Satyrs as ‘swaggering’ (σαλοῦσθαι, or rather, in light of the importance of the hips for this particular move I have suggested ‘sashaying’), further emphasises the satyric nature of whatever was visible, or near visible, to the audience at the play’s first performance. The parodos of the chorus (41–81) consists of a strophic pair plus mesode and a final astrophic stanza or epode (A B A’ C) and its metre is aeolo-choriambic:38 ΧΟ.

παῖ γενναίων μὲν πατέρων γενναίων δ’ ἐκ τοκάδων, πᾶι δή μοι νίσῃ σκοπέλους; οὐ τᾷδ’ ὑπήνεμος αὔρα καὶ ποιηρὰ βοτάνα,    δινᾶέν θ’ ὕδωρ ποταμῶν ἐν πίστραις κεῖται πέλας ἄντρων, οὗ σοι βλαχαὶ τεκέων;

(str.)

lllllkkl llllkkl lllllkkl llklkkl lllllkkl lllklkkl lllllkkl lllllkkl

2 cho. p2 cho. 2 cho. p2 cho. 2 cho. 2 cho. 2 cho. 2 cho.

ψύττ’· οὐ τᾷδ’, οὔ; οὐ τᾷδε νεμῇ κλειτὺν δροσεράν; ὠή, ῥίψω πέτρον τάχα σου· ὕπαγ’ ὦ ὕπαγ’ ὦ κεράστα  μηλοβότα στασιωρὸν Κύκλωπος ἀγροβάτα.

(mes.) 50

llll llkklllkkl llllllkkl kklkklkll llkklkkll ulklkkl

anap. or sp. 2 anap. 2 anap. enop. enop. p2 cho.

σπαργῶντας μαστοὺς χάλασον· δέξαι θηλὰς πορίσασ’ οὓς λείπεις ἀρνῶν θαλάμοις. ποθοῦσί σ’ ἁμερόκοιτοι βλαχαὶ σμικρῶν τεκέων. εἰς αὐλὰν πότ’ †ἀμφιβαίνεις† ποιηροὺς λιποῦσα νομοὺς Αἰτναίων εἴσω σκοπελῶν;

(ant.) 56

lllllkkl llllkkl lllllkkl klklkkl lllllkkl lllklkkl lllklkkl lllllkkl

2 cho. p2 cho. 2 cho. p2 cho. 2 cho. 2 cho. 2 cho. 2 cho.

οὐ τάδε Βρόμιος, οὐ τάδε χοροὶ Βάκχαι τε θυρσοφόροι, οὐ τυμπάνων ἀλαλαγμοί, οὐκ οἴνου χλωραὶ σταγόνες

(ep.)

lkkkkklkkkl llklkkl llklkkll lllllkkl

2 ia. p2 cho. cho. enop. B 2 cho.

45

60

65 67

37 E.g. ARV2 1042.1 and ARV2 185.31; see Voelke 2001, 97–103. 38 For further notes on the text and metre of the parodos see Willink 2001, 515–23.

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 Lucy C.M.M. Jackson

κρήναις παρ’ ὑδροχύτοις· οὐδ’ ἐν Νύσᾳ μετὰ Νυμφᾶν ἴακχον ἴακχον ᾠδὰν μέλπω πρὸς τὰν Ἀφροδίταν, ἃν θηρεύων πετόμαν Βάκχαις σὺν λευκόποσιν. †ὦ φίλος ὦ φίλε Βακχεῖε ποῖ οἰοπολεῖς ξανθὰν χαίταν σείεις; † ἐγὼ δ’ ὁ σὸς πρόπολος Κύκλωπι θητεύω τῶι μονοδέρκτᾳ δοῦλος ἀλαίνων σὺν τᾷδε τράγου χλαίνᾳ μελέᾳ σᾶς χωρὶς φιλίας. CHOR.

66 68 70

80

llklkkl llllkkl lklkklkl lllllkkl lllllkkl llllkkl lkklkklla llkkl llllll klklkkl klklll lkklllkkll llkklllkkl lllkkl

(addressing a ram) O son sprung from noble sires (str.)39 and noble mothers, tell me, by what path are you wandering towards the rocks? Is there not a soft breeze and lush grass here and swirling water from rivers set aside in drinking troughs near the caves where your bleating young are?

p2 cho. p2 cho. glyc. 2 cho. 2 cho. p2 cho. ibyc. anap. anap. sp. or 2 mol. p2 cho. ia. sp. 2 anap. 2 anap. hemiascl.39

45

Get on! Here! Here, won’t you! Graze on the dewy hill-side here, won’t you? Hey, I’ll soon throw a stone at you! Get a move on! Get a move on, you ram, the guardian of the fold that belongs to the Cyclops, the shepherd who roams the wild.

(mes.) 50

Loosen your full udders Receive those of the lambs whom you left in the chambers and give them your teats. Your bleating little children, who have slept all day, are longing for you. When †are you encircling† to your fold, leaving the pastures where you graze within Aetna’s rocks?

(ant.) 56

There is no Bromius here, no choruses either, no thyrsos-wielding Bacchants, no rapturous cries from drums, no bright drops of wine beside the rushing waters of springs.

(ep.)

60

65

39 This line has been described in a number of different ways, see Cerbo 2015, 86–7, n. 56.

8 Metre, Movement and Dance in Satyr Drama 

Nor can I sing with the Nymphs on Nysa the song ‘iacchos! iacchos!’ to Aphrodite, whom I pursued, flying along with the white-footed Bacchants. O my friend, O my friend Bacchos, where are you, wandering, separated from your followers, are you shaking your golden hair? I, your very own servant, am serf to the Cyclops, wandering in exile as a slave to this one-eyed monster, and wearing this miserable goat-skin cloak, separated from your friendship.

 205

70

75

80

The strophe and corresponding antistrophe consist of choriambic dimeters with a majority of the verses featuring only long syllables in the first half of the line, and uniformly ‘pure’ choriambs in the second half.40 The regularity of the metre, particularly in its second half, has been seen as an indication that this song built on traditional work or folk songs, perhaps specifically alluding to traditional shepherding songs.41 The heaviness of these lines need not have any bearing on speed necessarily, but might suggest a movement that is more deliberate than frantic.42 Although Silenos has described their performance as a sikinnis, we see here it need not always encompass purely rapid movement.43 The Satyrs’ faux-tragic address to the sheep in strophe and antistrophe is divided by a sprightly, broadly anapaestic, mesode where we hear a greater proportion of short syllables, particularly in the enoplia (a family of metrical phrases with the dactyl at its core) of lines 52 and 53.44 Again there is a pleasing coherence in this slight shift in metre with the shift in tone. The solemn and rather longwinded address to the ram (‘Son of noble forefathers, and of noble foremothers …’) has seen the sheep straying and some sharper action to prevent him/them escaping entirely is, apparently, necessary. The sense of even the four long syllables of the first line of the mesode (49) with its practical shepherds’ interjection ψύττα, and brusque directive οὐ τᾷδ’, οὔ, lends itself to a more disrupted delivery, while the repetition of the imperative ὕπαγε in line 52 suggests some swifter movement 40 These are sometimes described as choriambic dimeters type B, or as ‘Wilamowitzians’. Voelke 2001, 174 proposes an alternative scheme. On Euripides’ fondness for this aeolic form, and how different it is to the aeolics used by Aeschylus and Sophocles, see Dale 1968, 151. 41 Seaford 1984, 106 (cf. also p.35, n. 94). 42 Seaford 1984, 109. Cf. Eur. IA. 543–57 for lyrics with a comparable regularity in its pure final choriamb, but much greater variety of long and short syllables in the first half. 43 Voelke 2001, 176–7. 44 See Willink 2001, 517–8 for alternatives to lines 52–3.

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on stage. While distinct in its metre, the mesode starts and finishes with verses echoing back and forward into the strophic pair that surrounds it; in line 49 the four long syllables reach back to the long first halves of most of the lines in the strophic pair; and while not construed as choriambic, lines 50, 51 and 54 echo the choriambic rhythm that ends all lines in the strophic pair. The concluding epode continues in aeolo-choriambic after an initial iambic dimeter (with a long anceps but with three out of the four remaining long elements resolved: lrwr/lrwl). The ‘pure’ choriambic ending remains prominent throughout the epode,45 but variation is found in 65, 69, 73, and in the remarkable string of six long syllables in line 75. As is common with such epodes, the reappearance of some metrical phrases links the stanza back to the previous strophic pair. The anapaestic rhythm of the mesode is also woven into the epode, too, particularly towards the end (lines 74, 78 and 79). This move towards an anapaestic rhythm, as the Satyrs remember that the joy of bacchic worship is something they have in fact lost, provides a fitting climax, and Cerbo has suggested that this echoes the metrical progression of lament in tragedy.46 With the entrance of Polyphemus at 203, we are given the opportunity to envisage what kind of activity the Satyrs might be engaged in during the scenes themselves. Just as Silenos noted the bacchic postures of his sons as they approached the stage, so too does the Cyclops express surprise at their bacchic behaviour (204 τί βακχιάζετ’;) which must still be clear in their postures if not actual dancing at this point in the play. After a series of questions to these slaves of his about how ready his dinner is, Polyphemus assures the Satyrs that he would not dream of eating them as ‘with all that leaping around in my tummy? You’d kill me with your indigestible choreography’, (220–1 ἐπεί μ’ ἂν ἐν μέσηι τηι γαστέρι/ πηδῶντες ἀπολέσαιτ’ ἂν ὑπὸ τῶν σχημάτων). The reference to ‘leaping’ also suggests something about the Satyrs’ movement during the last few lines of stichomythia (214–19), rushing, perhaps, to ensure the Cyclops’ dinner is prepared to his liking. Because of this (potential) frantic activity they are performing, the spoken lines of the chorus here lend themselves to a delivery by individual performers, or smaller choral groups, although many may feel more comfortable assigning them to the coryphaeus. The first stasimon (356–74) consists of a strophic pair plus a mesode (A B A’) and is in a mixed dactylic metre, the kind of which is quite typical in late Euripidean tragedy more generally.47 45 Note how the variant of the seven-syllable choriambic dimeter – ‘blunt choriambic heptasyllable’ – here given as ‘2 cho.’ (42, 44 ~ 56, 58, 54) appears again at 64, 66, 68, 72, and 76. 46 Cerbo 2015, 77. 47 Cerbo 2015, 80. Seaford 1984, 174–5 suggests textual emendations and a rearrangement of the verses 356–7 ~370–1 to give three trochaic dimeters.

 207

8 Metre, Movement and Dance in Satyr Drama 

ΧΟ.

εὐρείας φάρυγος, ὦ Κύκλωψ, ἀναστόμου τὸ χεῖλος· ὡς ἕτοιμά σοι ἑφθὰ καὶ ὀπτὰ καὶ ἀνθρακιᾶς ἄπο  χναύειν βρύκειν    κρεοκοπεῖν μέλη ξένων δασυμάλλῳ ἐν αἰγίδι κλινομένῳ.   

(str.)

μὴ ’μοὶ μὴ προσδίδου· μόνος μόνῳ γέμιζε πορθμίδος σκάφος. χαιρέτω μὲν αὖλις ἅδε, χαιρέτω δὲ θυμάτων ἀποβώμιος †ἃν ἔχει θυσίαν†    Κύκλωψ Αἰτναῖος ξενικῶν κρεῶν κεχαρμένος βορᾷ.

(mes.)

†νηλὴς ὦ τλᾶμον ὅστις δωμάτων† ἐφεστίους ἱκτῆρας ἐκθύει δόμων, ἑφθά τε δαινύμενος μυσαροῖσί τ’ ὀδοῦσιν κόπτων βρύκων    θέρμ’ ἀπ’ ἀνθράκων κρέα < >.

(ant.) 371 373 372 374

360

365

lllkkklkl klklklklklkl lkklkklkklkkla llll kkklklkl kklkklkklkkl

sp. cr. cr. 3 ia. 5 da. 2 da. lec. 2 anap.

llllkl klklklklklkl lklklklk lklklkl kklkkkklkkl kllllkkl klklklkl

sp. ia. 3 ia. 2 tr. 2 tr.p 2 anap.? 2 cho. 2 ia.

llllklllkl klklllklklkl lkklkklkklkkll llll lklklkl

sp. cr. (..?) 3 ia. 5 da. 2 da. lec. 2 anap.

CHOR. O Cyclops, open up the mouth of your wide gullet, since the limbs of your guests are ready for you, all boiled and roasted and from the coals to munch, gnaw, tear in pieces, as you lie back in your thick-fleeced goat-skin. Don’t, I tell you, don’t offer me any. Alone, for yourself alone, fill up the hull of your ship. Let me be rid of this dwelling! Let me be rid of this godless †sacrifice† of victims, †which† the Cyclops of Aetna †conducts†, as he rejoices in the meat from his guests for food. †O cruel one! Pitiless is the one who in his home† sacrifices suppliants come to the hearth in his home and who feasts on them roasted and with polluted teeth, tearing, gnawing at their flesh hot from the coals. < >

(str.)

360 (mes.)

365

(ant.) 371

375

The text is difficult to interpret in places and the antistrophe appears to be missing its last line.48 Remarkable within each strophic stanza is a dactylic pentameter 48 The series of elements spondee + cretic + cretic is unique. See Willink 2001, 523–5, for a suggested emendation.

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 Lucy C.M.M. Jackson

(lkklkklkklkkla, 357/8 ~ 373), a relative rarity in our extant tragedy and but here perfectly consonant with the Homeric plot.49 The four long syllables which constitute, in all likelihood, two further dactyls in their spondaic form (χναύειν βρύκειν and κόπτων βρύκων) amplify and extend this run of dactyls and create a wholly dactylic central unit within each stanza.50 The iambic/trochaic rhythms of the mesode contribute to a more rolling, fluid feel to the Satyrs’ performance, recalling the iambic trimeter in the second line of strophe and antistrophe, and interrupted only by the probably anapaestic dimeter of 365 and the choriambic dimeter of 366, a possible call back to the recurrent choriambic rhythm of the parodos.51 The deployment of various metrical elements, that is, iambs, dactyls, trochees, is typical of the ‘atomistic’ style so prevalent in satyr drama, and clearly visible here in the Cyclops. The chorus’ lyric exchange with Polyphemus (the second stasimon, lines 495–518) is unusual. The ode begins after a short passage of lyric anapaests (483–95), possibly divided between individual Satyrs or small groups.52 There are indications within these anapaests that they are moving into some kind of military order. ‘Come on, who’s to stand first, who to stand next to the first, to grasp the shaft of the firebrand, thrust it into the Cyclops’ socket, and lacerate his bright eye’ (483–6 ἄγε, τίς πρῶτος, τίς δ’ἐπὶ πρώτῳ/ ταχθεὶς δαλοῦ κώπην ὀχμάσαι/ Κύκλωπος ἔσω βλεφάρων ὤσας/ λαμπρὰν ὄψιν διακναίσει;). We can also note the ready innuendo in the phrase ‘to grasp the shaft’ which might have been amplified by some physical imitation, using the phallic appendages that were always part of the dramatic satyr’s costume. The lyric exchange itself consists of three metrically identical stanzas (A A’ A’’) in a purely ionic metre: ΧΟ.

μάκαρ ὅστις εὐιάζει   βοτρύων φίλαισι πηγαῖς ἐπὶ κῶμον ἐκπετασθεὶς φίλον ἄνδρ’ ὑπαγκαλίζων, ἐπὶ δεμνίοις τε †ξανθὸν† χλιδανᾶς ἔχων ἑταίρας  μυρόχριστος λιπαρὸν βό-  στρυχον, αὐδᾷ δέ· Θύραν τίς οἴξει μοι;

495

500

kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kkllkkll kkllkklklll

anacr. anacr. anacr. anacr. anacr. anacr. 2 ion. ion. + anacr.p

49 Other examples of this kind of dactylic pentameter in tragic lyric are Aesch. Ag. 165 ~ 174 and Eur. Phaeth. 97. 50 Cerbo 2015, 78–9. 51 Cerbo 2015, 97. 52 Seaford 1984, 194–5.

8 Metre, Movement and Dance in Satyr Drama 

ΚΥ.

ΧΟ.

CHOR.

CYC.

CHOR.

παπαπαῖ· πλέως μὲν οἴνου, γάνυμαι  δαιτὸς ἥβᾳ, σκάφος ὁλκὰς ὣς γεμισθεὶς ποτὶ σέλμα γαστρὸς ἄκρας. ὑπάγει μ’ ὁ φόρτος εὔφρων ἐπὶ κῶμον ἦρος ὥραις ἐπὶ Κύκλωπας ἀδελφούς. φέρε μοι, ξεῖνε, φέρ’, ἀσκὸν ἔνδος μοι. καλὸν ὄμμασιν δεδορκὼς καλὸς ἐκπερᾷ μελάθρων. < > φιλεῖ τίς ἡμᾶς; λύχνα δ’ †ἀμμένει δαΐα σὸν χρόα χὡς† τέρεινα νύμφα δροσερῶν ἔσωθεν ἄντρων.  στεφάνων δ’ οὐ μία χροιὰ περὶ σὸν κρᾶτα τάχ’ ἐξομιλήσει.

505

510

515

kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kkllkkll kkllkklklll

anacr. anacr. anacr. anacr. anacr. anacr. 2 ion. ion. + anacr.p

kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kklklkll kkllkkll kkllkklklll

anacr. anacr. anacr. anacr. anacr. anacr. 2 ion. ion. + anacr.p

Blessed is he who shouts the cry in honour of Dionysos, with the beloved streams of the grape-vine’s cluster, ready for a revel with sails spread embracing a dear male companion, and on a couch having †blonde† of a voluptuous girlfriend, his glistening locks anointed with myrrh, he calls out: ‘Who will open the door for me?’ O wow! I’m filled up with wine, I’m rejoicing with the feast’s youthful zest. Like a cargo ship my hull’s loaded up to the deck at the top of my belly. This cheerful cargo leads me out to the revel in springtime to my brother Cyclopes. Come on, come on, stranger, put that wineskin in my hands. Giving a beautiful glance from his eyes, he steps forth from the halls in beauty < … > ‘Who loves me?’ Wedding torches †burning wait for your flesh and like† a tender nymph inside dewy caves. But wreaths of no one colour will soon be with you around your brow.

 209

495

500

505

510

515

The first six verses are anacreontics (wwlwlwll), sometimes described as ‘anaclastic ionic dimeters’ (two ionic metra with the fourth and fifth syllables

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switched). We observed an insistent return to the ‘pure’ choriamb at the end of verses in the parodos, but in this ode the repetition of metrical phrases is absolute; the pattern of long and short syllables is replicated precisely from line to line.53 This run of anacreontics is brought to an end by three ionic metra and a final anacreontic. As is often found at the close of a metrical phrase, the final anacreontic is catalectic. The regular, stichic nature of the metre here both evokes and supports a complex blending of motifs from a range of so-called ‘folk’ songs shown in the blessing (makarismos), a kind of drinking song (skolion), the revel (komos), the song of the locked-out lover (paraklausithyron), and the wedding song (hymenaios).54 The parodos and the first and second choral odes all contained corresponding stanzas. It is only in the third, short, stasimon (608–23) that we see an example of the kind of astrophic ode that seems to have been typical of satyr drama more generally: ΧΟ.

λήψεται τὸν τράχηλον ἐντόνως ὁ καρκίνος τοῦ ξενοδαιτυμόνος· πυρὶ γὰρ τάχα φωσφόρους ὀλεῖ κόρας. ἤδη δαλὸς ἠνθρακωμένος κρύπτεται ἐς σποδιάν, δρυὸς ἄσπετον ἔρνος. ἀλλ’ ἴτω Μάρων, πρασσέτω, μαινομένου ’ξελέτω βλέφαρον Κύκλωπος, ὡς πίῃ κακῶς. κἀγὼ τὸν φιλοκισσοφόρον Βρόμιον ποθεινὸν εἰσιδεῖν θέλω, Κύκλωπος λιπὼν ἐρημίαν· ἆρ’ ἐς τοσόνδ’ ἀφίξομαι;

610

615

620

lkllklk lklklkl lkklkklkklkk lklklkl lllklklkl lkklkklkklkk lklklkllkl lkklkklkkl klklklkl lllkklkklkkl klklklkl lllklklkl llklklkl

CHO. The tongs will tightly throttle the neck of the guest-eater. For soon through the fire he will lose the pupil that brings him light. Already the firebrand is a burning coal and is hidden in the ashes, the mighty shoot of the oak tree. But let Maron come, let him do his work, let him take out the eye of the raging Cyclops, so his drinking may be his undoing. And I want to look on Bromius, whom I long for,

cr. tr. lec. 4 da. lec. sp. lec. 4 da. lec. cr. 4 da.p 2 ia. sp. 4 da.p 2 ia. sp. lec. 2 ia.

610

615

620

53 ‘They have no real parallel in tragedy’ (Seaford 1984, 195). 54 Seaford 1984, 196–203, on these various motifs. But on the problematic use of these kinds of culturally-loaded terms see Yatromanolakis 2009, 263–70.

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 211

who loves to wear ivy, and to leave the Cyclops’ desolate land. Shall I come that far?

This ode, like the first, has a distinctly dactylic flavour amidst assorted cretics and iambic metra. In the chorus’ lyrics we hear of what they imagine to be going on inside the cave, that is, the kind of choral ‘messenger speech’ that we see (in extended form) in the fourth stasimon of Euripides’ Bacchae (976–1023 esp. 976–91). There is little to direct us regarding the possible dance that was part of this choral performance, but we might note the Satyrs’ response to Odysseus once he reappears at the end of this choral song. In line 629 (σιγῶμεν ἐγκάψαντες αἰθέρα γνάθους) we might translate the aorist participle as coincident with the main verb, namely, ‘let us be silent, holding our breath’, or as an antecedent ‘let us be silent once we’ve caught our breath’. If it were the latter interpretation, then we might posit the preceding ode to have been accompanied by some very vigorous dancing. Such a comment from the Satyrs is entirely in keeping with their theatrical self-awareness.55 Not long afterwards, and after a very patent instance of the choral performers splitting or individual performers delivering lines, offering various excuses to escape action (635–48), the Satyrs perform their last lyric turn in the play (656–62). The lyric is short enough to allow us to go into some detail here. The metre is, again, broadly aeolic (note the persistent choriambic elements), although punctuated with dochmiac phrases. The energy and variety in the metre matches the freneticism of their asyndetic imperatives.56 ΧΟ.

CHO.

ἰὼ ἰώ· γενναιότατ’ ὠθεῖτε σπεύδετ’, ἐκκαίετε τὰν ὀφρὺν θηρὸς τοῦ ξενοδαίτα. τύφετ’ ὦ, καίετ’ ὦ τὸν Αἴτνας μηλονόμον. τόρνευ’ ἕλκε, μη σ’ ἐξοδυνηθεὶς δράσῃ τι μάταιον.

660

rwlllwwl lllwllwwlwl lllwwll lwllwl wlllwwl lllwllwwll llwwll

2 cho. do. do. pher. cr. cr. p2 cho. do. do.p reiz.

O! O! Push it in most nobly, Hurry, burn out the eye Of the beast who dines on his guests! O consume him in smoke! O burn

55 On meta-theatre and self-awareness in satyr drama, see Seidensticker 2010, 217 and Shaw 2014, 133–4 (on fourth-century BC satyr drama). 56 The colometry given here, following Cerbo 2015, 117, is not without its problems; see the discussion in Seaford 1984, 218–9.

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 Lucy C.M.M. Jackson

the shepherd of Etna! Keep on twisting, keep on heaving it round, in case in his agony he does something outrageous to you

660

The exhortations ‘incinerate, burn’ in 659 are at the middle of two roughly corresponding series of metrical units. A version of a choriambic dimeter (656, 660), followed by dochmiacs (657, 661), followed by a version of an aeolic colon (658, 662) is appropriate for describing the central act of blinding the Cyclops with the fiery stake. Even within so short an ode, the internal structure is coherent and linked to the sense of the song. There are also plenty of action words here that might hint at what the Satyr chorus could be imitating on stage. Their energy, directed throughout the ode towards what is going on in the stage building/ cave, goes on to break out and fill the stage in the ensuing antilabic exchange (in spoken iambic trimeter once more) with Polyphemus (669–75).57 The ode constitutes a fitting final and frenzied choreographic showpiece, the energy of which sustains the action of the rest of the play.

2 Sophocles’ Ichneutai From the moment they appear at line 64, the chorus of Ichneutai seem to be in ceaseless motion: entering the orchestra and preparing themselves for the hunt of the cattle (64–78), beginning their hunt (88–99), following tracks (100–30), recoiling from a strange noise (131–44), wrangling with their father about staying or going (169–212), embarking on a new (energetic, of course) strategy to make themselves heard (217–20) before the nymph Cyllene emerges from the cave at the back of the performance space and herself comments on their vigorous activities (229–30, 230–2, 237). The precise nature of this movement is, of course, a little more difficult to pin down. Silenos’ use of the verb ὀκλάζειν in line 96 points to some kind of squatting action, appropriate for the Satyrs’ evident imitation of dogs (ῥινηλατῶν ὀσμ[αῖσι 94). The Satyrs seem to have taken this possible injunction to extremes as later Silenos marvels at their new ‘trick’: ‘hunting flat out on your bellies … lying on the ground like a hedgehog in a bush, or very angry at someone like a monkey sticking his bottom out’ (125–8).58 Seidensticker has noted how well these sorts of 57 Seidensticker 2010, 228, noting that there are fifteen stichomythic comments made by the chorus between lines 669–88, has suggested individual chorusmen speaking here too. 58 See ANTONOPOULOS in this volume for discussion of this passage and reference to a likely illustration of the kind of movement we might imagine the satyrs engaged in here.

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 213

actions fit with one of the technical dance terms assigned to this same play (fr. 316) and discussed by Photius, ῥικνοῦσθαι, which he glosses as ‘to become contorted, sticking your bottom out in intercourse or in dancing’.59 The chorus describe their own incipient movements of leaping and kicking at lines 217–9 – ἀλλ’ ἐγω τάχα/ φ[έρ]ω̣ν κτ̣ύ[π]ο̣ν πέδορτον ἐξαναγκάσω/ π̣[η]δήμ̣ασιν κραιπνοῖσι καὶ λακτίσμασιν, ‘But I’ll quickly bring the noise and make the ground ring with some rapid jumping and stomping’, movements which, as noted above, have strong associations in iconography and lexicography with satyric dance.60 As in Eur. Cyclops (line 204), we see the Satyrs questioned about their bacchic movements at line 133 (τί ποτε βακχεύεις ἔχων; ‘Why are you carrying on like a bacchant?’). Added to this are the repeated questions, exhortations to start or stop (64 ἴθ’ ἄγε, ‘Come on’, 88 ἰὼ ω̣, ‘Ho!’, 93 ἄγ’ εἷ̣α δὴ, ‘Come on then’, 101 ἴσχε, ‘Stop’, 201 ἔπ[ι]θ’ [ἔ]πεχ’ εἴσιθ’ ἴθι̣[, ‘Come, spread out, go on, go’) or be quiet (103 σίγ[α], ‘be quiet’) or look (107 ἰδοὺ ἰδού, ‘look look!’, 109 ἄθρει μάλα, ‘Look closely’, 119 αὐτὰ δ’ εἴσιδε, ‘Look at these’) or run (111 χ[ώ]ρει δρόμῳ, ‘Get running’) or follow (190 δεῦρ’ ἕπου, ‘Follow here’, 196 ἐφέπου, ἐφέπου, ‘Follow close, follow close’) all of which are indicative of noise and movement. Just how choreographed this was we cannot know, but Silenos’ use of the word τέχνη (124) to describe their movements certainly lends itself to some metatheatrical comment on the performance skill of the chorusmen.61 The sense of frenetic activity in the words themselves is bolstered by the likelihood that the Satyrs spoke some of the lines (for example in in lines 100–105) individually or in small groups, or that we are to envisage a lyric dialogue between Silenos and his sons, a suggestion first made with regard to lines 176–202 in 1912 and recently defended by Antonopoulos.62 We can be confident that at least three distinct groups of Satyrs spoke the iambic trimeters 100–123. Even more striking is the possibility that the names called out in the highly fragmentary first ode (176–202) are meant to refer to some of the Satyrs. The names Drakis, Grapis, Ourias and Stratios are all clear (the last two names are even repeated), and there are traces of two or three more names.63 Considering the imitation of dog-like movements that the Satyrs are clearly undertaking, the suggestion that these 59 Phot. P 489: τὸ καμπύλον γίγνεσθαι ἀσχημόνως καὶ κατὰ συνουσίαν καὶ ὄρχησιν κάμπτοντα τὴν ὀσφῦν.; (cf. Pollux 4.99). 60 Voelke 2001, 131–4. 61 See Seidensticker 2010, 216–7, on this passage of Ichneutai and see above on Eur. Cyclops 629. Cf. also Aesch. Theoroi fr. 78c.37–8 and fr. 79. 62 Robert 1912, 547–9. Antonopoulos 2014, 248 points out that the Satyrs have asked their father for assistance in line 169 and so his involvement in this ‘tracking’ ode would seem likely, and 172 indicates he is going to do so with speech, rather than, e.g., whistling (cf. Maltese 1982, 80–1). 63 Sutton 1985 notes Methy[ (185) (possibly Mehthy[on or Methy[os), Tre[chis (194) and Krokias (192). See O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 359, n. 35 and Antonopoulos 2014b, 252.

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 Lucy C.M.M. Jackson

names are meant to refer to at least some of the Satyrs themselves is not a challenging one. This kind of individuation of choral performers in Attic drama is very rare but speaks to the distinctive character of the Satyr chorus.64 Both the parodos (64–78) and the first choral ode (176–202), seamlessly integrated as they are into this highly animated section of the play, deploy correspondingly varied and lively metres. Our text of the (almost certainly astrophic) parodos is very damaged, allowing us to identify only the first four or five syllables from the majority of lines:



ἴθ’ ἄγε δ̣[ non plus 16 ll.] πόδα βά[. . . . . . . . . . . . ]ν ἀπαπαπ[ non plus 15 ll.] ὢ ὢ, σέ τοι [ non plus 14 ll.] ἔπιθι κλωπ[ non plus 13 ll.] ὑπόνομα κ[ non plus 15 ll.] διανύτων ό[ non plus 14 ll.] πατρικὰν γῆρ[υν non plus 12 ll.] πῶς πᾷ τὰ λάθρι[α non plus 9 ll.] κλέμματα ποσσι. [. non plus 8 ll.] εἴ πως, ἂν τύχω, πο.[ non plus 8 ll.] πατρί τ’ ἐλεύθερον β[..]..μετ[.] ξὺν ἅμα θεὸ̣ς ὁ φίλος ἀν̣έτω πόνους, προφήνας ἀρί̣ζη̣λα χρυσοῦ πα[ρ]αδείγματα.

65

70

75

kkk [ kkk [ kkk [ klkl [ kkkl [ kkkk [ kkklk [ kkllk [ llkkkk [ lkklk [ lllklk [ kkklkl [ kkkkkkkklkl klkllkllkl lkklka

cr.? anap.? cr.? anap.? cr.? anap.? ia. cr.? anap.? cr.? + ? anap.? anap. anap.? do. + ? do. + ? do. cr. ia. 2 cr. do.

Come on, there! … foot (and step?) … (65) … Here, what the … ! Hey, it’s you … ! Come on, … the thief … underhand … achieving (or hastening) … my father’s voice … (70) How, where … the unseen (night-time?) theft … on foot (?) … in case somehow, if I succeed, … and for my father … free … (75). Let the god who is our friend be with us and help complete our labours, now he’s offered us splendid examples in gold!

It is still possible to make some useful observations, despite the fragmentary state of this parodos.65 A mixture of iambs, cretics, anapaests and, towards the end, dochmiacs can all be suggested with some confidence.66 There is a clear preference for using two short syllables (a biceps) in place of one long syllable, something that incidentally means the character of the metre is ambiguous: for example, the run of short syllables in line 76 ξὺν ἅμα θεὸ̣ς ὁ φίλος might be either 64 Budelmann 2013, 91, notes the rarity of partial naming of choruses (see PMG 1.39–40, Ar. Ach. 609–12 and Lys. 254 and the Pronomos vase). Wilson 2000, 341, n. 139 adds a few more examples of named chorusmen, in and out of drama. 65 Colometry from Antonopoulos 2013a, 53. 66 For a detailed analysis Antonopoulos 2013a, 52.

8 Metre, Movement and Dance in Satyr Drama 

 215

an anapaest or a dochmiac. Regardless of how we construe them, such highlyresolved sequences gesture to a rapid and rambunctious entrance for this chorus, and the appearance of dochmiacs towards the end of the parodos points to a swiftly reached, enthusiastic climax. The metre of the (like-wise fragmentary) first ode (176–202), also astrophic, in some ways picks up from where the parodos left off:

ὗ ὗ ὗ, ψ ψ, ἆ ἆ. λέγ’ ὅ τι πονεῖς. τί μάτην ὑπέκλαγες, ὑπέκριγες, ὑπό μ’ ἴδες; ἔχε̣ται ἐν πρώτῳ τίς ὅδε τροπ[ ἔχει. ἐλήλυθεν, ἐλήλ[υθεν. ἐμὸς εἶ, ἀνάγου. δευτέρῳ τίς ὅδε .[ . . . . ] . της ὁ Δρά̣κις, ὁ Γράπις, [non pl. 6 litt.] [Ο]ὐρίας, Οὐρίας, α̣δ̣[ ….. . ]κεις παρέβης· Μεθυ[non plus 11 litt.] ὅ τι ποτεφερε[……… ] . ι̣ [.] ν ἔποχον ἔχει τι[non plus 13 litt.] στίβος ὁδενε. [non plus 12 litt.] Στράτι̣ο̣ς̣, Στράτ̣[ιος . . . . . . ]υ̣ [ . . ] δεῦρ’ ἕπου· τ [.] δρ̣ [ ] ἔνι β[ο]ῦς, ἔνι πονο̣ [ μὴ μεθῇ κρ [ . ] κι . [ ο̣ὐχ̣ὶ καλ[ὸ]ν ἐ̣π̣ι̣δ[ ὄδε γ’ ἀγαθὸς ὁ Τρε[ κατὰ νόμον ἔπετα[ι ἐφέπου, ἐφέπου μ . [ ὀπποποῖ· ἆ μιαρέ, γε̣[ ἦ τάχ’ ὁπόταν ἀπίη[ις ἀπελεύθερος ὢν ολ .[ ἀλλὰ μὴ παραπλακ[ ἔπ[ι]θ’ [ἔ]πεχ’ εἴσιθ’ ἴθι̣[ τ[ . ]δε πλάγιον ἔχομ̣[εν

180

185

190

195

200

lllllkkkkl kklkkkkkkkk kkkkkkl lllkklk [l kaklkkkl [ka kklkkl lklkkk [ kkkkkk [ lkllklk [ kklkk [ kkkkkk [ kkkklk [ kkkkk [ kklkkl [ lklkl [ kklkkkl [ lklkkl [ lkkkkk [ kkkkkk [l kkkkkkl kklkkl [ lkllkkkk [ lkkkkkkl kklkklk [ lklkkk [ kkkklkkk [ kkkkkkk [k/l

do. ia. 2 anap. anap. anap. cr. or glyc. do. cr. or ia. do. anap. cr. + ? ia.? 2 cr. + ? anap.? do.? ia.? anap.? ia.? anap.? ia.? anap.? do.? anap.? hypodoch.? do. cr.? + ? cr.? + ? anap. or do.? anap. or do.? anap.? 2 cr. + ? 2 cr. anap. + ? cr. + ? anap.+? anap. or do.?

(various cries) Say what your trouble is! Why the useless shouting, screaming, scowling at me? Who’s this caught at the first turn? You’re caught! He’s here, he’s here! (180) You’re mine: off to the pen! Who’s this at the second … ? Dracis there, Grapis … Ourias, Ourias … You’ve missed your way! … drunk (?) … (185) (two damaged lines, including the words has (him?) caught (?)) Here’s a fresh track … ! Soldier, Soldier, … chase over here! What (are you doing)? (190) There’s a cow here, there’s work here! Don’t let go, (Saffron?)! What good … you … ? He’s good, (Runner?) here! He’s chasing as usual. (195) Chase him hard, chase him hard … ! Oh, no! Ah, you loser … ! … Pretty soon, when you go away … restored to freedom … But don’t (wander?) off … (200) Go on! Keep at it! Go in! Go … ! But we’ve got the flank … !

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 Lucy C.M.M. Jackson

We begin with an arresting, wholly long-syllabled dochmiac ὗ ὗ ὗ, ψ ψ, ἆ ἆ.67 This first stasimon contains the same mix of metres as the parodos: iambs, cretics, anapaests, and dochmiacs. Here too, but to a greater extent than was possible in the parodos, we see the ambiguity of resolved verses being either anapaestic of dochmiac (186, 188, 194, 195, 202). The unresolved anapaests of 177, 178, 181 189, 196 and the definite dochmiacs in 180 and 191 do, however, confirm that both metra did appear in the ode. These initial lyric passages contrast with the rest of this fragmentary play’s choral song. In response to Cyllene’s censure of their rowdy behaviour, the Satyrs attempt to soothe her, and also request some information (243–50):

νύμφη βαθύζωνε π..[ τοῦδ’· οὔτε γὰρ νεῖκος η[ δᾴ[ο]υ μάχας οὐδ’ ἀξενο[ γλ[ῶ]σσαν μάταιός τ[ μή με μὴ προψαλ̣[ ἀλλ’ [εὐ]πετῶς μοι προ[ μ’ ἐν [τ]όπ̣οις τοις[ στως ἐγήρυσε θέσπιν αὐδά̣[ν.

245

250

llkllk [ llkllkl [ llklllkl [ llkll [ lkllk [ llkll [ lkll [ lkllklkll

ia. cr.? ia. cr. 2 ia. ia. cr.? cr. cr.? ia. cr.? cr. cr.? 2 cr. ba.

Deep-girdled nymph, … leave off this (anger?); for (I?) neither (come with?) a quarrel for hostile fighting nor … an unfriendly … (245) … a reckless tongue would … No, no, don’t assail me … but readily … (to) me … in this place … uttered a divine voice. (250)

This short strophe is predominantly iambic, with a good proportion of cretics mixed in (at least as far as we can see from the parts of the lines preserved). After the highly resolved lyrics of the parodos and first ode, the more measured mix of long and short syllables is notable. These lines are in fact the first stanza in a strophic pair, with the two stanzas separated by forty lines of iambic trimeter. The significant damage to the papyrus means the sense of the antistrophe (290–7) is all but lost, but the context makes it clear that the chorus have not been convinced by Cyllene’s story about Hermes. In this part of the drama, demarcated in part by the separate strophe and antistrophe, we see a different side to the Satyrs. They are conciliatory but focused in extracting information from the nymph. This is supported by the more measured rhythms of this separated strophic pair. Our final example of choral lyric in the fragments of Ichneutai is another separated strophic pair (329–37 ~ 371–9):

67 For all long-syllable dochmiacs for interjections see Cerbo 2015, 99.

8 Metre, Movement and Dance in Satyr Drama 



< > οψάλακτός̣ τις ὀμφὴ κατοιχνεῖ τόπου, πρεπτὰ 〈〉 δὴ̣ τ̣όνου φάσματ’ ἔγ̣χωρ’ ἐπανθεμίζει. τὸ πρᾶγμα δ’ οὗπερ πορεύω βάδην, ἴσθι τὸν δα[ί]μον’,ὅστις που’ ὃς ταῦτ’ ἐτεχνήσατ’ – οὐκ ἄλλος ἐστὶν κλ̣[οπεὺς ἀντ’ ἐκείνου, γύναι, σάφ’ ἴσθι. σὺ δ’ ἀντὶ τῶνδε μὴ χαλεφ̣θῇς ἐμοὶ 〈μη〉 δὲ δυσφορηθῇς. στρέφου λυγίζου τε μύθοις, ὁποίαν θέλεις βάξιν εὕρισκ’ ἀπόψηκτον· οὐ γάρ με ταῦτα πείσεις, 〈ὅ〉πως τὸ χρῆμ’ οὗτος εἰργασμένος ῥινοκόλλητον ἄλλων ἔκ̣α̣ρψεν βοῶν που δοράς̣ [γ’ ἢ] ’πὸ τῶν Λοξίου. [μ]ή με τᾶ[σδ’ ἐ]ξ ὁδοῦ βίβαζε·

 217

(str.)

klkllkllkllkl

ia. 3 cr.

330

lkllkllkl lklkll klkllkllkl lkllkllkl lkllkllkllkl

3 cr. cr. ba. ia. 2 cr. 3 cr. 4 cr.

335

lkllklkla klklklkl lkllklkll klkllkllkllkl

2 cr. ba. 2 ia. 2 cr. ba. ia. 3 cr.

lkllkllkl lklkll klkllkllkl lkllkllkl lkllkllkllkl

3 cr. cr. ba. ia. 2 cr. 3 cr 4 cr.

lkllklkla

2 cr. ba.

(ant.)

375

A fine voice (which accompanies) the plucking spreads over the place, (and) brilliant images of tone (330) (already) bloom upon the land. But as to the business on which I’m pacing around, you are to know that whoever the god is who devised these tones – none other than he is (the thief), lady; know this for certain! (335) Do not be angry with me in response, and do (not) take it badly! Bend and twist in your speech, invent whatever polished talk you want: you’ll not persuade me that the maker here of the thing with hide-glue dried (375) skins from any cows except those of Loxias! Don’t try to move me off this road! (Two further lines missing).

The metre here is dominated by cretics with a series of seven unresolved cretics occupying the first metrical section (‘period’), rounded off with a bacchiac;  a typical means of bringing a section of cretics to a close. After this, we see an extraordinary run of eleven unresolved cretics occupying a central position in the stanza (332–5 ~ 374–7). While it has been suggested that the metre’s regularity is indicative of a ‘rapid’ delivery,68 but we might better characterise the insistence of the cretic rhythm as menacing. This is supported by some self-commentary from the chorus. In the strophe the chorus say they are bringing Cyllene’s attention to a particular matter ‘slowly’ or ‘step-by-step’ (332 βάδην), indicating a delivery that is not ‘rapid’ but persistent. Bearing in mind a satyr’s abiding interest in

68 E.g. Voelke 2001, 172.

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having sex with any aesthetically pleasing figure he might meet, their relentless and insistent song may have carried with it an erotic charge.

3 Sophocles’ Inachos We know far less about the plot of Sophocles Inachos than his Ichneutai, and the tantalising scraps of lyric visible in the fragments can only offer limited insights. Yet there are some intriguing observations to be made that can still inform our understanding of the metres and movements of the satyric chorus. We begin with fr. 270 and 271.

Fr. 270

Ἴναχε νᾶτορ, παῖ τοῦ κρηνῶν πατρὸς Ὠκεανοῦ, μέγα πρεσβεύων ἄργους τε γύαις Ἥρας τε πάγοις καὶ Τυρσηνοῖσι Πελασγοῖς

lkkllllll kklkklkklll llkklllkkl llllkkll

anap.

Inachus in your flow, son of Oceanus the father of springs, great in your power over the fields of Argos and the mountains of Hera, and among the Tyrrhenian Pelasgians …

Fr. 271

ῥεῖ γὰρ ἀπ’ ἄκρας Πίνδου Λάκμου τ’ ἀπὸ Περραιβῶν εἰς Ἀμφιλόχους καὶ Ἀκαρνᾶνας, μίσγει δ’ ὕδασιν τοῖς Ἀχελῴου *** ἔνθεν ἐσ ἄργος διὰ κῦμα τεμὼν ἥκει δῆμον τὸν Λυρκείου

llkkl llllkklll llkklkklll llkkllkkll

anap.

lkkllkklkkl llllllll

For (Inachus) flows from the peak of Pindus and from Lacmus of the Perrhaebians to the Amphilochians and Acarnanians, and mingles with the waters of Achelous … From here he cuts across the waves to Argos and comes to the people of Lyrceum.

The Satyrs likely entered with so-called ‘marching’ anapaests (see fr. 270 and fr. 271) in this play providing a counterpoint to the more (apparently) chaotic entrances in other plays, especially the Ichneutai. There are other shorter lyric fragments that display the kind of mixed metre: collocations of iambs and cho-

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riambs, cretic and bacchiacs, and an example of a molossos (three consecutive long syllables as a single metron, lll) in fr. 273: Πλούτωνος δ’ἐπείσοδος. Dochmiacs and lyric anapaests are conspicuous in other fragments of the play. In fr. 269a.46 marks the beginning of a short astrophic lyric where dochmiacs can be identified with a degree of certainty, so 53 ὁ πολυφάρμ̣[ακος (wwwlwl), and three possible others (51, 52, 55). The opening words of the chorus ‘I am speechless’ (46 ἄφθογγός εἰ̣μ[̣ ι) suggests shock and high emotion in response to the account of Io’s transformation, suitably expressed in that most emotionally engaged of metres, the dochmiac. Here we see signs of the familiar satyric panic: the metre is agitated, supported by content and possibly a plurality of voices delivering different lines.69 As noted above, when there is a good deal of metrical resolution it can be difficult to establish whether a run of short syllables is in fact a dochmiac or an anapaest, a difference that may well have been much clearer in performance. The fluidity between the two types of metre is most readily observable in a series of three short astrophic lyrics preserved from this play (fr. 269c):

πολὺ πο̣λ̣υ̣ιδρίδας ὅτις ὅδε προτέρων ὄνομ’ εὖ σ’ ἐθρόει, τὸν Ἀιδοκ̣υνέας σκότον ἄ〈β〉ροτον ὑπαί̣. ... ὠή̣· ἐσορᾷς †ει̣σ̣τ̣ον̣α̣ . . † π̣όδ’ ἔχειν, μανία τάδε κλύειν· σ̣ὺ γὰρ οὖν, Ζεῦ, λόγω̣ν̣ κακὸς εἶ̣ π̣ί̣σ̣τ̣ε̣ω̣ς̣ ... ἦ̣ ῥα τ̣άχα Διὸς α̣ὔ, Διὸς ἄρα λάτρις ὅδε; ἐπί με πόδα νέμει. ἔ̣χ̣ε̣ με· πόδα νέμει. ἐ̣μ̣ὲ †χερακ̣ονι̣ει† μ̣έ̣γ̣α δέος ἀραβεῖ.

20 25

35

kkkkkkl kkkkkkl kklkkl kkkkkkl kkkkkkl

anap. anap. anap. anap. anap.

llkkl lkkkkl kklkkkl kkllkl kkllkl

anap. anap. or do. do. do. do.

lkkkkkl kkkkkkka kkkkkkl kkkkkkl kkkkkkl kkkkkkl

do. do. do. do. do. do.

Very, very knowledgeable (parents had he?), whoever of earlier men well called you by your name, you (here) under the divine darkenss of the Cap of Hades.

69 There are marks in the margin of the papyrus that indicate a choral speaker in verses 46, 51, 54 and 55. This, combined with the paragraphos before 51 and some lines in eisthesis (51–3 and 55), means it is very likely that alternating choral voices, or groups of voices, made up the soundscape of this lyric.

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Oh, look! you see? (25) … to keep your feet (away?); hearing these things is madness. You’re bad at (keeping?) your word, then, Zeus … Truly it’s Zeus’ – yes, Zeus’ – servant here again so quickly. (35) He’s moving towards me! {Hold me! He’s moving!} (corrupt and unintelligible line) great fear is making my teeth chatter!

Cerbo’s colometry for these verses charts a progression from animated anapaestic address to Hermes (16–20), to a wholly dochmiac finish as the distraught Satyrs respond in terror to the approach of the ‘servant of Zeus’ (34–8), with a mixed anapaestic-dochmiac stanza in the middle (25–33).70 The alliteration in the first stanza combined with the highly resolved metra must have been particularly stunning in performance. In the third stanza, there are three lines (36–8) with their ends marked by hiatus, that is, lines that end with a vowel are followed by lines beginning with a vowel, which is a strong indication of a change of speaker or the end of a metrical phrase. The repetition of sounds in these three lines has been read by Cerbo as indicating that each of them might have been spoken by a different performer or group of performers.71 Here we can observe how in lyrics where the same identical pattern of long and short syllables is replicated, the method of delivery might add variety. It is a variation and aspect of these lines that we can all too easily miss without considering the play as performance. These short astrophic lyrics are separated by trochaic tetrameters (21–4, 29–31, 40–8), possibly spoken in stichomythia. The trochaic tetrameter is well suited to the high-octane tenor of the scene, even if the precise action is mysterious. As an acknowledged fast-paced recited metre, it allows a high level of energy be maintained across thirty lines or so. There is no let-up in intensity in these trochaic lines, but they offer a different mode of performance (something closer to recitation) as well as a variation in the strength of voice if we envisage them being alternately spoken by chorus and an individual character.

4 Fragments of Aeschylus: Diktyoulkoi, Theoroi, and Prometheus Pyrkaeus In the fragments of Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi we find one of the less common strophic odes, here in an aeolic metre. Danaë and her baby son Perseus have been rescued from 70 See also Voelke 2001, 168. 71 Cerbo 2015, 98.

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the sea and delivered into the hands (or hooves) of Silenos and his sons. Delighted by this turn of events, Silenos makes clear his desire for Danaë (fr. 47a.799 εἰ μη σε χαίρω … ‘If I don’t relish [looking at] you … ’), likely speaking, too, for his sons. Only the baby Perseus, who is crying, stands in their way and so Silenos and the Satyrs take him and begin to sing their lyric ode (fr. 47a.802-20) in order to soothe him:



ὦ φίντων, ἴθι δε[ῦρο θάρσει δή· τί κινύρη̣[〈ι〉; δεῦρ’ ἐς παῖδας ἴωμεν ως . [ ἵ̣ξῃ παιδοτρόφους ἐμά[ς, ὦ φίλος, χέρας εὐμενής, τέρψῃ δ’ ἴκτ̣ισι κα[ὶ] ν̣ε̣βρο̣ῖς ὑστρίχων τ’ ὀβρί̣χοι̣σ̣[ι] κοιμήσῃ δ̣ὲ τρίτ̣ος ξὺν μητρὶ [καὶ π]ατρὶ τῷδε.

(str.)

ὁ πάπα[σ δ]ὲ παρέξει τῷ μικκῶ[ι] τ̣ὰ γελ[οῖ]α̣ καὶ τροφὰς ἀνόσ̣ους, ὅπως̣ π[ ἀλδων αὐτὸς ε…. [ . ] . . . [ χαλᾷ νεβροφον . [ . ]π̣οδ[ μάρπ̣των θῆρας ἄν̣ευ δ[ θῶσθαι μητρὶ παρέξεις̣ κ]η̣δεστ̣ῶν τρόπον οἷσιν [ . ]ν̣τροπος πελατεύσεις.

(ant.)

805

810

815

lllkkla lllkklu lllkklkl [ lllkklkl lklkklkl lllkklkl lklkkla lllkkll lklkkla

pher. pher. phal.? glyc. glyc. glyc. pher. pher. pher.

lllkkla lllkklu lllkklkl [ lllkklkl lklkklkl lllkklkl lklkkla lllkkll lklkkla

pher. pher. phal.? glyc. glyc. glyc. pher. pher. pher.

O my little darling, come (here). Be brave! Why are you grizzling? (804) Let’s go over here to my boys, (so?) you can come (at once?) to my nurturing, kindly arms, my dear, and delight in martens and fawns and baby porcupines (809), and make three in a bed with you mother and father here. And papa will give the little one lots of fun and healthy nourishment, so that (814) when you’re grown up yourself … on hoofed foot that kills fawns you’ll seize hold of wild beasts without … and provide your mother with feasts like your kinsmen, (819) whom you’ll approach as a foster-brother.

This song consists of a relatively well-preserved and straightforward strophe and antistrophe of glyconics (xxlkklkl) and pherecrateans (xxlkkll).72 The speakers are clearly Silenos and the chorus of Satyrs, but we cannot be certain at what point who is speaking which lines.73 The transition into this ode (799–801) is, we

72 805 ~ 814 is incomplete but could be a phalaecian hendecasyllable (xxlkklklkll). 73 For discussion, see Fraenkel 1942, 240–4; Halleran 1989 (on lines 821–32); Conrad 1997, 34, 44–9.

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should note, in some kind of choriambic metre, providing one more example of the more inventive variation in spoken, sung, and recited passages in satyr drama.74 The regularity of the rhythm, as well as the ode’s content, aims at soothing the baby Perseus, who is in some distress (804 θάρσει δή· τί κινύρῃ; ‘Be brave! Why are you grizzling?’), and it would make sense for the Satyrs’ movement to echo this aim of soothing and calming (no wild leaps or kicks here). The pendant ends of the final three pherecrateans (809–11, 818–20) signal a more deliberate and slow pace of movement. There may have, in fact, been dramatic value in Perseus’ noisy distress actually increasing, despite the Satyrs’ attempts at comfort. Once the song is over, however, there is a shift in focus and, in line with the perennial predilections of satyrs, Silenos and his sons announce in livelier, recited anapaestic dimeters (821–32) their plan to seize the moment and ‘marry’, that is, sexually attack Danaë. Again we cannot be certain who spoke which lines but several changes of speaker are likely in these anapaests: the catalectic end to the anapaestic dimeter of 823 plausibly signals one such change of speaker (supported by the sense of καὶ τήδ̣’ in the following line), and the appearance of a paragraphos by 826 might suggest a second. This swift shift from their collective comforting song to Perseus, to an explicit call for their attack on Danaë as a group75 is marked by this change of pace in the metre, and grimly undercuts the (relatively) wholesome content of their previous song. The dramatic tension in the scene rests, in fact, on the threat to Danaë being considerable, allowing for some relief when the Satyrs and Silenos are, inevitably, prevented from carrying out their lecherous intentions by the entrance of Dictys shortly after the fragment ends. The metre, and the contrast between regular aeolic and spoken anapaests, plays a vital role in underscoring the violent menace in the Satyrs’ actions. Aeschylus’ Theoroi or Isthmiastai provides a further example of the easy way in which the satyric chorus moves from spoken iambic trimeter into lyric and recited metres such as trochaic tetrameter (fr. 78a.1 ff.):76.

ὁρῶντες εἰκοὺ[σ] οὐ κατ’ ἀνθρώπους[ ὅπῃ δ’ ἂν ἔ̣[ρ]δῃς, πάντα σοι τάδ’ εὐσεβ̣ῆ. ἦ κάρτ’ ὀφείλω τῶνδέ σοι· πρόφρων γ̣ὰρ εἶ. ἄκουε δὴ πᾶς σῖγα δ̣ειθ̣ε̣λ̣ειδ̣ . [ . ] .

3 ia. 3 ia. 3 ia. 3 ia.

74 Voelke 2001, 177 notes these might be anapaests. 75 Voelke 2001, 166 quite fairly describes lines 821–3, in particular the explicit γ]ά̣μον ὁρμαίνωμεν, as having ‘un caractère offensif’. On the Satyrs’ ‘gleeful and self-satisfied anticipation of mass-marriage, or gang-rape’, see Griffith 2005, 186–90. 76 For discussion of this and other instances of such ‘rapid alternation of speech, song, and recitative’, see Seidensticker 2003, 109.

8 Metre, Movement and Dance in Satyr Drama 



ἄθ̣ρ̣η̣σ̣ον εἰ̣ . [ . . ] . . [ ] εἴδωλον ε̣ἶναι̣ τ̣ο̣ῦτ’ ἐμῇ μορφῇ πλέον τὸ Δαι̣δ̣ά̣λου μ[ί]μ̣ημα· φω̣ν̣ῆς δεῖ μόνον. ταδ[ . . ] . ει̣ . . ορα . [ . ] . (. ) ρ . [ ] χωρει μάλα εὐκταῖα κόσμον ταῦ̣τ̣[α] τῷ θεῷ φέρω καλλίγραπ̣τ̣ον εὐχ̣ά̣ν. τῇ μητρὶ τἠμῇ πρά̣γμ̣ατ’ ἂν παρασχέθοι· ἰδοῦσα γάρ νι̣ν̣ ἂν σαφῶς τρέποι̣τ’ ἂν †αξ̣ιάζοιτό† τ’ ὡς δ̣οκοῦσ’ ἔμ’ εἶναι, τὸν ἐξέθρ̣εψε̣ν̣· οὕτως ἐμφερὴς ὅδ’ ἐστίν. εἶα δὴ σκοπεῖτε δ̣ῶμα ποντίου σεισίχθον[νος κἀπιπασσάλευ’ ἕ̣κ̣αστος τῆς κ[α]λῆς μορφῆς . [ ἄγγελον, κήρυκ’ [ἄ]ν̣αυδον, ἐμπόρων κω̣λύτορ[α, . [ . ] . ἐπισχήσει κε̣λεύθου τοὺς ξένο[υς] φ . [ χαῖρ’ ἄναξ, χαῖρ’ ὦ Πόσειδον ἐπιτροπ . [ . . ] . . [ ἔμελλον εὑρήσειν ἄρ’ ὑμᾶς, ὠγαθο[ί …

5

klkl [

10

kll klkll llkl lklkll

15

20

klklklkl klklkllkl klkllkl klklllklkll

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ia. 3 ia. 3 ia. ba. reiz. ia. 3 ia. cr. ba. 3 ia. 2 ia. ia. do. ia. cr. 2 ia. ba. 4 tro.p 4 tro.p 4 tro.p 4 tro.p 4 tro.p 3 ia.

… when they see portraits unlike men’s … But however you act, all you do here (will be) in reverence. I’m truly much in your debt for this: you’ve shown me favour! Listen now, everyone, in silence … observe whether … this image (5) is more (like) my own (form). It’s a likeness by Daedalus! It lacks only a voice; Come! Come one! (10) I’m bringing these prayerful gifts to the god to glorify him, a beautifully-painted votive! It would give my mother a hard time! If she saw it she’d turn and wail for certain, (15) thinking it’s me, the son she raised – this one is so like me! Hey, all of you! Look at the house of the Earth-Shaker, the Ruler of the Sea, and each of you nail up a (clear?) messenger of your beautiful form, a voiceless herald, one to keep away travellers (20), (which’ll) stop strangers on their way forward … Hail, lord, hail, O Poseidon, protector … I was likely to find you in fact, my good men! …

In this, the first of two major fragments we have for this play (fr. 78a), we can discern at the beginning of the fragment four iambic trimeters of discussion between the chorus (or more likely a coryphaeus, or even Silenos) and another character.77 But after this, single or double iambic trimeters are spoken amidst lyric iambic lines (5, 10, 14, 15, 16 and 17) with the odd cretic and bacchiac element mixed in. Further imperatives and descriptions of the Satyrs’ activity as they perform – 5 ἄθ̣ρ̣η̣σ̣ον, ‘Look’, 9 ὁ̣ρα, ‘See’, 10 χώρει μάλα, ‘Come on now’, 11 εὐκταῖα κόσμον ταῦ̣τ̣[α] τῷ θεῷ φέρω, ‘I bring these votive offerings to the god as decorations’ – show that there is a good deal of stage action going on, adding to the apparent chaos 77 On the identity of the interlocutor see Di Marco 2013, 122–3.

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of the spoken and sung lines. The short lyric song at lines 14–17 seems to act as a preparation for the chorus to launch into a ‘running’ trochaic tetrameter (17–22) of more clearly delineated calls for specific action to hang up their votive offerings (18–19), action that then seems to have been abruptly interrupted by the appearance of an irate Dionysos. Although short, the dense variations of metres and modes of speech is yet another example of the richness of the satyric soundscape. In the second major fragment from this play (fr. 78c.43–8) we see a short astrophic lyric in a mix of iambs, cretics, bacchiacs (and one choriamb):

ἀλλ’ οὔποτ’ ἔξειμ’ ε[ τοῦ ἱεροῦ και τι μο . [ ταῦτ’ ἀπειλεῖς ε.[ Ἴσθμιον αντε[ Ποσειδᾶνοσο[ σὺ δ’ἄλλοις ταῦτ[ . . ]εμπε[

45

llkllk [l lkllkl lkllkl lkklk [lkl kllkl [l klllklk[la

ia. cr. 2 cr. 2 cr. cho. ia. 2 ba. ba. cr. ba.

Well, I’ll never leave the temple, and something (?) … you threaten this … (45) … Isthmian … (of?) Poseidon … But (send?) these … to others.

Here, again, we see a typical short ode in line with the astrophic and ‘atomistic’ tendencies in the metre and metrical structures of satyr drama. The fragments of Aeschylus’ Prometheus Pyrkaeus cannot tell us a great deal, but they are rich in self-referential choral language, as already noted above. The references through the ode preserved in fr. 204b are to choral dance (1 χορεύει, ‘it dances’, 7 and 16 στήσει[ν] χ̣οροὺς, ‘to set up/join the choruses’, 9–10 μολπάσε̣ιν̣, ‘to chant’, 13 χορεύσειν, ‘to dance’) and are likely to have corresponded with their onstage action:.

σ̣ί̣α̣ δέ μ’ εὐμενὴς χορεύει χάρις

(str.)

φ[α]ε̣ν̣ν[ὸ]ν 〈kl〉 χιτῶν̣α πὰρ̣ πυρὸς ἀκάματον αὐγάν. κλυοῦς’ ἐμοῦ δὲ Ναΐδων τις παρ’ ἐστιοῦχον σέλας πολλὰ διώξετ̣αι̣.

5

Νύμφας δε τοι πέποιθ’ ἐγὼ στήσει[ν] χοροὺς Προμηθ̣έ̣ω̣ς δῶ[ρ]ον ὡς σεβούσας.

(ephym.)

κα̣λ̣[ὸ]ν̣ δ’ ὕ̣μνον̣ ἀ̣μφὶ τὸν δόντα μολ- (ant.) πάσε̣ιν̣ [.]π̣λ̣[…]ω̣ λεγούσας τόδ’ ὡς 10

2 ia. cr. or 2 do. kllkl do. klklkkkkkkll ia. cr. bac. or ia. do. l klklklkllkl 2 ia. cr. or 2 do. kllkllkklkl 2 do. klklklkllkl

llklklkl llkl klkllklkll

2 ia. ia. ia. cr. ba.

kllklkllkl klklklkllkl

2. do. 2. ia. cr.

8 Metre, Movement and Dance in Satyr Drama 

Προμηθε[ὺς βρο]τ̣οῖς φερέσ̣βιός τ̣ . […] . [] σπευσίδωρ[ος. χορεύσειν . [ . . . . ..]νί̣’ ἐλπὶς ὡ-

kllkl klkl[...] lkll kllklkllkl

ρ]ίου χε̣[ί]ματ̣[ος . . .]ερ . ι̣χ̣[ . .] . .·

kllklkllkl

Νύμφας δε τοι πέποιθ’ ἐγὼ στήσειν χοροὺ̣ς̣ Προμηθ̣έ̣ω̣ς δῶρ̣ον ὡς̣ σ̣εβ̣ούσας.

(ephym.) 16

llklklkl llkl klkllklkll

 225

or 2 do. do. ia. … ba.? ba. ia. cr. or 2 do. 2 do. 2 ia. ia. ia. cr. ba.

… (Nysa’s?) benevolent favour makes me dance; … bright tunic beside the fire’s tireless glow. One of the Naiads hearing me will pursue me many times beside the hearth’s gleam. (5) The Nymphs, I do believe, will form dances in honour of Prometheus’ gift. And they will sing a beautiful hymn about the giver … telling how (10) Prometheus … the bringer of life to mortal men … most eager donor. … (I have?) hope … they will dance and sing … (for?) winter in season. The Nymphs, I do believe, will form dances in honour of Prometheus’ gift.

The strophic pair in this fragment is made up of mixed iambic, dochmiac, cretic and bacchiac metra, and after each stanza there follows an ephymnion (A B A’ B). We find dochmiac metra at the beginning, middle and end of each stanza, infusing the rhythms of the strophic pair with a wild, celebratory quality.78 Even the ephymnia, which are predominantly lyric iambics, in this context take on something of the dochmiac rhythm, as in στήσει[ν] χοροὺς (llkl) in 7 and 16 which echoes the final four syllables of line 2 ~ 11 (kllkl). In its content, the ode contains no surprises – a suitably satyric celebration of Dionysiac activity combined with enhanced opportunities for sex with nymphs – but it provides a further example of typical satyric choral lyric in its mixed metre.79 In this brief survey it has been possible to identify a few recurrent features of satyric metre and movement. And yet, as ever, the variety is just as an important part of the picture as is the noting of tendencies and trends. We do well to remember the seemingly boundless creativity of the poets of satyr drama, by turns relying on and pushing against the expectations of their audiences.

78 Cerbo 2015, 99, notes the form of these dochmiacs, starting with a dactylic rhythm, is very typical of Aeschylus, see, e.g., Aesch. Sept. 203–5, 211–13, 219–21, 226–8, 234, 240, Ag. 1090, 1095, 1158, 1169, 1448, 1468, 1459, 1472, Eum. 270–1, 275, 847, 880. 79 This chapter was written while I was a Leverhulme Early Career Fellow and I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Leverhulme Trust for their support .

Part III: Text Transmission and Criticism

Paolo B. Cipolla

9 Ancient Scholarship on Satyr Drama: The Background of Quotations in Athenaeus, Lexicographers, Grammarians, and Scholia 1 The Beginnings The most ancient evidence for critical-exegetical activity on satyr drama goes back to Peripatetic environment. Aristotle, as far as we know, did not deal with it, apart from the aenigmatic reference to a σατυρικόν in his well-known reconstruction of the development of tragedy.1 But his pupil Chamaeleon of Heraclea (second half of fourth century – first half of third century BC)2 wrote a whole treatise On Satyr Dramas (Περὶ Σατύρων). The only surviving fragment (40A–D Martano = 37 Wehrli) refers to the proverb ἀπώλεσας τὸν οἶνον, ἐπιχέας ὕδωρ (‘you have ruined the wine by pouring water on it’), which Chamaeleon recognized as deriving from Aristias’ of Phleious satyric Kyklops (fr. 4), where Polyphemus uttered these words to Odysseus.3 Apart from Chamaeleon’s role as a forerunner, it was Alexandria that gave birth to philological inquiries on satyr drama, as on other literary genres. A notice by the so-called Anonymus Crameri II4 records Alexander Aetolus’ (flor. 280/76 BC)5 editing activity concerning the text of satyr dramas: ἰστέον, ὅτι Ἀλέξανδρος ὁ Αἰτωλὸς καὶ Λυκόφρων ὁ Χαλκιδεὺς ὑπὸ Πτολεμαίου τοῦ Φιλαδέλφου προτραπέντες τὰς σκηνικὰς διώρθωσαν βίβλους, Λυκόφρων μὲν τὰς τῆς κωμῳδίας, Ἀλέξανδρος δὲ τὰς τῆς τραγῳδίας, ἀλλὰ δὴ καὶ τὰς σατυρικάς.

1 Poet. 1449a.20. The debate on the exact meaning of σατυρικόν is still alive among scholars: see now chapter by PALMISCIANO in this volume and Cipolla 2017b. 2 Cf. Wendling 1899, 2013. 3 Two further pieces of evidence show indirectly Chamaeleon’s interest in satyr drama. Suda O 806 reports an attempt to reconstruct the origins of tragedy from σατυρικά, a view that, says our witness, was very similar to that expressed by Chamaeleon in his Περὶ Θέσπιδος (fr. 41 Martano = 38 Wehrli). In addition, Chamaeleon fr. 42 Martano (= 39 Wehrli), preserved by Athenaeus 9.375d-f, comes from the treatise Περὶ Αἰσχύλου: here Chamaeleon quoted three passages by Aeschylus, probably from one or more satyr dramas (= Aesch. inc. fr. 309-11: see Krumeich et al. 1999, 209–12). 4 Proleg. de Com. XIc, p. 43 Koster = Alex. Aet. test. 7b Magnelli. Cf. also XIa I (= Joh. Tzetz., Pro­ oem. I), p. 22 Koster = Alex. Aet. test. 7a Magnelli. 5 Cf. Vit. Arat. I, p. 78.1–5 Maass = 8.12–17 Martin = Alex. Aet. test. 3 Magnelli. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-010

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One should know that Alexander Aetolus and Lycophron of Chalcis, prompted to do so by Ptolemy the Philadelphus, made revised editions (διώρθωσαν) of the theatrical books, Lycophron of the comic ones, Alexander of the tragic, but also of the satyric ones.6

I need not to recall here the debate about the exact significance of terms like διόρθωσις and διορθόω;7 but, even if we cannot take them in the sense of a modern ‘critical edition’, the notice is enough to show that in the early Alexandrian age satyr dramas were studied and edited as well as tragedies, and the wording of the testimonium seems to emphasize this (‘but also of the satyric ones’, ἀλλὰ δὴ καὶ τὰς σατυρικάς). Lycophron (before 310 – after 280 BC)8 himself wrote a satyr drama, the Menedemos (fr. 2–4), where the Eretrian contemporary philosopher was mocked for the frugality of his life and the meagerness of his meals.9 Contemporary satire and reference to actualities were not allowed in classical satyr drama, but began to appear at least from the late fourth century onwards:10 Python’s Agen (fr. 1) purported a wild attack against Alexander’s unfaithful minister Harpalus.11 The breaking of the contemporary into the world of the satyrs was probably felt like a form of ‘corruption’ of the original nature of satyr drama.12 Thus, Sositheus (flor.

6 While post-classical and hellenistic satyr drama was influenced by comedy (see below, note 12) and, at least from 342/1 BC, staged apart from tragedies as an independent piece (cf. IG II2. 2320, fr. b.15, where Timocles’ victory with his satyric Lykourgos is recorded for that year), classical satyr drama was part of the tragic tetralogy and thus regarded by ancient scholarship and rhetoric as closely related to tragedy (cf. Demetr. Eloc. 169, where satyr drama is thought as equivalent to a ‘playful tragedy’, τραγῳδία παίζουσα. For a different view see Shaw 2014). This explains why Alexandrian scholars treated satyr dramas together with tragedies. 7 See Dickey 2007, 232: ‘correction, edition (of a text; i.e. a corrected, critical edition – but there is much dispute about exactly how critical such an edition was in ancient times)’; ‘corrective editing’ according to Nagy 2004, 22 (see also ibid., 85). The most controversial point is whether this editorial work involved also collation (even incomplete and not systematic) of different manuscripts, or was based only on conjecture; for an up-to-date survey of the problem see Montanari 2015, 661–72 (with further bibliographical reference), who agrees with the first view. 8 Cf. Ziegler 1927, 2318–9. 9 See Krumeich et al. 1999, 617–23; Cipolla 2003, 364–79. 10 On late Classical and early Hellenistic satyr drama, see also SLATER and SHAW in this volume. 11 See Krumeich et al. 1999, 594–601; Cipolla 2003, 347–60. 12 In fact, it was a contamination with comedy: aggressive satire against living persons (especially politicians and poets) and strong sexual or scatological humour were typical of Aristophanes, but in fourth century, while comedy gradually abandoned them in favour of a mild and more polite humour, they are adopted by satyr drama (cf. Cipolla 2003, 16–18; Shaw 2014, 123–43). The most impressive example would be Timocles’ Ikarioi satyroi, if it was a satyr drama and not, as some scholars believe, a comedy (on the question, see Cipolla 2003, 326–31; Summa 2009).

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284–281 BC13), a poet of the Alexandrian Pleiad contemporary of Lycophron and Alexander Aetolus, wrote a Daphnis or Lityerses, which is probably to be read (at least to judge from the fragments)14 as a reaction to the ‘civilisation’ of satyr drama, since it reintroduced the mythological subject and, perhaps, restored the dance of satyr chorus to its central role.15 Alexander Aetolus edited the ancient satyr dramas, while Lycophron and Sositheus wrote new ones16: this can hardly be a coincidence, since in early Alexandrian age philological inquiry on the works of ancient writers and production of new poetry were closely related. Strabo 14.2.19 calls Philitas of Cos ποιητὴς ἅμα καὶ κριτικός,17 and the same label could be easily applied to Lycophron and Alexander. So, rediscovering the text of classical satyr dramas probably raised a debate on the genuine nature and the features of this genre, which may have led poets like Sositheus to compose in an archaic fashion.18 The theoretical side of this debate is echoed in the long excursus on satyr drama in Horace’s Ars Poetica (220–50), deriving from Hellenistic sources19: here Horace, clearly criticizing new tendencies, claims that the language of satyrs should not be the same with the characters of comedy, such as servants or courtesans.

13 Cf. Suda Σ 860. 14 Fr. 1a-3. 15 ‘I pushed the male rhythm into the Doric muse again’, says the satyr that watches Sositheus’ tomb praising the poet’s work in the ficticious epitaph by Dioscorides (AP 7.707.7–8: καὶ πάλιν εἰσώρμησα τὸν ἄρσενα Δωρίδι μούσῃ / ῥυθμόν). For a general interpretation of this epigram and of Sositheus’ work see Cipolla 2003, 381–85; Fantuzzi 2007a, 109–19. 16 Alexander Aetolus wrote tragedies and was himself a poet of the Pleiad (Choerob. In Hep­ haest. p. 236.11–12 Consbruch; Schol. A ad Heph. p. 140, 8–12 Consbruch; Suda A 1127 = Alex. Aet. testt. 1 and 9 Magnelli). Unfortunately, we have no evidence of satyr dramas written by him, unless we accept Schenkl’s hypothesis that his Astragalistai were satyric (see Magnelli 1999, 248–9); but nothing can be argued with certainty from the little that has survived (a couple of references in the Homeric scholia; fr. 10 Magnelli). 17 See also 17.3.22, where Strabo speaks about Callimachus and Eratosthenes as ὁ μὲν ποιητὴς ἅμα καὶ περὶ γραμματικὴν ἐσπουδακώς, ὁ δὲ καὶ ταῦτα καὶ περὶ φιλοσοφίαν καὶ τὰ μαθήματα εἴ τις ἄλλος διαφέρων. 18 ἀναρχαΐσας, as Dioscorides says about Sositheus (AP 7.707.6; the Palatine manuscript has ἀναρχαίας, while ἀναρχαΐσας is a correction by another hand). ἀναρχαΐζω (from ἀνά + ἀρχαΐζω; ‘bring back to old ways’ LSJ s.v.) is not found elsewhere. 19 Probably Neoptolemus of Parium: see Brink 1971, 273–4. A critical debate about new tendencies seems to be implied in Trag. Adesp. fr. 646a, provided that it comes from an hellenistic satyr drama and not from a fifth century comedy; see Cipolla 2011a, 142–67.

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2 Commentaries on Satyr Dramas When Alexandrian scholars produced critical-exegetical works about dramatic texts, satyr dramas were not left aside. A commentary by Aristarchus (ca. 216–144 BC)20 to Aeschylus’ Lykourgos21 is mentioned in the scholia on Theocritus 10.18e: Ἀρίσταρχος ἐν ὑπομνήσει (γὰρ ἐν ὑπομνήματι GPT) Λυκούργου Αἰσχύλου (Αἰσχ. om. GPT) φησὶ τὴν ἀκρίδα ταύτην (scil. μάντιν τὴν καλαμαίαν), εἴ τινι ἐμβλέψειε ζῴῳ, τούτῳ κακόν τι γίνεσθαι.22 Aristarchus in his commentary on Aeschylus’ Lykourgos says that, if this grasshopper looks in the face of an animal, something bad happens to it.

Welcker23 suspected that the title Lykourgos here stood for the whole trilogy,24 but this seems less probable; it can be argued from Aristarchus’ comment about the grasshopper (ἀκρίς or μάντις καλαμαία) that it was mentioned by Aeschylus,25 and the mention of such a humble animal usually living in the countryside is more likely to have occurred in a satyr drama than in a tragedy.26 Another Aristarchean commentary to a satyr drama is probably referred to by Athenaeus in book 14 of the Deipnosophistae within a long and detailed discussion (14.634b– 637a) about the exact meaning of the word μάγαδις, which appears to be used in reference to a plucked-string instrument (a kind of harp) by Anacreon,27 to an aulos in a verse from Ion’s satyric Omphale;28 concerning the second meaning, 20 Cf. Cohn 1895a, 862. 21 This was the satyric piece of the Lycurgean tetralogy according to Schol. ad Ar. Thesm. 135 (p. 25 Regtuit = Aesch. T 68). 22 I print Wendel’s text (1914, 229), with a selection of the most relevant data from the apparatus. The cod. Ambrosianus (K) of the Theocritean scholia has Ἀριστοφάνης for Ἀρίσταρχος and omits the words ἐν – φησί, but the text of the other manuscripts is to be preferred (so Pfeiffer 1968, 222, n. 7). Radt 2009, 235 prints τούτῳ κακόν τι γενέσθαι instead of τούτῳ κακόν τι γίνεσθαι, but gives no explanation of this choice: according to Wendel’s apparatus the mss. have all γίνεσθαι or γίνεται (UEA) 23 Welcker 1824, 325. 24 ‘Fort. recte’ according to Radt 2009, 235. The trilogy comprised the tragedies Edonoi, Bas­ sarides, and Neaniskoi (Schol. ad Ar. Thesm. 135, 25.2–3 Regtuit = Aeschylus, test. Gi 68). 25 Cf. Pfeiffer 1968, 222. 26 Remember the mention of the ‘Aetnean beetle’ (Αἰτναῖος κάνθαρος) in Aeschylus’ satyric Sis­ yphos (fr. 233) and in Sophocles’ Ichneutai (307); see also Soph. fr. 162, from a (possibly) satyric Daidalos and Lämmle 2013, 418–22. For references to other animals in satyr drama see below, § 4. 27 Fr. 29 Page. 28 Fr. 23; then, some lines below, Athenaeus quotes two more verses from the same play (fr. 22). Musical instruments are often mentioned in satyr plays, as, for instance, the lyre in Sophocles’ Ichneutai (see CHRISTOPOULOS in this volume).

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he reports the various explanations proposed by Aristarchus, Tryphon (second half of first century BC)29 and Didymus (second half of first century BC – early first century AD):30 (634b-f)31 εἰπόντος δὲ ἐπὶ τούτοις Αἰμιλιανοῦ· ‘ἀλλὰ μήν, ὦ ἑταῖρε Μασούριε, πολλάκις καὶ αὐτὸς ἐν ἐννοίᾳ γίνομαι, μουσικῆς ὢν ἐραστής, περὶ τῆς μαγάδιδος καλουμένης, πότερον αὐλῶν εἶδος ἢ κιθάρας ἐστίν. ὁ μὲν γὰρ ἥδιστος Ἀνακρέων λέγει που· ψάλλω δ’ εἴκοσι χορδαῖσι μάγαδιν32 ἔχων· ὦ Λεύκασπι, σὺ δ’ ἡβᾷς. Ἴων δ’ ὁ Χῖος ἐν Ὀμφάλῃ ὡς περὶ αὐλῶν λέγει διὰ τούτων: Λυδός τε μάγαδις αὐλὸς ἡγείσθω βοῆς (= Ion, Omph. fr. 23)· ὅπερ ἐξηγούμενος ἰαμβεῖον Ἀρίσταρχος ὁ γραμματικός … γένος αὐλοῦ φησιν εἶναι τὸν μάγαδιν ... Τρύφων δ’ ἐν δευτέρῳ περὶ Ὀνομασιῶν33 λέγει οὕτως· ‘ὁ δὲ μάγαδις καλούμενος αὐλός’. καὶ πάλιν· ‘ὁ μάγαδις ἐν ταὐτῷ ὀξὺν καὶ βαρὺν φθόγγον ἐπιδείκνυται, ὡς Ἀναξανδρίδης ἐν Ὁπλομάχῳ34 φησί· μάγαδιν λαλήσω μικρὸν ἅμα σοι καὶ μέγαν35’ ... καὶ ὃς ἔφη· ‘Δίδυμος ὁ γραμματικὸς ἐν ταῖς πρὸς Ἴωνα (?)36 Ἀντεξηγήσεσιν,37 ἑταῖρε Αἰμιλιανέ, μάγαδιν αὐλὸν ἀκούει τὸν κιθαριστήριον· … ἢ ἐλλείπειν οὖν δεῖ παρὰ τῷ Ἴωνι τόν ‘τε’ σύνδεσμον, ἵν’ ᾖ ‘μάγαδις αὐλός ὁ προσαυλούμενος τῇ μαγάδι‹δι›’.38 After these words, as Aemilianus said: Certainly, my friend Masurius, I too, as a lover of music, have been often considering about the so-called magadis, whether it is a kind of auloi or of harp. Anacreon the sweet says: I pluck on twenty strings having the magadis (?), o Leucaspis, and you are exulting in your youth. Ion of Chios in Omphale speaks of it as auloi, in this passage:

29 Cf. Wendel 1939, 726–7. 30 Cf. Cohn 1903, 445. 31 I follow Olson’s Teubner (de Gruyter) edition (vol. IV, Berlin 2019), except for the transmitted πρὸς Ἴωνα (see below, note 36) and other negligible differences in punctuation and layout. 32 Page puts χορδαῖσι μάγαδιν between cruces. 33 Fr. 110 Velsen. 34 Fr. 36. 35 μάγαδιν A (Marc. gr. 447): μαγάδι Weston, μάγαδις Casaubon – μέγαν Α: μέγα Casaubon. Since the verse is also quoted at 4.182d and A’s text is identical in both passages, Olson is probably right in leaving it unchanged (the same double corruption at so long a distance would be possible only if we allow that it was already in Athenaeus’ source); μάγαδιν is to be taken as an internal accusative with λαλήσω. 36 So the codex Α; in the manuscripts of the Epitome (C = Paris. Suppl. gr. 841; E = Laurent. plut. 60.2) the reference to Didymus was omitted. The words have been variously corrected by scholars: περὶ Ἴωνα Meineke, εἰς Ἴωνα Wilamowitz (followed by Olson), πρὸς Ἴωνα Bapp, πρὸς Ἰώβαν Schmidt, πρὸς Ἰξίονα Bergk. 37 P. 302 Schmidt. 38 αὐλός and μαγάδι Kaibel.

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And let the Lydian magadis aulos lead the cry.39 Aristarchus the grammarian … while commenting on this iambic trimeter, says that the magadis is a kind of aulos … Tryphon in Book 2 of the treatise On The Use of Terms says so: ‘Τhe aulos called magadis’. And again: ‘The magadis utters a high and a low sound simultaneously, as Anaxandrides says in the Drillsergeant: I will chat to you (as) on the magadis, high and low.40 … Masurius, then, replied: – Didymus the grammarian in his Counter­explanations41 against Ion (?), my friend Aemilianus, intepretes magadis aulos as ‘aulos accompanying the lyre’ ... Otherwise, the ‘and’ conjunction must be supplied in Ion, in order to have ‘magadis and the aulos which is played to accompany the lyre’.42

Concerning this passage, Pfeiffer43 remarks that ‘the word ἐξηγεῖσθαι itself and in isolation does not suggest the writing of a commentary’; therefore, he considers ‘hazardous’ to infer that Aristarchus wrote a hypomnema to Ion’s drama on the sole basis of Athenaeus’ words ὅπερ ἐξηγούμενος ἰαμβεῖον, and supposes that his interpretation of the verse was taken from a commentary to another text (for instance, a lyric poet) where the noun μάγαδις occurred and Ion’s passage was quoted as evidence to explain it.44 However, when Athenaeus elsewhere uses these or similar words he appears to refer to Alexandrian commentaries on the play he is just quoting, for example at 2.67d, where he quotes Aristophanes, Plutus 720 with Didymus’ interpretation:

39 I.e. the song (for βοή = song of joy cf. LSJ s.v., Pind. Nem. 3.67, Eur. El. 879, Ar. Ran. 212). 40 The translation follows Tryphon’s interpretation, which raises two problems: a) Anaxandrides does not seem to refer to μάγαδις αὐλός but only to μάγαδις, which could also mean ‘diaphony’, viz. the practice of singing (or playing) two notes at the interval of an octave (see Barker 1988; LSJ s.v. μαγαδίζω II); b) μέγας, when used in reference to sound, usually means ‘loud’, i.e. refers not to pitch but to volume (especially in the adverbial form μέγα, for example μέγα ἰάχειν, ἀῧσαι, βοῆσαι etc.: cf. Il. 2.333, 14.147, 17.334, Od. 17.239: LSJ s.v. μέγας B II); thus μικρόν here should mean ‘soft’. The verse should then be translated as ‘I will chatter with you (as) in diaphony, soft and loud’, but one would rather expect μικρόν … καὶ μέγαν to be an explanation of μάγαδιν. However, we should remember that pitch is inversely proportional to size: the smallest the pipe (or string) is, the highest the pitch will result. This may account for an exceptional use of the two terms in the sense of ‘high’ (μικρόν) and ‘low’ (μέγαν). Cf. Cipolla 2003, 130–3; Millis 2015, 178–80 (who adopts Casaubon’s μάγαδις and μέγα and translates: ‘Like a magadis, I will speak together with you softly and loudly’). 41 So LSJ s.v. ἀντηξήγησις. 42 This alternative explanation (probably itself by Didymus, too; cf. Schol. ad Eur. Med. 737, 2.181.7–8 Schw. = Didym. p. 245 Schmidt Δίδυμος δέ φησιν ἐλλείπειν τὴν διά, ἵν’ ᾖ· καὶ διὰ τὰ ἐπικηρυκεύματα) is far less plausible: Λυδός implies a masculine noun, while μάγαδις in the meaning of ‘harp’ is always used as a feminine (see LSJ s.v.). 43 Pfeiffer 1968, 223. 44 A further hypothesis that we may consider would be a miscellaneous exegetical work of the type of Didymus’ Ἀντεξηγήσεις, quoted by Athenaeus in the same passage.

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Ἀριστοφάνης δὲ ἐν Πλούτῳ φησίν· ‘ὄξει διέμενος Σφηττίῳ’. Δίδυμος45 δ’ ἐξηγούμενος τὸ ἰαμβεῖόν φησιν· ‘ἴσως διότι οἱ Σφήττιοι ὀξεῖς’. Aristophanes in Plutus says: ‘having diluted it with vinegar of Sphettos’. Didymus, explaining the iambic trimeter, says: ‘perhaps because the Sphettians are bitter’.

The similarity with 14.634–5 is evident (67d Δίδυμος δ’ ἐξηγούμενος τὸ ἰαμβεῖόν φησιν ≈ 634f ὅπερ ἐξηγούμενος ἰαμβεῖον Ἀρίσταρχος … φησιν);46 that Didymus wrote a commentary on Plutus may be inferred from other references to him in the scholia to the comedy,47 while the lack of other evidence for Aristarchus’ commentary on Omphale may well be due to the fact that the drama, unlike Plutus, has not survived. So, its existence is a possibility to be considered, and the fact that Aristarchus wrote a commentary about Aeschylus’ satyric Lykourgos makes it somewhat stronger. Tryphon’s Περὶ ὀνομασιῶν, according to Athenaeus,48 was a lexicographical work concerning technical terms about auloi and other musical instruments; but perhaps it covered a wider range of arguments.49 As to Didymus’ Ἀντεξηγήσεις, it is not certain whether these ‘counter-explanations’ were directed against the exegetical work by another scholar concerning Ion’s drama (or dramas), or against Ion himself, criticised for the improper use of certain words.50 If we follow the first hypothesis, Athenaeus’ text should be

45 Didym. p. 247 Schmidt. 46 Compare also Ath. 9.371e–f Ἐπαίνετος δ’ ἐν Ὀψαρτυτικῷ τὰ κεφαλωτὰ καλεῖσθαί φησι γηθυλλίδας ... οἳ δὲ τὸ γήθυον καλούμενον τοῦτό φασιν εἶναι, οὗ μνημονεύει Φρύνιχος ἐν Κρόνῳ (fr. 12)· ὅπερ ἐξηγούμενος δρᾶμα Δίδυμος (pp. 306–7 Schmidt) ὅμοιά φησιν εἶναι τὰ γήθυα τοῖς λεγομένοις ἀμπελοπράσοις, τὰ δ’ αὐτὰ καὶ γηθυλλίδας (ἐπιθυλλίδας codd., Olson: corr. Dalechamps) λέγεσθαι (‘Epaenetus in his Cooking Manual says that leeks ar called gethyllides ... others say that this is the so-called gethyon [horn onion], mentioned by Phrynichus in Cronus; while commenting on this drama, Didymus says that gethya are similar to the so-called ampeloprasa [wild-leeks], and that the same are called also gethyllides’). Here the existence of a commentary on the whole comedy is unquestionable; of course, here Athenaeus says ὅπερ ἐξηγούμενος δρᾶμα, not ὅ. ἐξ. ἰαμβεῖον, because he does not quote Phrynichus’ verse literally, but mentions only the title of the comedy. 47 Cf. Schol. ad Plut. 1011a, p. 162 Chantry νηττάριον … καὶ φαττίον] Δίδυμος· ὑποκορίσματα πρὸς γυναῖκας, ‘duckling … and little dove: Didymus: deminutives for (addressing) women’; Schol. Plut. 1129d, p. 161 Chantry ἀσκωλίαζε] … οὕτως καὶ Δίδυμος, ‘hop on a greased wineskin: … so Didymus too’; see also Cohn 1903, 455. Pfeiffer’s cautious skepticism (1968, 276, n. 7) on the interpretation of Athenaeus’ words here seems excessive; he himself admits that the existence of hypomnemata on Aristophanes by Didymus ‘is only a conjecture … but an almost certain conjecture’ (ibid.). 48 Ath. 4.174e: ἔστι δὲ τὸ σύγγραμμα περὶ αὐλῶν καὶ ὀργάνων. 49 Cf. Cohn 1903, 741–2: the title appears too wide and generic for a treatise focusing on such a limited and specialistic matter. 50 For both hypotheses see Meineke 1849, 529; for the second see now Rougier-Blanc 2018, I, 290.

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corrected: the words πρὸς Ἴωνα, in conjunction with Ἀντεξηγήσεις, can hardly mean other than ‘against’ or ‘in reply to Ion’.51 Correcting πρὸς in περί (Meineke) or εἰς (Wilamowitz, followed by Kaibel and Olson) would move the target of Didymus’ polemic from Ion’s work to an unknown interpreter: in this case, it would have been strange if Didymus chose a title that gave the greatest emphasis to the polemical character of the book without saying against whom it was directed.52 Didymus’ work can be classified as a typical example of the so-called ἀντιγραφαί or, as Dubischar53 suggests to call them, ‘Πρός-literature’, a kind of philological treatise well attested in Alexandrian scholarship.54 Then, Athenaeus’ πρὸς is probably right and the name of the scholar against whom Didymus was polemising should be restored in place of Ἴωνα (which would have easily replaced it by influence of the context). Schmidt’s Ἰώβαν would be an easy correction:55 king Jubas II of Mauretania (before 50 BC – 23 AD)56 wrote a Θεατρικὴ Ἱστορία, and we know that Didymus often wrote against him.57 Athenaeus quotes him in several passages where discussion about musical instruments is involved, such as 4.175d, 175e, 177a, 182e.58 Another good candidate would be Demetrius

51 Compare the two titles Πρὸς τὸν Δημόκριτον ἐξηγήσεις and Ἡρακλείτου ἐξηγήσεις in the list of works by Heraclides Ponticus given by Diogenes Laertius 5.88: the first one was written ‘against Democritus’, the second ‘about Heraclitus’. 52 This is the very reason for which Bapp proposed ἐν ταῖς πρὸς Ἴωνα Ἀντεξηγήσεσιν, ‘in the Counter­explanations on Ion against Epigenes’. Epigenes was an Alexandrian grammarian, perhaps older than Callimachus; he is quoted by Athenaeus 11.468c for the explanation of Ion, Agamemnon fr. 1.2 ἐκπωμα δακτυλωτόν. Cf. Cohn 1907, 65. 53 Dubischar 2015, 568–70. 54 Cf. Callimachus’ Πρὸς Πραξιφάνην, Apollonius Rhodius’ Πρὸς Ζηνόδοτον, Aristarchus’ Πρὸς Φιλίταν and so on (Dubischar 2015, ibid.). 55 Αccepted by Adrados 1980–2009, s.v. ἀντεξήγησις. In this case we should better write πρὸς Ἰόβαν (not Ἰώβαν): this is the right spelling of the noun, while Ἰώβας appears only twice in a fragment by John of Antiochia transmitted by Constantinus Porphyrogenitus (fr. 150.1.96, 150.1.103 Roberto = Exc. de insid. 73.15, 73.27 De Boor). The Irvine TLG gives also Ἰώβᾳ in a fragment by Jubas (91a Müller) quoted by Herodianus, but Lentz correctly prints Ἰόβᾳ (3.2.920.16, cf. also 3.2.650.25, 651.3, 656.36, etc.). 56 Cf. Jacoby 1916, 2385–6. 57 Suda I 399 συνήκμαζε δὲ αὐτῷ (scil. Ἰόβᾳ) Δίδυμος ὁ χαλκέντερος ὁ καὶ πολλὰ γράψας κατ’ αὐτοῦ. 58 At 4.182d–e, where Athenaeus mentions Jubas for a notice in regard to auloi made with fawn’s legs, we find a quick reference to μάγαδις αὐλός (again with the quotation of Anaxandrides’ fr. 36) and to the μάγαδις as plucked-string instrument; Tryphon’s name also occurs. This passage comes probably from the same source (or sources) of 14.634b–f, which appears to be an enlarged version of it.

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Ixion (second century BC),59 if we accept Bergk’s πρὸς Ἰξίονα.60 Demetrius was a pupil of Aristarchus and wrote commentaries on Aristophanes’ comedies;61 he is often referred to simply as Ἰξίων by ancient grammarians and scholiasts.62 Unfortunately we do not know of commentaries on tragedians written by him, but this would be only an argumentum ex silentio, and therefore not necessarily relevant. Besides Ἀντεξηγήσεις, a Didymean commentary on Achaeus’ (probably satyric)63 Athla, according to Schmidt,64 can be posited on the basis of Ath. 15.689b:65 τοῦ δὲ Αἰγυπτίου μύρου μνημονεύων Ἀχαιὸς ἐν Ἄθλοις φησίν· ἰσάργυρόν τ’ εἰς χεῖρα Κυπρίου λίθου δώσουσι κόσμον χριμάτων τ’ Αἰγυπτίων (= Achaeus, Athla fr. 5). ‘μήποτε’, φησὶν ὁ Δίδυμος,66 ‘τὴν καλουμένην στακτὴν λέγει, διὰ τὴν σμύρναν ἣν εἰς Αἴγυπτον καταγομένην κομίζεσθαι πρὸς τοὺς Ἕλληνας’. Achaeus, mentioning in Athla the Egyptian perfume, says: They will give an expensive jewel of Cyprian stone67 in the hand, and an ornament68 of Egyptian perfumes. ‘Perhaps’ says Didymus ‘he means the so-called stakte, because of the myrrh which, carried off to Egypt, is then imported into Greece’.

59 The exact chronology of Demetrius’ life and activity are uncertain; Suda (Δ 480) puts him in the age of Augustus, but at the same time says that he was a pupil of Aristarchus, who lived between 216 and 144 BC. The second information is more likely to be right (see the demonstration in Staesche 1883, 5–12). 60 The spelling Ἰξίωνα would be equally possible: quotations from Aeschylus’ Ixion are introduced by the words Αἰσχύλου Ἰξίωνος (F 90 ap. Stob. 4.53.15; -ονος Gaisford) or Αἰσχύλος ... ἐν Ἰξίωνι (F 91 ap. Ath. 4.182b; -ονι Butler, Dindorf). Ap. Dysc. De Pron. 89.14 Schneider (= 482 Brandenburg) has Ἰξίωνι in reference to Demetrius. In Pollux 9.27 the manuscripts have an impossible παρ’ Εὐριπίδῃ ἐν Ἰξίωνι for παρ’ Εὐριπίδῃ ἐν Ἴωνι (followed by the quotation of Euripides, Ion 294). 61 See below under § 3. 62 Cf. Schol. ad Hom. Il. 1.423–4, 1.511, 3.18a, etc.; Ap. Dysc. De Pron. 79.26, 89.3, 89.14 Schneider; Schol. ad Ar. Ran. 308c. 63 On the satyric nature of the drama (never explicitly attested), see Krumeich et al. 1999, 512; Cipolla 2003, 170–1. 64 Schmidt 1854, 305–6. 65 Here I prefer Kaibel’s Teubner text (3 vols., Leipzig 1887–90), because Olson’s unreasonably retains scribal errors that can be easily emended (like A’s εἰς ἀργυροῦν τις: ἰσάργυρόν τ᾽ εἰς Heringa). 66 P. 305 Schmidt. 67 I.e. of emerald; for ἰσάργυρος, lit. ‘worth its weight in silver’ (LSJ s.v.); cf. Aesch. Ag. 959. 68 κόσμον can refer to jewels and perfumes as well, so governs ἀπὸ κοινοῦ both Κυπρίου λίθου and χριμάτων τ’ Αἰγυπτίων; it is not necessary to supply ἄλειμμα (Meineke) after v. 2.

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This quotation can be compared to Ath. 2.70a-c: ΚΙΝΑΡΑ. ταύτην Σοφοκλῆς ἐν Κολχίσι69 κυνάραν καλεῖ, ἐν δὲ Φοίνικι·70 κύναρος ἄκανθα πάντα πληθύει γύην. … Δίδυμος δ’ ὁ γραμματικὸς71 ἐξηγούμενος παρὰ τῷ Σοφοκλεῖ τὸ κύναρος ἄκανθα ‘μήποτε’, φησί, ‘τὴν κυνόσβατον λέγει διὰ τὸ ἀκανθῶδες καὶ τραχὺ εἶναι τὸ φυτόν’. CARDOON. Sophocles in Colchides calls it kynara, in Phoinix the thorny cardoon (kynaros) fills over all the field. ... Didymus the grammarian, explaining the words ‘thorny cardoon’ in Sophocles, says ‘perhaps he means the dog-thorn,72 because the plant is thorny and prickly’.

Here a Didymean commentary to Sophocles’ drama (in this case a tragedy, the Phoinix) is also probably implied (ἐξηγούμενος!),73 and in both cases Didymus uses the same expressions: μήποτε ... λέγει διὰ ...

Case Study: Ion, Omphale fr. 19 Lexicographers often preserve traces of Alexandrian exegetical debate in a very compressed form. For example, in place of Athenaeus’ thorough discussion of the meaning of μάγαδις αὐλός, Hesychius (fifth – sixth century AD)74 M 3 (= Schol. ad Greg. Naz. Or. 28, 24, n. 185 Piccolomini) has just this: μαγάδεις· αὐλοὶ κιθαριστήριοι. ὄργανον ψαλτικόν. ὅθεν καὶ τὸ ψάλλειν μαγαδίζειν λέγουσιν. Ἴων Ὀμφάλῃ· [ἢ] ‘μάγαδις αὐλὸς ἡγείσθω βοῆς’ ἀντὶ τοῦ ὁ συνᾴδων τῇ μαγάδι. [μαγαδίζειν Schol. Greg. Naz.: μαγάζειν Hsch. | post κιθαριστήριοι. add. Leurini | Ἴων Ὀμφάλη] οἷον ὀμφάλων Hsch.: corr. Stephanus, Casaubon | ἢ μαγάδης αὐλὸς ἢ γηθηβοῆς Hsch.: corr. edd. ex Athenaeo] Magadeis: auloi for the accompanyment of the lyre. Plucked-string instrument. Hence, too, to play the harp is called magadizein. Ion in Omphale: ‘the aulos which is played together with the magadis’.

The ancient exegetical debate is here reduced to the simple juxtaposition of the two possible meanings (a kind of aulos suited for accompanying the kithara, or a 69 Fr. 348. 70 Fr. 718. 71 P. 242 Schmidt. 72 Or ‘wild rose’ (LSJ). 73 On Didymus’ exegetical activity concerning Sophocles cf. Pfeiffer 1968, 277. 74 Cf. Latte 1953, VII–VIII.

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plucked-string intrument), without any reference to Alexandrian scholars. This kind of compression, especially when it is combined with accidents in the trasmission of the text and we have only the lexicographical source, often causes the loss of important information, which may result in misunderstanding the words of ancient interpreters.75 Consider Hesychius Σ 1515: σπίλον Παρνασίαν.76 Ἴων Ὀμφάλη (= Ion, Omph. fr. 19). οὐκ εὖ. σπιλάδες γὰρ πέτραι. Here Ion’s expression σπίλον Παρνασίαν (‘the rock of Parnasus’) is accompanied by the critical judgement ‘not well’, ‘uncorrectly’, followed by a puzzling explanation: ‘for σπιλάδες (are) rocks’. σπιλάς is a poetic noun mostly used (from the Odyssey onwards) of rocks by the sea, or beneath its surface,77 and in Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica 3.1294, it is coupled with πέτρη (σπιλὰς εἰν ἁλὶ πέτρη); but it can also mean generally ‘rock’, as here and in Soph. Trach. 678; [Simon.] AP 6.217.2; Theocr. epigr. 4.6. In addition, in scholia and in Byzantine Etymolog­ ica several examples of σπιλάς glossed as πέτρα can be found, for example: Schol. ad Opp. Hal. 1.167 σπιλάδων· πετρῶν σπῖλον ἐχουσῶν· σπιλὰς ἐκ τοῦ σπῖλος ὁ ῥύπος· αὕτη γὰρ δέχεται τῆς θαλάσσης τὰ ῥυπάσματα, ἢ παρὰ τὸ πελάζω πέλας τις οὖσα, εἰς ἣν πελάζουσι τὰ κύματα. spiladon: ‘of rock covered with dirt’. spilas from spilos, ‘dirt’, for it collects the dirts of the sea. Or from pelazo [‘approach, get near’], because it is somewhat ‘near’ [pelas], to which waves ‘get near’ [pelazousi]. Etym. Gud. Σ 508.58–509.2 Σπιλάδες, αἱ διεσχισμέναι καὶ κεκοιλωμέναι πέτραι ὑπὸ τῆς τῶν κυμάτων πλήξεως. Σπιλάδες, αἱ παράλιαι πέτραι, παρὰ ἐσπιλῶσθαι, ἢ παρὰ ταῖς κατὰ θάλασσαν περιειλημμέναις ἐν ὀλίγῳ ὕδατι· ἢ σπιλάδες αἱ ὕφαλοι πέτραι· ἢ παρὰ τὸ σπῖλος ὃ σημαίνει τὸν ῥύπον.78 spilades, rocks split and hollowed by the strokes of sea waves. Spilades, rocks near the sea, from espilosthai [‘to be soiled’], or from the rocks beneath the sea covered by a low level of water; or spilades, rocks beneath the sea; or from spilos, which means ‘dirt’.

These two texts try to establish an etymological link between σπιλάς and σπῖλος, a masculine noun used mainly from Hellenistic age onwards as a synonym of

75 On this phenomenon with regard to Hesychius’ lexicon, see Tosi 2015. 76 παρνασείαν Hsch.: corr. Musurus (Παρνασσίαν Schrevel, followed by Snell in TrGF). 77 See Hom. Od. 3.298, 5.401, 405; Ap. Rh. 2.550, 568, 3.1294, 1371, etc. 78 See also Schol. ad Opp. Hal. 2.307 σπιλάς· πέτρα, 2.391 = 3.461 σπιλάδεσσι· πέτραις, et al.; Schol. ad Hom. Od. 3.298 (2.109 Pontani); Schol. ad Soph. Trach. 678; Schol. (recc.) ad Lycoph. Alex. 374.15–16; Etym. Magn. 724.2–8.

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κηλίς, ‘stain’, and usually written σπίλος79: this implies a confusion with σπίλος (ἡ) ‘rock’, the very word used by Ion and attested elsewere in classical authors80 with this meaning. The same confusion seems to lie behind Hesychius Σ 1515 and its neighbouring glosses, if we consider them together:81 – Σ 1512 σπιλάδες· αἱ περιεχόμεναι τῇ θαλάσσῃ πέτραι – Σ 1514 σπίλοι· αἱ ἐν τοῖς ἱματίοις κηλῖδες – Σ 1515 σπίλον Παρνασίαν· Ἴων Ὀμφάλη. οὐκ εὖ. σπιλάδες γὰρ πέτραι – Σ 1516 σπίλος· ῥύπος ἱματίου – Σ 1517 σπίλος (σπίδος cod., corr. Stephanus)· πρῖνος. κηλίς. πέτρα πωρώδης. χοιράς. γῆ κεραμική – Σ 1519 σπίλων·82 τραχεῖς τόποι – Σ 1520 σπιλῶσαι· ῥυπῶσαι 1512 and 1519 imply σπίλος/σπιλάς = πέτρα as 1515; 1514, 1516 and 1520 σπίλος = κηλίς, while 1517 conflates both explanations (πέτρα/χοιράς and κηλίς) together with other ones. The second part of Σ 1515 resembles closely σ 1512, which seems to be echoed in a shortened form: at a first glance, one would say that it was an addition by the lexicographer,83 perhaps disappointed with Ion’s use of σπίλος in the sense of ‘rock’ instead of the more classic σπιλάς. If so, one should translate ‘for rocks (should be called) σπιλάδες’. But, according to Greek word order, it is far more logical to take σπιλάδες as subject and πέτραι as predicative noun than the reverse: ‘for σπιλάδες (are) rocks’. Apart from this, why should Hesychius have been disappointed? The usage of σπίλος for κηλίς was censored by a rigorous Atticist like Phrynichus,84 but nothing similar happened, as far as we know, in reference to σπίλος = σπιλάς: then, from Phrynichus’ point of view, Ion would have been right in saying it of a rock, and it is hardy conceivable that Hesychius (or his source) thought something different. Moreover, as Schmidt points out,85 even if οὐκ εὖ and similar judgements may be sometimes used by ancient commentators to criticize the author they are commenting on (see Schol. ad Soph. Trach. 602,

79 LSJ s.v. σπίλος Β: cf. [Hippoc.] Ep. 16, Dorio ap. Ath. 7.297c, etc. Besides σπιλάς, ‘rock’, a masculine noun σπιλάς in the sense of ‘spot, stain’ is also found: cf. Orph. Lith. 620; Ep.Jud. 12. 80 E.g. [Arist.] Mund. 392b.30, Lycoph. Alex. 188, 374; see LSJ s.v.) 81 I omit Σ 1513 σπίλαξ· μῶλος ὁ †πλατανώδης† and Σ 1518 σπίλη· συμπεφυκός. λεῖον because they are not relevant to our purpose. 82 σπιλών (nom.) West, but the plur. gen. is probably right, despite the nom. of the explanation; cf. Hansen 2005, appar. ad loc. 83 ‘Verba incuriose addita’ Hansen 2005, appar. ad loc. 84 Phryn. Ecl. 20 Fischer. 85 Schmidt 1854, 303.

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Schol. ad Eur. Alc. 233, 779), they are usually directed not against writers, but actually against their interpreters who did not understand properly the sense of certain expressions. All other occurrences of οὐκ εὖ in Hesychius’ Lexicon are clearly to be unterstood in this way,86 and the same happens with οὐ καλῶς87 and κακῶς: see for example E 6050, where Ion’s Omphale is quoted again: ἐρρωπίζομεν· Ἴων Ὀμφάλῃ (fr. 31). Τινὲς ‘ῥωπίζειν’ ἀπέδοσαν τὸ ἀτεχνεύεσθαι (ἀτεχνιτεύεσθαι Bentley) καὶ †ἀματεύεσθαι (ἀμαθεύεσθαι Soping), κακῶς· ἔστι γὰρ ῥῶπος ὁ λεπτὸς φόρτος καὶ ποικίλος καὶ †βέβαιος, καὶ τὰ ἐκ τῶν ῥωπῶν πλέγματα, κανᾶ καὶ σῆστρα κυρίως. errhopizomen:88 Ion in Omphale. Certain scholars rendered rhopizein with ‘to be unskilful and ignorant (?)’, badly: for rhopos indicates petty, miscellaneous and … wares, and objects made with twisted shrub, mainly baskets and sieves.

This can hardly be surprising. The main purpose of a lexicographer like Hesychius is to provide a key to correct interpretation of ancient authors, and so different opinions about the meaning of words are surely more important for him to record than aesthetic/stylistic judgements, whose proper place is a commentary: and in fact we do find them in scholia, deriving from Alexandrian commentaries. So, unless Σ 1515 is an exception, we may suppose, with Schmidt, that here too Hesychius’ source was criticising some earlier scholar for his wrong interpretation of σπίλος, and that some words in the textual tradition dropped off; for example: σπίλον Παρνασίαν· Ἴων Ὀμφάλῃ. , οὐκ εὖ. σπιλάδες γὰρ πέτραι. ‘The rock (spilos) of Parnasus’: Ion in Omphale. , not well. For spilades are rocks.

This gloss, like the other ones quoted above, provides a good example of what Didymus’ Ἀντεξηγήσεις were (regardless of whether it actually comes from this work or not):89 ‘critical/divergent interpretations’ against other scholars. 86 Cf. B 1097 βρενθινά· ῥιζάρια τινά, οἷς ἐρυθραίνονται αἱ γυναῖκες τὰς παρειάς· οἱ δὲ ἄγχουσαν, οὐκ εὖ ... οἱ δὲ φῦκος παρεμφερὲς κύδει Ἀφροδίτης; Δ 1835; E 1977; I 854; K 727; Λ 208; O 639; Π 180; Σ 2841. 87 Cf. A 7034 ἀργεστᾶο νότοιο· τοῦ λεγομένου λευκονότου τινές, [δὲ] οὐ καλῶς· Ὅμηρος γὰρ τέσσαρας οἶδεν ἀνέμους, ἔστιν οὖν ταχέος (Hom. Il. 11.306); Λ 949 and 1390. 88 As a derivate from ῥῶπος, the verb would mean literally ‘we dealt in petty wares’ (cf. LSJ s.v. ῥωπίζω). However, it is more likely that Ion used it in the translate sense of ‘acting in a confuse manner’ that we find in other sources, where the same gloss occurs without reference to Ion: cf. Phot. E 1967 Τheod. ἐρρωπίζομεν· †εὔμικτα† καὶ συμπεφυρμένα ἐποιοῦμεν· ῥῶπος γὰρ ὁ ποικίλος καὶ λεπτὸς φόρτος; hence Etym. Sym. E 807 = Etym. Magn. 377.29–30; see also Eust. ad Il. 13.199, 3.460.4–5 van der Valk φέρεται δὲ καὶ ῥῆμα τὸ ῥωπίζειν, ὃ δηλοῖ τὸ σύμμικτα καὶ συμπεφυρμένα ποιεῖν. This would also account for the interpretation ‘to be unskilful and ignorant’, rejected by Hesychius. 89 For the first hypothesis cf. Meineke 1849, 529; contra Schmidt 1854, 304.

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3 Satyr Dramas as a Source for Commentators Besides being studied in itself, satyr dramas provided also a rich treasure of exegetical materials useful to commentators of other texts. This was, at a first stage, a natural consequence of their thorough reading and systematic interpretation: a scholar who had commented (or simply read through) a full satyr drama by Aeschylus, was obviously able to quote its verses as loci similes when explaining a different text. So, for example, ancient commentators noticed that Aristophanes borrowed expressions or whole verses from Achaeus’ satyr dramas: 1) Schol. ad Pax 356d (59 Holwerda) δορὶ σὺν ἀσπίδι] Ἀχαιοῦ ἐστιν ἐκ Μώμου. οὐδὲν δὲ χεῖρον ὁλόκληρον θεῖναι τὸ ἰαμβεῖον, ὅπερ οὕτως ἔχει· Ἄρης ὁ λῃστὴς σὺν δορὶ σὺν ἀσπίδι (= Ach. Momos, fr. 29) ‘With the spear, with the shield’. It is by Achaeus, from Momos. It is not out of place to quote the full verse, which says so: Ares the thief with the spear, with the shield. 2) Schol. ad Vesp. 1081 (172 Koster) ξὺν δορὶ ξὺν ἀσπίδι] τοῦτο Ἀχαιοῦ, ἀπὸ τοῦ Μώμου δράματος. ‘With the spear, with the shield’. This is by Achaeus, from the drama Momos. 3) Schol. ad Ran. 184a (31 Chantry) χαῖρ’ ὦ Χάρων] Δημήτριός90 φησιν Ἀχαιοῦ ὅλον εἶναι, ἐκ τοῦ Αἴθωνος. λέγουσι δ’ αὐτὸ οἱ Σάτυροι· χαῖρ’ ὦ Χάρων, χαῖρ’ ὦ Χάρων, χαῖρ’ ὦ Χάρων. ἦ που σφόδρα θυμοῖ; (= Ach. Aithon, fr. 11) ‘Hi, Charon’. Demetrius says that it is an entire verse by Achaeus, from Aithon, uttered by the Satyrs: Hi, Charon, hi, Charon, hi, Charon! What? Are you very angry?!

In the last example the scholium declares his source: Demetrius, namely Demetrius Ixion. It is very likely that also the notice that the verse is uttered by the satyrs derives from the same source; at any rate, only a reader who had full and direct knowledge of Achaeus’ drama could know who was the speaking character of a certain line. It would be tempting to assign to Demetrius also the other two

90 Demetr. Ix. fr. 32 Staesche.

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scholia: his name occurs also in the scholium on Vespae 240a.45 Koster91 (unless Demetrius of Phalerum is meant),92 which may derive from his commentary on the comedy. For Pax we have no evidence of a commentary written by him; but, since the information given by the scholium on 356d is the same as in the one to Vesp. 1081 (but with the full quotation of Achaeus’ verse), it is likely that both derive from the same source. We could go further with speculation and trace the remote origin of these two scholia back to Chamaeleon’s Περὶ Σατύρων quoted above: Achaeus’ words σὺν δορὶ σὺν ἀσπίδι, echoed twice by Aristophanes, had become a proverb with the meaning of making every effort to achieve a goal, as explained by Photius (Σ 552 Theod. σὺν δορὶ σὺν ἀσπίδι: ἐπὶ τῶν παντὶ τρόπῳ πρᾶξαι τι πειρωμένων) and other sources.93 If Chamaeleon’s inquiry into satyr drama made him able to recognize in Aristias’ Kyklops the origin of the proverb ἀπώλεσας τὸν οἶνον, the same thing might have happened for other proverbs.94

4 Satyr Drama as a Repertoire for Grammar Treatises and Lexica Grammarians too found useful material in satyr dramas. The fragment from Achaeus’ Momos quoted above provides good evidence for the declension of δόρυ, and therefore appears also in grammatical treatises and lexica (with the variant δόρει). See for instance Choeroboscus’ (probably first half of ninth century AD)95 Scholia in Theodosii Canones (346.15–20 Hilgard), who assignes it wrongly to Sophocles: Ἰστέον δὲ ὅτι τὸ ‘σὺν δόρει σὺν ἀσπίδι’, ὅπερ Ἀριστοφάνης παραφέρει ἐν Εἰρήνῃ ἐν Μώμῳ Σοφοκλέους προκείμενον, ὡς ἀπὸ τοῦ δόρος ἐστίν· ὥσπερ γὰρ ἀπὸ τοῦ γῆρας γήρατος γίνεται γῆρος καὶ τοῦ δέρας δέρατος δέρος, οὕτω καὶ ἀπὸ τοῦ τὸ δόρας δόρατος γίνεται δόρος καὶ ἐκεῖθεν ἡ δοτικὴ τῷ δόρει, ὥσπερ τὸ τεῖχος τῷ τείχει.96 One should know that the ‘with spear (dorei), with shield’, which Aristophanes in Peace quotes as occurring in Sophocles’ Momos, is like a form of doros: as from geras­geratos we have geros and from deras­deratos, deros, so from doras­doratos we have doros and hence the dative dorei, such as teichos, teichei. 91 = Demetr. Ix. fr. 38 Staesche. 92 So Wehrli (Dem. Phal. fr. 150.1). He assigns to the Phalerean also Schol. ad Ar. Ran. 1196b (= fr. 150.2). 93 Cf. Suda Σ 1461, Eust. ad Il. 2.382, 1.370.8 van der Valk. 94 Aristotle and his pupils had a particular interest in proverbs, see Tosi 1993, 179–81. 95 Cf. Browning 1991. 96 Compare also Etym. Magn. 284.31–6.

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In the Syleus Euripides made an amusing use of the neutrum of the reflexive pronoun: Heracles addresses his ξύλον (‘wood’),97 asking it to ‘wake itself ‘ and ‘get harsh’ (fr. 693): εἶα δή, φίλον ξύλον, ἔγειρέ μοι σεαυτὸ καὶ γίγνου θρασὺ. Come on now, my dear wood, wake up yourself and get harsh!

This did not pass unnoticed by the grammarians, and Apollonius Dyscolus (De Pron. 2.1.1.73 Schneider) quoted the second verse as an anomalous usage not to be taken as a rule: εἴ τι γὰρ οὐδέτερόν ἐστιν αἰτιατικῆς πτώσεως, τοῦτο καὶ εὐθείας ἐστίν· ἀλλ’ ἀδύνατον τὸ τῆς εὐθείας συνίστασθαι· εὐλόγως ἄρα καὶ τὸ τῆς αἰτιατικῆς σχῆμα ἐσιγήθη. ἀλλ’ εἰ ἅπαξ Εὐριπίδης ἐχρήσατο ἐπὶ δευτέρου προσώπου ἐν τῷ ‘ἔγειρέ μοι σεαυτὸ καὶ γίγνου θρασύ’, τοῦτο οὐ κανὼν γενήσεται τοῦ εὐλόγως σιγηθέντος σχήματος. If the neutrum of the accusative exists (scil. of the reflexive pronoun), it exists also for the nominative. But it is impossible to form the neutrum nominative, so the form of the accusative too has been reasonably suppressed. If Euripides used it once in the second person in the verse ‘wake up yourself and get harsh’, this will not become a rule for the form that was reasonably suppressed.

Τhe same quotation appears in other sources with the inclusion of the first verse (omitted by Apollonius): (a) John Philoponus (late fifth century – second half of sixth century AD),98 De Accent. 25.5 Dindorf, again in reference to the use of σεαυτό, and (b) Choeroboscus, quoted in turn by Eustathius (ad Il. 1.107.31; 1.167.33 van der Valk) and the Byzantine Etymologica (Et. Gen. B s.v. εἴα = Etym. Magn. 294.45), in order to illustrate the use of the interjection εἶα. Another example is provided by Hephaestion (7.8–14 Consbruch; hence Choeroboscus too in his own Scholia, 203.11–16 Consbr.), who quotes two verses from Achaeus’ Kyknos99 (fr. 24 and 43) to illustrate athematic forms of perfect from 97 There may be a humorous ambiguity here: ξύλον could be interpreted literally, referring to the hero’s club, or taken as an obscene metaphor for his penis: cf. e.g. Hsch. T 1626 τύλον· τὸ αἰδοῖον, οἱ δὲ ξύλον. 98 Cf. Kroll 1916, 1770–1; about 490–567 or 574 according to most modern scholars (cf. Baldwin and Talbot 1991). 99 As for Athla, there is no clear evidence of the satyric nature of the drama; however, the subject (Heracles’ struggle against Cycnus, son of Ares) fits well into the typical satyric pattern of the hero that defeats an ogre. See Krumeich et al. 1999, 543–4; Cipolla 2003, 209 ; for a different view, Cropp 2019, 112–13, who does not exclude the possibility that it was a tragedy.

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ἔρχομαι, adding the information that in the original play the one form followed the other. In fact, the second form is a reply to the first, expressing the surprise of a character in hearing that the speaker of the first verse has come to Cycnus’ house (together with others, as the plural indicates): ἄλλως τε καὶ τὸ ἐλήλυμεν ἐδείξαμεν καὶ ἐν ἄλλοις μέτροις συνήθως αὐτοῖς (Ἀττικοῖς Bergk) λεγόμενον, ὡς παρὰ Ἀχαιῷ ἐν Κύκνῳ Κύκνου δὲ πρῶτα πρὸς δόμους ἐλήλυμεν, παρ’ ᾧ καὶ τὸ δεύτερόν ἐστιν ἀκολούθως πρόσωπον τοιοῦδε φωτὸς πρὸς δόμους ἐλήλυτε. … especially because we have shown that elelymen (‘we have come’) is customarily used by them also in other metres, as in Achaeus’ Kyknos First, we have come to Cycnus’ palace, in the same author there is also the second person, following immediately after: What! You have come to the palace of such a man!?

In addition, satyr dramas were especially suited for lexicographical studies. Satyric language, as one would expect for the language of a τραγῳδία παίζουσα,100 was a mix of noble tragic diction, colloquialisms,101 dialectic forms,102 sexual allusions, as well as ‘realistic’ terms taken from everyday life. If we take Euripides’ Cyclops as an example, we can find Διονύσου γάνος103 (415 ‘gleam of Dionysos’) and τυρὸς ὀπίας (136 ‘cheese curdled with fig juice’, a term from everyday life), ὤμοι, κατηνθρακώμεθ᾽ ὀμμάτων σέλας (663 ‘alas, the light of our eyes has been reduced to charcoal!’) and ἅπαντες αὐτὴν (sc. Ἑλένην) διεκροτήσατ’ ἐν μέρει (180 ‘did’nt you all pierce her through in turn?’, where διακροτέω is an obscene metaphor), ὦ θεοῦ ποντίου γενναῖε παῖ (286 ‘o thou noble son of the Sea-God’ and ὦ κάλλιστον ὦ Κυκλώπιον, / ὦ δεσποτίσκ(ε) (266–7 ‘Oh, my pretty pretty little Cyclops, oh, my lovely master’, colloquial deminutives).104

100 Cf. Demetr. Eloc. 169 (quoted above, n. 6). 101 On colloquialism in satyr play, see Cilia 2006 and 2018, and SLENDERS in this volume. 102 For instance, Aeschylus’ fragments from Diktyoulkoi present several forms usually classified as Doric: μικκός (= μικρός, fr. 47a.787, 813); φίντων (‘darling’, fr. 47a.802), θῶσθαι (‘eat’, ‘have a banquet’, fr. 47a.818), ὄβριχος (‘cub’, fr. 47.809), πάπας (‘daddy’, fr. 47a.789, 812). According to Dettori 2016, however, some of these ‘Dorisms’ should be more correctly labelled as familiar or affective forms. 103 γάνος accompanied by an adjective or genetive is a typical tragic periphrasis for various kinds of liquids: Aesch. Pers. 483 κρηναῖον γάνος, 615 ἀμπέλου γ., Eur. fr. 146.3 ἀμπέλων γ., Ba. 382–3 βότρυος ... γ., etc. 104 On diminutives in satyr drama see Cipolla 2003, 6 note 26; Lämmle 2013, 65–6.

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With regard to the ‘realistic’ terms, in particular, at least two categories emerge as especially representative of satyric diction:105 (a) names of (or words related to) animals and plants: Αἰτναῖος κάνθαρος (‘Aetnaean beetle’: Αeschylus, Sisyphos fr. 233, Sophocles, Daidalos fr. 162, Ichneutai 307), ἐξορμενίζω (‘shoot forth, sprout’, Sophocles, Ichneutai 281), ἐρινὸς/-νοῦς (‘wild fig/of wild fig’, Sophocles, Helenes gamos fr. 181,106 Euripides, Syleus fr. 679.2), ὄβριχα (‘cubs’, Aeschylus, Diktyulkoi fr. 47a.809), πιννοτέρης (‘shellcrab’, Sophocles, Amphiaraos fr. 113), σμίνθος (‘rat, mouse’ Αeschylus, Sisy­ phos fr. 227), et al. (b) names of vessels and other objects: ἀμφωτίδες (‘ear covers’, Aeschylus, Kerkyon fr. 102, which I shall discuss below), ἐνώτια (‘earrings’, Aesch., ibid.), (φιάλη) μεσόμφαλος (‘plate with a boss in the middle’, Ion, Omphale fr. 20), κυλιχνίς (‘small cup’, Achaeus, Alkmeon fr. 14.2), ῥέον (‘drinking horn’, Astyd. Min., Hermes fr. 3.3), σκύφος (‘cup’, Ion, Omphale fr. 26.2, Achaeus, Omphale fr. 33.1), et al. Lexicographers often used classical texts as a proof that a certain term was already known in the Classical era, and used by good authors. This interest is explicitly declared in the title of Aristophanes’ of Byzantium (257–180 BC)107 Περὶ τῶν ὑποπτευομένων μὴ εἰρῆσθαι τοῖς παλαιοῖς (On words suspected not to have been used by ancient writers), but is easy to detect even in other works by him, like Ἀττικαὶ λέξεις, Περὶ ὀνομασίας ἡλικιῶν, or Περὶ συγγενικῶν ὀνομάτων. For most, if not all, of the words listed above, it was probably hard for him to find examples in tragedy. On the contrary, satyr drama offered a rich treasure to draw from. Some quotations of verses or glosses owe their surviving to these works by Aristophanes, which in turn, have been transmitted only in epitomized form, or in fragments preserved by other writers. Let us consider the following example concerning the use of a term in Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi: 1) Aelian. NA 7.47 τῶν δὲ ὑστρίχων καὶ τῶν τοιούτων τὰ ἔκγονα ὄβρια καλεῖται· καὶ μέμνηταί γε Εὐριπίδης ἐν Πελιάσι108 τοῦ ὀνόματος καὶ Αἰσχύλος ἐν Ἀγαμέμνονι109 καὶ Δικτυουλκοῖς. The cubs of porcupines and such animals are called obria; this name in mentioned by Euripides in Peliades and by Aeschylus in Agamemnon and Diktyulkoi.

105 For a more complete list see Cipolla 2017a, 227–8. 106 On the possibly satyric nature of Sophocles’ drama see Krumeich et al. 1999, 391–2. 107 Cf. Cohn 1895b, 995. 108 Fr. 616. 109 v. 143.

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2) Phot. O 16 Theod. ὄβρια καὶ ὀβρίκαλα: τὰ τῶν λεόντων καὶ λύκων σκυμνία. Αἰσχύλος Δικτυουλκοῖς. Obria and obrikala: the cubs of lions and wolves. Aeschylus in Diktyulkoi.

The same information can be found in Pollux (second half of second century AD),110 without any reference to Aeschylus’ satyr drama: Poll. 5.15 τὰ δὲ πάντων τῶν ἀγρίων τέκνα ὀβρίκαλα οἱ ποιηταὶ καλοῦσι καὶ ὄβρια. The poets call the cubs of all wild animals obrikala and obria.

All these passages111 seem to derive indirectly from Aristophanes of Byzantium’s Περὶ ὀνομασίας ἡλικιῶν (On the names of ages of life fr. 202–3 Slater), because the same linguistic notice occurs in a very simplified and shortened form in a manuscript (M = Paris. suppl. gr. 1164), containing extracts from this work: Τὰς δορκάδας, καὶ ζόρκας, καὶ πρόκας καλοῦσι· τὰ δὲ νέα τούτων, ὄβρια καὶ ὀβρίκαλα Antelopes are called also zorkai and prokai; their cubs, obria and obrikala.

It is not difficult to see that the original Aristophanic doctrine, concerning the nouns used for cubs of several different species, was split into fragments in later sources.112 Both Aelian and Photius say that the word ὄβρια/ὀβρίκαλα occurred in Diktyoulkoi; the Oxyrhynchus Papyrus 2161 (= Aesch. Diktyoulkoi fr. 47a.808–9) gives us the opportunity to check this statement: τέρψῃ δ’ ἴκτ̣ισι κα[ὶ] ν̣ε̣βρο̣[ῖς ὑστρίχων τ’ ὀβρι χοι̣ ̣́ σ̣[ι] You will delight yourself with martens and fawns and cubs of porcupines.

110 Cf. Bethe 1918, 773–4. 111 See also Eust. ad Od. 1.101 (1.26.3–5 Stallbaum) and 9.222 (1.337.12–13 Stallb.). 112 The nouns ὄβρια and ὀβρίκαλα are referred to lions and wolfs in Photius, to antelopes in the Parisine manuscript, to porcupines in Aelian (who refers to Agamemnon 142–3 πάντων τ’ ἀγρονόμων φιλομάστοις θηρῶν ὀβρικάλοισι where, in fact, the word ὀβρίκαλα, not ὄβρια, occurs and is used as a generic term for young wild animals), and generally to all wild animals in Pollux, who is probably the nearest to the truth (this is exactly what we do find in the Agamemnon passage). The incorrect reference of these terms to lions by Photius was probably originated by the fact that lions are mentioned by Aeschylus in the same context (Ag. 141 δρόσοις ἀέπτοις μαλερῶν λεόντων).

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So, the word was used for young porcupines, as argued by Aelian; not, however, in the form transmitted by the indirect tradition, but in the diminutive ὀβρίχοισι, which is not attested elsewhere.113 If it had not been for the discovery of this papyrus in the beginning of the 20th century, we would still be printing ὄβρια under the fragments of Diktyoulkoi, as Nauck had done.114 This suggests a cautious skepticism, which is especially recommended in evaluating some doubtful cases like the following.

Case Study: Aeschylus Kerkyon fr. 102 and fr. inc. 424b Phot. E 1070 Theod. ἐνῴδια:115 οὐ μόνον Ἄλεξις116 καὶ Φιλήμων,117 ἀλλὰ καὶ Αἰσχύλος (= Aeschylus fr. 424b). earrings (enodia): not only Alexis and Philemon, but also Aeschylus (used the word).

Alexis’ and Philemon’s texts, where ἐνῴδιον (‘earring’) occurred, have not survived, nor does the word appear (at least with this spelling) in the extant texts by Aeschylus. But we have a fragment from his satyric Kerkyon (fr. 102) quoted by Pollux 10.175, where we find it in the form ἐνώτιον: εἶεν δ’ ἂν καὶ ἀμφωτίδες ἐκ τῶν σκευῶν, Πλάτωνός118 τε εἰπόντος καὶ ἐν Κερκυόνι Αἰσχύλου ἀμφωτίδες τοι τοῖς ἐνωτίοις πέλας· Ἀλέξιδος δὲ καὶ δρᾶμα Ἀμφωτίς.119 ear-covers (amphotides) too can be grouped under tools, for not only Plato said so, but also Aeschylus in Kerkyon ear-covers close to the earrings.120 There is also a drama by Alexis named Amphotis.121

113 Pfeiffer 1968, 200, n. 9, suspected that it had survived in the ὀβρικά of two manuscripts of Pollux (FS), which would then be ‘a slight corruption of ὄβριχα’. But this may be rather a corruption of ὄβρια influenced by the κ of the preceding ὀβρίκαλα. 114 Nauck 1889, 17. 115 ἐνωδία Phot. cod. Zav.: corr. Tsantsanoglou. 116 Fr. 316. 117 Fr. 187. 118 Plat. Com. fr. 256. 119 Alex. fr. 13–14. 120 For an analysis of the fragment within Pollux’s context see Cipolla 2017a, 221–4. 121 I leave the title untranslated, because ἀμφωτίς can also mean ‘double-handled pail’; the fragments give no basis to decide between the two meanings.

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Both forms exist in Greek, but ἐνῴδιον is attested elsewhere only in inscriptions from the early fourth century BC,122 then in papyri,123 and later in Byzantine lexicographers.124 On the other hand, ἐνώτιον is the only form found in literary texts after Aeschylus, starting from the mid-fourth century BC.125 Modern scholars are inclined to consider ἐνῴδιον as the more ancient form (explained as deriving from *εν-ουσ-ίδιον, cf. οὖς) and ἐνώτιον as a later variant that resulted under influence of ὠτός, ὦτα, etc.126 Consequently, Radt records the word ἐνῴδιον as Aesch. fr. 424b, but in the apparatus he notes: ‘ad fr. 102 referendum esse suspicor’.127 Sommerstein goes further and prints ἐνῳδίοις in fr. 102.128 But it has also been supposed that actually ἐνῴδιον derives from ἐνώτιον through a diminutive ἐνωτίδιον with some kind of ‘familiar’ arrangement (syncopation?);129 if so, ἐνώτιον may well be original and as ancient as ἐνύπνιον, ἐντάφιον, ἐλλύχνιον, while ἐνῴδιον may have originated under analogical influence of diminutive nouns like βοΐδιον, γρᾴδιον, κρεᾴδιον and similar, attested in Comedy and Attic prose and belonging to a colloquial register.130 Whatever of the two forms is the more ancient, neither is attested in other writers of the fifth century BC, so it is impossible to check which of them Aeschylus may have known and used.131 Therefore, we are faced with three possibilities: 122 IG ΙΙ2. 1377.16, 399/8 BC; 1388.17, 398/7 BC; 1544.20 = IEleusis 158.21, 333/2 BC; then IG II/III3. 1.1010.172, 248/7 BC. 123 P.Petrie 3.37, third century BC; P.Mich. 121re, 3.1.2, first century AD; P.Ryl. 124.30, first century AD. 124 Suda Ε 1385 Ἐνόδιον: τὸ ἐπὶ τῆς ὁδοῦ. Ἐνῴδιον δὲ τὸ ἐνώτιον· παρὰ τὸ οἰδεῖν τὰ ὦτα; cf. also E 1404, Et. Gen. s.v., Etym. Magn. 345.5, Zonar. Lex. 737 Tittm., An. Ox. 2.433.11. See Adrados 1980–2009, s.v. 125 Aen. Tact. 31.7; Hedyl. 9.3 Gow-Page (ap. Ath. 8.345b); LXX Gen. 24.22, 30, 47; 35.4, et al.; Philo Leg. All. 3.23, De post. Cain. 166, etc.; Arr. Anab. 6.29.6, Ind. 16.3; Ath. 8.331e; Ael. NA 8.4, VH 1.18, (cf. VH 2.83–4, 5.97). 126 So Frisk 1960–1972, vol. II, 526, and Beekes 2009, vol. I, 432, following Wackernagel 1885, 199–200. 127 Radt 1985, 448. 128 Sommerstein 2008, 116. 129 Cf. Chantraine 1980–1983, s.v. οὖς and Arnott 1996, 802. For ἐνωτίδιον, see, e.g., IG XI. 287b.19 (Delos, 250 BC). Compare Etym. Gud. K 357 and Etym. Magn. 550.19–22, where κῴδιον is explained as deriving from κῶας through an otherwise unattested κωατίδιον by syncopation (κωΐδιον) and contraction. 130 For example, βοΐδιον/βοίδιον: Hermipp. fr. 36.2; Ar. Ach. 1036; γρᾴδιον: Ar. Eccl. 949, 1000, Plut. 536, 674; Xen. An. 6.3.22; Dem. De cor. 260, etc.; κρεᾴδιον: Ar. Plut. 227, fr. 606.2; Cephisodor. fr. 8. On diminutives in -ιον as typical of everyday language, see Schwyz. vol. I, 470–1; on their use in comedy, see Peppler 1902. 131 After Aeschylus, the first record of ἐνῴτιον is Aeneas Tacticus 31.7: his chronology is uncertain, but probably before the mid-fourth century (c. 356 BC; see Dain 1967, VIII–IX; Bonfante 1996), so about forty years after the first epigraphical records of ἐνῴδιον. This implies, in my

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i. Aeschylus used both forms, in two distinct passages ii. Both testimonia refer to the same Aeschylean verse; Aeschylus wrote originally ἐνῳδίοις, and Pollux (or his sources) are wrong (Radt and Sommerstein) iii. As ii, but Aeschylus wrote originally ἐνωτίοις, and Photius’ gloss is wrong or at least unaccurate i.

would be not wholly impossible: at Dikt. fr. 47a.795, Aeschylus says ὁ νεοσσός, but in Kerykes fr. 113, if we trust the Antiatticista (second century AD),132 he said νοσσόν (ν. 12 Valente νοσσόν· χωρὶς τοῦ ε. Αἰσχύλος Κήρυξιν), a form condemned by Phrynichus (second half of second century AD),133 Ecloga 177 Fischer. However, the Antiatticista is not always reliable, or, at least, its information cannot be always accepted unquestionably. A good example is B 37 Valente βούδια· οὐ μόνον βοΐδια. Ἕρμιππος Κέρκωψι fr. 36.2. Hermippus’ fragment is known also from other sources (Ath. 12.551e, Schol. ad Ar. Av. 1406c, 207 Holwerda, Suda λ 278), which all have the reading βοίδια accepted by Kassel and Austin, while βούδια is rejected by rigorous Atticists (Phryn. Ecl. 61 Fischer, Philem. 356 C.).134 Then, that Aeschylus really used the doublet νεοσσός/νοσσός should be better regarded as an open possibility, but with a certain amount of doubtfulness, and the same must be said about ἐνώτιον/ ἐνῴδιον. At any rate, for fr. 424b we should think of a quotation from another satyr play, because a vernacular form like ἐνῴδιον would hardly be allowed in classical tragedy.135 ii. would be a good solution if we were sure that ἐνῴδιον is a superior reading, but we are not, for the reasons we have already seen. Comparison with the examples of Aeschylus (ὄβρια vs. ὄβριχα) and Hermippus (βούδιον vs. βοίδιον) warns us that lexicographical testimonia may be misleading when the very words of the ancient author are not quoted: in this case it would be hazardous to prefer Photius to Pollux, who quotes literally Aeschylus’ verse, especially if we consider that the οὐ μόνον ... ἀλλὰ καὶ pattern of the Photian gloss seems to reflect the same antiatticistic bias that we have seen in Antiatt.

opinion, that there is not sufficient ground to exclude that ἐνώτιον could be used in a satyr drama already in the fifth century BC. 132 See Valente 2015, 59. 133 Cf. Strout and French 1941, 921. 134 Since the Antiatticista has survived only in an shortened version, the mistake may also have arisen during the epitomization (see Valente 2015, 7, 59). 135 In fact, Kerykes too were satyric (cf. Krumeich et al. 1999, 152–6). Note that Chaerem. Oineus fr. 14. 9 has χλανίδιον; but this drama may have been satyric (see Lämmle 2013, 66, n. 76); at any rate it is post-classical.

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B 37.136 Perhaps the original (Alexandrian or late Alexandrian) source distinguished between ἐνώτιον and ἐνῴδιον, assigning the first to Aeschylus; at some stage in the transmission of the text and under the influence of the antiatticistic tendency, the effort to legitimate ἐνῴδιον may have led an intermediate compilator to alter (whether consciously or not) the information, while contracting it, and to attribute the word to Aeschylus by dropping off the original distinction. After all, maybe this compilator was only interested in showing that Aeschylus too used a term for ‘earrings’, regardless of its spelling. Moreover, Moeris (second – third century AD)137 E 25 Hansen ἐνώτια Ἀττικοί· ἐνώδια Ἕλληνες states that ἐνώτια is the Attic form, while ἐνῴδια is proper of ‘common Greek’, namely non-Classical and post-classical Greek.138 This statement apparently contradicts the fact that authors of the Hellenistic and the Imperial era commonly have ἐνώτια, not ἐνῴδια, while lexicographers and scholiasts use the former term to explain the latter or other terms used for ‘earrings’;139 one would be tempted to say that Moeris made a mistake and inverted the terms. But, as Cobet noticed, he often uses the term ‘Attic’ with a certain inaccuracy, applying it to poetic words that cannot be qualified as properly (or strictly) Attic: this may well be the case.140 If so, here Ἀττικοί could include our Aeschylean fragment, and Ἕλληνες be applied to more recent authors like Alexis and Philemon.

136 See also Antiatt. Γ 30 Val. γεύεσθαι· οὐ μόνον ἐπὶ τοῦ ἐσθίειν, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐπὶ τοῦ ὀσφραίνεσθαι; Κ 87 κυνάριον· οὐ μόνον κυνίδιον. Ἀλκαῖος κωμικῶς (= Alc. Com. fr. 33); Valente 2015, 48 (with other examples). 137 Cf. Wendel 1932, 2509. 138 For the opposition Ἀττικοί – Ἕλληνες, see, for instance, Gal. De comp. med. 13.10.14–15 Kühn οὓς νῦν ἅπαντες Ἕλληνες ὀνομάζουσι στροβίλους, τὸ πάλαι δὲ παρὰ τοῖς Ἀττικοῖς ἐκαλοῦντο κῶνοι. On Moeris, see Hansen 1998, 9–61; the structure of his Lexicon is entirely based on this opposition. 139 Suda Ε 1385, quoted above (n. 124); Schol. (D) ad Hom. Il. 14.182 (421 van Thiel) ἕρματα: νῦν ἐνώτια. Cf. Suda Ε 848 Ἕλικας: τὰ περὶ τοὺς καρποὺς ψέλια, ἢ ἐνώτια; E 856 Ἑλλικτήρ: εἶδος ἐνωτίου; E 885 Ἐλλώβια: τὰ ἐνώτια, διὰ τὸ ἐν τοῖς λωβοῖς τῶν ὤτων εἶναι; Schol. ad Hom. Od. 18.297 ἕρματα] δῶρα. V. τῶν ὤτων κόσμον, ὅ ἐστι τὰ ἐνώτια, 18.298 τρίγληνα] τρίκορα κόσμια, ἐνώτια, τριόφθαλμα; Etym. Magn. 344.47–8 ἐνοπαῖς: τοῖς ἐνωτίοις· ἀπὸ τοῦ ταῖς τῶν ὤτων ὀπαῖς κεῖσθαι. Σοφοκλῆς, to be compared with Hsch. E 3480 ἐνώταις· ἐνωτίοις. τῇ προσῳδίᾳ ὡς φιλόπαις. Σοφοκλῆς Αἰχμαλωτίσιν (= fr. 54; Radt prints ἐνόπαις, following Heinsius and Bentley). 140 ‘Moeris pro Atticis venditat Homerica et Ionica, quibus Tragici soli delectabantur, aut vocabula prisca et casca e Solonis legibus sublecta’ (Cobet 1873, 29); examples of such pseudo-attic words in Moeris are collected by Sakalis 1977. According to Dickey 1996, 98, Moeris’ canon did not include tragedy, but this seems questionable: cf. E 54 ἐπῴζειν, a verb that occurs in Cratin. Nemesis fr. 115. 3, but also in Aesch. Niobe fr. 154a.7; E 10 εὐπατρίδαι appears in the nominative plural in Eur. Alc. 920 and elsewhere in other cases (Soph. El. 162, Eur. Hipp. 152, 1283, etc.).

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iii. appears to be the simpler solution, in the light of the arguments exposed above. To these we may add another good reason to prefer ἐνωτίοις: the alliteration of τ (ἀμφωτίδες τοι τοῖς ἐνωτίοις πέλας). Aeschylus appears to be fond of alliteration in his dramas,141 and this effect would be diminished here if we read ἐνῳδίοις.

5 Conclusions The survey we have presented displays how the attitude of ancient scholarship towards satyr drama evolved in the progress of time. Chamaeleon (1.), even if we cannot say much about his treatise, probably had a global approach, covering the origin of the genre and its relationship with that of tragedy, and its main features in regard to themes and language. Early Alexandrian scholars began to focus on textual problems with their editing activity (διώρθωσις); their successors produced commentaries and other exegetical works (2.). This built gradually a solid and scientifically grounded knowledge of satyr drama that was used by scholars of the following generations as a basis for further studies: explanation of other texts, even belonging to different literary genres (3.) and researches on grammar and language (4.). Unfortunately, all the products of this thorough ecdotic-exegetic activity are lost for us, except for the scanty remains that can be gathered from later sources: learned literature (for example, Athenaeus), grammarians, lexicographers, and scholia. Case studies in 2. and in 4. show that the information provided by these sources, especially by late ancient and Byzantine lexica, may be incorrect and misleading, due to the shortening process and/or to textual problems: therefore, it cannot be used without attempting to go back, as far as possible, to the original context in order to restore at least its correct meaning (if not wording).

141 See for instance Pogliani 1994; Garvie 2002.

Laura Carrara

10 Distinguishing Satyric from Tragic Fragments: Methodological Tools and Practical Results 1 Premises, Aims, and Methods When quoting from satyr dramas, ancient sources were not always consistent in indicating this: sometimes they added the relevant label (mostly σατυρικός, σατυρική, or σάτυροι); at other times, they just gave the play’s title.1 A good example is Ion of Chios’ Omphale:2 of eighteen surviving fragments (fr. 17a–33a), only one, fr. 18, is quoted by its source under the heading ἐν Ὀμφάλῃ σατύροις. Had this fragment not been preserved, we would, nonetheless, have inferred the Satyrspielqualität3 of the Omphale from the content and the tone of some of the other fragments. The point, however, remains valid: for a comparatively wellknown lost play such as Ion’s Omphale, only one source explicitly designates it as ἐν … σατύροις. Other examples could be added,4 but the consequence of this state of things should already have become clear, namely that a certain number of fragments of satyr dramas might still lurk unidentified among their tragic companions in the five volumes of Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta. This means that we should remain aware of, and open to, the possibility that, besides the ones explicitly marked as σατυρικός, σατυρική, or σάτυροι in TrGF (which are basically those already labelled as such in the sources), some other fragmentary plays might have been satyr dramas, and not tragedies. This appears to be particularly true for Sophocles’ fragments. Starting from the double assumption that (a) in his very long career Sophocles wrote approximately 120 plays5 and (b) a quarter of his output should consist of satyr dramas 1 This is noticed, for example, by Sutton 1979, 32–3; Seidensticker 2012, 211; see also Griffith 2006, 52 (with a focus on Sophocles and the generic problem). 2 On the Omphale, see Pechstein and Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 480–90; Cipolla 2003, 106–38; Easterling 2007; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 414–25. 3 In absence of an effective English equivalent, I will occasionally use this German compound (which basically means ‘satyric quality’) often found for satyr drama in Krumeich et al. 1999. 4 They are to be found in Radt 1983, 192–3 (he discusses five items). 5 The ancient sources fluctuate, to put it simply, between 130 (the manuscript Vita = Soph. T1, 76–7) and 123 plays (the Suda = Soph. T2, 9–10). 120 seems to be a reasonable rounding: for more details, see Pearson 1917, xiii–xv; Radt 1983, 186; Lucas de Dios 1983, 9–11; Müller 1984, 60, n. 156. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-011

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(based on the premise that in the fifth century BC every tragic tetralogy contained one satyr drama),6 scholars have come to the conclusion that he should have composed roughly thirty satyr dramas. The ancient sources provide an indisputable, or nearly indisputable, satyric label for thirteen Sophoclean titles: Amphiaraos, Amykos, Dionysiskos, Epi Tainaro Satyroi, Herakles, Herakliskos,7 Hybris, Ichneutai, Kedalion,8 Kophoi, Krisis, Momos,9 Salmoneus.10 Four or five other plays are probably classifiable as satyric, based on the contents and/or the tone of the surviving fragments: Achilleos Erastai, Helenes Gamos, Inachos, Pandora, and the mysterious play to which fr. 1130 (not certainly, but very probably by Sophocles) belongs (Oineus?).11 If we accept the aforementioned numeric assumption (120 divided by 4) and subtract the roughly eighteen recognized satyr dramas (13 +4/5), we are left with about a dozen still unidentified Sophoclean satyr dramas, which would be just under half of the poet’s presumed overall satyric production.12 Almost ten years ago, I presented two arguments intended to cast some doubt on this common belief and suggested that this number should be lowered somewhat.13 This issue may, however, be left open here: the purpose of this article is not to establish with exactitude the total number of satyr dramas Sophocles ever wrote, but to propose a method to distinguish incognito satyric fragments or, better, plays, which should work regardless of the number of the missing σάτυροι one is inclined to assume (twelve, or, for that matter, five or six).

6 See Pickard-Cambridge 21968, 79–80; Gantz 1979, 290–1, recently restated, e.g., by Hahnemann 2012, 171, Seidensticker 2012, 211; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 2–3. See, however, for some reservations Wartelle 1971, 37; Lanza 1992, 291. 7 These three Heracles-titles (to which add the Kerberos: one fragment surviving, fr. 327a, without satyric indication) might actually refer to only one or two different plays: see S. Scheurer in Krumeich et al. 1999, 259–60. 8 Nearly indisputable: see Scheurer and Kansteiner in Krumeich et al. 1999, 344. 9 Nearly indisputable: see Scheurer and Bielfeldt in Krumeich et al. 1999, 363. 10 My list of thirteen certain Sophoclean satyr dramas has been compiled independently of previous lists, but corresponds to the ones by Radt 1983, 190, n. 7 and Lloyd-Jones 22003, 8. 11 On these possibly satyric plays see Radt 1983, 193; Lloyd-Jones 22003, 9; on fr. 1130 and the mysterious Oineus see Carden 1974, 136–46; Pechstein and Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 368–74; Carrara 2014, 112–13, 122–3, 141–2; Lämmle 2018. Other lists of Sophoclean satyr dramas, comprehensive of certain and less certain items, are to be found in Pearson 1917, xxi n. 4; Sutton 1974a, 130–40; Sutton 1980a, 36; Scheurer in Krumeich et al. 1999, 224; Griffith 2006, 56–7, n. 2; Seidensticker 2012, 212–3. 12 This is the conclusion reached by Radt 1983, 190–4 (against the theory of Pearson 1917, xvi, xxii that the missing Sophoclean satyr dramas were already lost before Alexandrian times); so also Scheurer in Krumeich et al. 1999, 224; Griffith 2006, 52; Seidensticker 2012, 211; Hahnemann 2012, 173. 13 Carrara 2012.

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To my knowledge, almost forty further Sophoclean fragmentary plays, in addition the ones listed above, have been taken at least once as satyr dramas.14 To be sure, some of these proposals seem to be nothing more than playful guesses. Nonetheless, this figure remains, by every reckoning, remarkably high. The aim of this article is to bring order into this ‘satyric’ confusion. It seeks to do so by establishing a set of features, through which the potential Satyrspielqualität of any Sophoclean (and actually of any Greek) lost play generis incerti may be ‘hunted down’ in a structured way. This set of features should provide clarification of the generic issue in cases where the extant fragments of a drama and their sources are of little or no help. The aspects I propose to investigate and the questions I propose to ask for any lost Greek play suspected of being satyric are the following: (a) The historical and logical likelihood: is it, for whatever reason, intrinsically more probable that the considered play is satyric rather than tragic – or vice versa? (b) The title: is it possible to link the play’s title to the Chorus of Satyrs and its role on stage? (c) The mythical episode underlying the play’s action: is it lighthearted and/or does it have a happy ending, thus providing a plot more easily and readily suited to a satyric adaptation? (d) The ancient plot summaries (preserved in scholia, learned prose accounts etc.): do they allow room for a Chorus of Satyrs, even though they do not mention it directly (which, obviously, would solve the problem by itself)? (e) The artistic evidence: do Silenoi and/or Satyrs appear on works of art related to the play under examination, and with what function? (f) The relationship to later plays, including Roman Drama: does a later play draw on or refer to the one under examination, and does it reveal, in so doing, something about its genre? Most of these points are not new. What is new and, hopefully, methodologically productive is their systematization in a unitary framework. The above catalogue should serve as a minimum checklist to consider before formulating the hypothesis that a Sophoclean (and, in general, a Greek) lost play was satyric. Obviously, not all criteria will be applicable in every case. Sometimes, for example, the artis-

14 Admetos, Aichmalotides, Amphitryon, Andromeda, Athamas, Chryses, Daidalos, Danaë, Erigone, Eris, Helenes Apaitesis, Hydrophoroi, Iambe, Iberes, Kamik(i)oi, Kerberos, Kolchides, Lemniai, Manteis, Mousai, Nausika or Plyntriai, Niobe, Oinomaos, Phaiakes, Philoktetes en Troia, Phineus A or B, Phryxos, Poimenes, Sisyphos, Skyrioi, Syndeipnoi, Telephos, Triptolemos, Troilos, Tympanistai, Tyro A or B.

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tic evidence is missing; in other cases there is no detectable connection with later plays. How many criteria need to be satisfied in order to answer the initial question cannot be determined a priori and will remain a matter of discernment. As an (obvious) rule of thumb, preference for inclusion in the list of missing Sophoclean satyr dramas should be given to those titles which have either the best, or the most numerous credentials, or ideally both. What I am advocating is a play-based (instead of a fragment-based) approach to the identification problem set out at the beginning.15 Generally speaking, older scholarship used to look at one or two suspicious fragments at a time, and then declare them satyric without bothering much about the implications of this judgment (in other words, without realizing that this would radically increase the number of Sophoclean satyr dramas).16 In more recent times, scholars tend to analyze all Sophoclean fragments generis incerti, as if they were a more or less homogeneous group.17 But they are clearly not, since they belonged to different (types of) plays. I suggest to tackle the issue from another perspective and, with the help of the above catalogue, to investigate whether, or not, a lost drama (not a single fragment) might have been – in the absence of conclusive evidence to the contrary – satyric. To declare a fragment satyric (or even a single line, or a word in it) without taking the whole play into consideration is of limited use and ultimately leads to the uncontrolled proliferation of hypotheses of Satyrspielqualität far beyond the expected rate.

2 Case Study: Sophocles’ Andromeda In the second and main part of this article, I propose to assess the application and validity of the suggested approach, not in general terms, but in connection with a specific case study, Sophocles’ Andromeda (fr. 126–36). This play has been time and again (and increasingly in the last decades) suspected of being satyric.18 Furthermore, it well exemplifies the problems and uncertainties encountered when 15 In Carrara 2014, 103–25, I offered a similarly structured analysis for Sophocles’ lost Manteis, albeit without making the adopted general framework explicit. 16 See, for example, Boeckh 1808, 130–1, on the Phaiakes; Hermann 1816, 120 on the Lemniai; Meineke 1863, 274–5, on the Danaë. 17 For this kind of approach, see López Eire 2003 and Redondo 2003. 18 This theory is gradually spreading also among Latin scholars (Pociña 1984, 166; Schauer 2012, 43–4) and among scholars dealing with archaeological evidence (Taplin 2007, 175). Besides the literature discussed in the following pages, see Lucas de Dios 1983, 70, for a brief introduction to the generic problem.

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trying to determine the genre of a fragmentary drama in the absence of ‘direct’ proof. Unequivocal evidence is missing: none of the twelve surviving bookfragments is quoted in the sources under the heading ἐν Ἀνδρομέδᾳ σατυρικῇ (or similar), and modern scholars hold contrasting views on the fragments’ (presumed) satyric tone or language. One controversial line, for example, is fr. 127 ἵπποισιν ἢ κύμβαισι ναυστολεῖς χθόνα; (‘do you travel to the land on horses or in boats?’), a question most probably posed to the newly-arrived Perseus by an unknown interlocutor (Cepheus?).19 Some supporters of the satyric theory adduced this trimeter as a confirmation of their position, maintaining that its tone and diction are strange and almost ridiculous, namely not suitable for tragedy.20 Modern commentators, however, have pointed out that neither the zeugmatic combination of ἵπποισιν and ναυστολεῖς, nor the accusative χθόνα after ναυστολεῖς (perhaps accusative of direction?) are unparalleled or unexplainable in tragic diction.21 The ‘style of the utterance’ is thus ‘affected’,22 but not demonstrably satyric. Another debate has arisen about fr. 133 after the discovery of P. Oxy. 2453, which has added (through its fr. 49) some further scraps of text to the single word already known from the indirect tradition (ζευξίλεως ‘subjugator of men’).23 This very same papyrus preserves also a long Sophoclean fragment which is clearly satyric (fr. 1130, from Oineus?); on this basis, Hugh Lloyd-Jones has put forward the theory that this papyrus was ‘a collection of satyr plays by Sophocles’,24 which implies that all Sophoclean dramas copied in it (including the Andromeda) were, without exception, satyric. In more recent times, Jordi Redondo has focused on some isolated terms and one-word fragments of Sophocles’ Andromeda which are, in his view, either loanwords (fr. 127 κύμβαισι ‘boats’; fr 129 μάσθλητα ‘leather belt’; fr. 135

19 See Klimek-Winter 1993, 38. 20 Müller 1845, 386–7; Ribbeck 1875, 163, n. 169; see also Petersen 1904, 104, who agrees with this characterization of the line, but traces it back to the effeminate character of the speaker, in his opinion Phineus. 21 See Pearson 1917, 81–2; Bubel 1991, 29–30; Klimek-Winter 1993, 37–8. 22 So Pearson 1917, 81; see also Radt 1983, 213, according to whom this ‘fast paratragodisch klingende Frage’ is an example of exaggerated Sophoclean ὄγκος. 23 The many problems posed by this papyrus, whose Sophoclean authorship is now widely recognized, cannot be set out in detail here. See the discussion in Carrara 2014, 141–4, 394–8, with relevant bibliography; the fundamental treatment of this papyrus, with edition and commentary, remains Carden 1974, 135–60; see now also Lämmle 2018, 49–53. 24 Lloyd-Jones 1963, 437; Lloyd-Jones 2003, 51, endorsed by Marshall 2014, 187 (according to whom Lloyd-Jones’ satyric reconstruction ‘does shift the burden of proof significantly’). For a fuller discussion, with refutation, of Lloyd-Jones’ theory, see Carrara 2014, 112–17.

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σάρητον ‘garment’), or vulgarisms (fr. 131 ἀμφίπρυμνον ‘with two sterns’), and thus suggestive of satyr drama rather than tragedy.25 Redondo’s satyric reading of ἀμφίπρυμνον,26 however, seems to me questionable, since there is no reason to cast doubt on the ‘naval’ interpretation of this compound adjective provided by the source (Hesychius).27 Furthermore, the only other surviving occurrence of ἀμφίπρυμνον in Attic drama, Euripides’ fr. 955d ὡς ἀμφιπρύμνω δύο μ’ ἐλέγχετον λόγω (‘as/since a pair of two-edged arguments rebut me’), has a metaphorical, but no erotic sense, and does not convey any satyric connotation. As one can see from these examples, analysis of fragments in isolation is not always able to produce reliable results. It is therefore necessary to turn to other criteria, such as the ones listed in chapter 1, in order to settle the generic question. This investigation will also have a paradigmatic character, since Andromeda (at least compared with the majority of Sophocles’ lost dramas) is a quite well documented play and provides a good amount of material to consider, thus allowing an examination of all aspects included in the above catalogue. Still, before making our way through this catalogue, it is advisable to linger a bit on the historical depth of the problem and to reach back to the origin of the satyric theory for this drama.

3 Casaubon’s Hypothesis The first scholar to insert Andromeda in a list of Sophoclean satyr dramas was the great French humanist Isaac Casaubon, who inferred its Satyrspielqualität from an ancient scholium on Theocritus, which he printed as follows:28 τοὺς Σατύρους ἀκρατεῖς οἱ πλείονές φασιν, ὡς καὶ τοὺς Σιληνοὺς καὶ Πᾶνας, ὡς Αἰσχύλος μὲν ἐν Γλαύκῳ, Σοφοκλῆς δ’ ἐν Ἀνδρομέδᾳ

25 Redondo 2003, 424, 426, 428. 26 Redondo 2003, 426 (in the section on vulgar speech as indicator of the satyric genre): ‘literally ‘with a double rear end’; in spite of the attempt of Hesychius to take this as referring to a ship with a double stern, its true sense in Andromeda may well have been an erotic one’. Redondo does not make the sexual innuendo explicit, but I suspect that he is thinking of ἀμφίπρυμνον as an allusion to the fact that a woman (in this case, Andromeda) can be penetrated in both sides: the tertium comparationis between an ‘ἀμφίπρυμνον boat’ (πλοῖον according to Hesychius) and an ‘ἀμφίπρυμνον woman’ would be thus that both can be ‘run’ front and back. 27 For a review of its possible meanings and contexts, see Klimek-Winter 1993, 45. 28 Casaubon 1605, 357. His opinion was taken over by Fabricius 41791, 205 and Brunck 1786, 200 (fr. 4).

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Many call the Satyrs ‘licentious’, like the Silenoi and the Pans as well: so Aeschylus in Glaukos and Sophocles in Andromeda.

Casaubon seems to have thought that a play in which the Satyrs were qualified as ἀκρατεῖς might well have been a satyr drama.29 But Carl Wendel’s edition of Theocritus’ scholia has shown that the text on which Casaubon based this assumption was highly unreliable: leaving aside the unjustified inversion between τοὺς Σατύρους and καὶ Πᾶνας, the crucial word ἀκρατεῖς simply does not belong to it. The scholium as transmitted in the manuscripts and printed (with only one major correction) by Wendel reads as follows:30 τοὺς Πᾶνας πλείους φησὶν [φασὶν codd.: corr. Ahrens 1859, 178] ὡς καὶ τοὺς Σειληνοὺς καὶ τοὺς Σατύρους, ὡς Αἰσχύλος μὲν ἐν Γλαύκῳ, Σοφοκλῆς δ’ ἐν Ἀνδρομέδᾳ. He (scil. Theocritus) says that the Pans are a plurality, like Silenoi and Satyrs too: so Aeschylus in Glaukos, and Sophocles in Andromeda.

This is a perfectly understandable explanation for the passage being commented upon, Theoc. 4.62–3 εὖ γ’, ὤνθρωπε φιλοῖφα. τό τοι γένος ἢ Σατυρίσκοις | ἐγγύθεν ἢ Πάνεσσι κακοκνάμοισιν ἐρίσδει. What is remarkable in these lines is the plural Πάνεσσι: the ancient commentator (Theon?) compared it with the more common plurals Σιληνοί and Σάτυροι and added a reference to Aeschylus’ Glaukos and Sophocles’ Andromeda as containing the plural Πᾶνες (cf. respectively, Aesch. fr. 25b; Soph. fr. 136).31 With this clarified, it remains to be considered if a substantive like Πᾶνες is of some help in determining the generic status of a play. The answer 29 The presence of the adjective ἀκρατεῖς was regarded as an argument in favour of the satyric quality of the Andromeda also by Ribbeck 1875, 163, n. 169; contra Welcker 1824, 471–2, who considered ἀκρατεῖς more apt for a tragedy, because in a satyr drama this ‘property’ of the Satyrs would have been evident by itself. 30 Σ IV 62/63d (153.9-12 Wendel). The adjective ἀκρατεῖς belongs instead to the previous scholium, Σ IV 62/63c, which regards the tertium comparationis, that is, lustfulness, between the ἄνθρωπος φιλοίφας (‘lecherous fellow’) mentioned in the idyll and the Satyrs, and begins as follows: ἀκρατεῖς οἱ Σάτυροι ἐρώτων. Casaubon apparently moved or added ἀκρατεῖς to the following scholium (see Hermann 1859, 319; Pearson 1917, 85), but this is unnecessary (although the opposite view was maintained by Welcker 1824, 471, n. 759) and misleading. 31 See Wecklein 1890, 31 (with the correct text of the scholium); Pearson 1917, 85 (the commentator was ‘possibly Theon himself’); Klimek-Winter 1993, 52; Lucas de Dios 2008, 233, n. 338. The scholium was valued as proof of Satyrspielqualität also by Vogel 1886, 44, n. 1 (who wrongly took it as implying a mention not only of Pans, but also of Satyrs in the Andromeda), by Campo 1940, 31 and by Rispoli 1972, 207 (who interpreted the μὲν-δὲ construction in the second part of the scholium as contrastive and attributed the Pans to Aeschylus’ Glaukos, Silenoi and Satyrs to Sophocles’ Andromeda; against this reading, see Klimek-Winter 1993, 53).

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is no. First of all, in the Classical era the goatish Pan was iconographically still kept distinguished from the horse-like Σάτυροι,32 so there is no reason to identify the Πᾶνες of the Theocritean scholium with the members of the Chorus of a satyric Andromeda.33 Secondly, all that can be deduced from this scholium is that the plural name Πᾶνες occurred in Aeschylus’ Glaukos and Sophocles’ Andromeda, not that these creatures were actually present on stage.34 Mentions of Πάν are frequent in tragedy, in iambics ad lyrics: see, for instance, Aesch. Pers. 449; Soph. Aj. 694–5, OT 1100; Eur. Med. 1172, Hipp. 142, Ion 492, 501, 938, IT 1126, El. 703, Bacch. 952, fr. 696.3. In all these passages Πάν admittedly appears in the singular. The only other occurrence of the plural Πᾶνες in Classical theatre is to be found in a comic passage (Ar. Eccl. 1068–9 ὦ Ἡράκλεις, | ὦ Πᾶνες, ὦ Κορύβαντες, ὦ Διοσκόρω), a fact which could somehow strengthen the impression that the plural Πᾶνες is more at home in a playful context (comedy or satyr drama) than in a serious one (tragedy). This impression would, however, be illusory. Πᾶνες is not a comic term per se; in other words it is not a comic plural (namely a patheticamusing exaggeration referring to a non-entity),35 but has a concrete and ‘serious’ religious background, the Greek pantheon knowing both a plurality36 and a duality37 of Pans. From this point of view, Πᾶνες is perfectly comparable with the two other plurals in the passage from the Ecclesiazusae, Κορύβαντες and 32 See Brommer 1937, 2–5; Slenders 2012, 156; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 3, n. 9; the chapter by TOUYZ in this volume. 33 So Marshall 2014, 186, n. 133: ‘Not conclusive in itself, fr. 136 Πᾶνες (‘Pans’) may then refer to a satyr chorus’, yet the Chorus of a satyric Andromeda would have consisted of ‘regular’ Satyrs. Time and again, scholars have thought of satyr dramas with Pan-choruses (to the bibliography quoted [with disapproval] by Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 54, n. 56, add Buschor 1937, 16–8; Guggisberg 1947, 64), but there is no certain proof of this. 34 Rispoli 1972, 207, speaks of a ‘presence’ (‘effettiva presenza’) of Silenoi and Satyrs in the Andromeda; cf. also Ribbeck 1875, 163, n. 169; but there is a fundamental difference between on-stage appearance and mention of a mythical figure, as was already observed in older discussions of the Theocritean scholium (see Ahrens 1844, 332–3; Hartung 1851, 114; Wagner 1852, 225; Fedde 1860, 8). 35 This could be the case with the first vocative of the Ecclesiazusae passage: most scholars take this invocation to be singular (Attic declension, accented Ἡράκλεις, as e.g. in Eur. HF 171), but it could also be plural, if accented Ἡρακλεῖς following Hdn. Gr. 1.424.9 Lentz (so Hadzisteliou Price 1971, 53; Vetta 1989, 263): there is no such a thing as ‘Heracleses’ in Greek mythology, so the effect of the invocation would be comic. 36 On such group(s) of Pans in Greek religion and art see Wernicke 1897–1902, 1436; Pearson 1917, 86; Brommer 1937, 5, 10–11; Brommer 1949–1950, 7, 20, 32; Klimek-Winter 1993, 53; Lucas de Dios 2008, 233, n. 338. 37 See Σ [Eur.] Rhes. 36 (2.329.10–11 Schwartz, cf. 81.10–11 Merro), which reads (but the text is not entirely certain): Αἰσχύλος δὲ δύο Πᾶνας, τὸν μὲν Διός, τὸν δὲ Κρόνου. It has become customary to identify this Aeschylean passage about the two Pans with the mention of Πᾶνες documented for his Glaukos play by the Theocritean scholium (discussed in the main text), but this does not

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Διοσκόρω, which refer to ‘real’ deities and occur also in tragedy (cf. respectively Eur. Bacch. 125 and Eur. Or. 465). The comic effect of this Aristophanic line comes not from the word Πᾶνες per se (nor from Κορύβαντες or Διοσκόρω), but from its overall content and structure, a desperate accumulation of apostrophes by the ‘Young Man’ chased by the lustful ‘Old Woman’.38 Πᾶνες taken alone is no more indicative of satyric quality than the plural Σάτυροι in Euripides’ Bacchae 130 παρὰ δὲ μαινόμενοι Σάτυροι (lyr.).39 Before concluding this chapter, a word needs to be said about the fact that in the scholium to Theoc. 4.62–3 (discussed above) Sophocles’ Andromeda is mentioned in the same breath with a play named Glaukos by Aeschylus. Now, this Glaukos might (or might not) have been a satyr drama.40 In either case, this has no implication for the genre of the Andromeda, because the satyric nature of the Glaukos Pontios is not proved by the mention of the Πᾶνες,41 but by several other external and independent facts. The existence of such additional clues remains for the Andromeda precisely quod demonstrandum est. The mere fact that the two plays are put side by side in the scholium has no consequence for the generic issue under examination here.42 In ancient sources, quotations from plays belonging to different genres (tragic and satyric) coexist in a number of cases: see, for instance, Σ BD Pind. Nem. 6.85b Drachmann on Achilles’ double-pointed spear, with references both to Sophocles’ fr. 152, from Achilleos Erastai, most probably a satyr drama, and Aeschylus’ fr. 152, from Nereides, a tragedy (δίκρουν γὰρ, ὥστε δύο ἀκμὰς ἔχειν καὶ μιᾷ βολῇ ὥστε δισσὰ τὰ τραύματα ἀπεργάζεσθαι. καὶ Αἰσχύλος ἐν Νηρεΐσι· κάμακος εἶσι, κάμακος γλώσσημα διπλάσιον. καὶ Σοφοκλῆς need to be true: see the discussion by Merro 2008, 167, with further literature; Lucas de Dios 2008, 233, n. 338. 38 On the comic device of accumulation, see Vetta 1989, 262, with bibliography. 39 Strangely enough, only Wagner 1852, 225, has adduced this parallel. Against the Πᾶνες as indicator of Satyrspielqualität, see Welcker 1839–1841, vol. I, 350; Engelmann 1900, 67; Kuhnert 1909, 1996; Ambrassat 1914, 21–2; Séchan 21967, 149, n. 3; Lloyd-Jones 22003, 51; Filippi 2011, 109, n. 18; Pámias and Zucker 2013, 208, n. 247. Jouan and Van Looy 1998–2003, vol. I, 160, n. 32 and Wright 2005, 124, n. 210, seem, on the contrary, to regard Πᾶνες as somehow supporting the satyric theory. 40 Of the two Glaukos plays by Aeschylus, one, the Glaukos Potnieus, was surely tragic, the other, Glaukos Pontios, very probably satyric: see Wessels and Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 125–30; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 248–53. 41 To say that this Glaukos is ‘named’ in the Theocritean scholium ‘as satyric’ (so O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 248; compare the similar formulation of Wessels and Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 125) means to consider the word Πᾶνες a decisive generic clue, which it is not. See Sutton 1980a, 22: ‘a passage [scil. Σ Theoc. 4.62–3] that cannot be used to prove the satyric nature of one play [scil. the Andromeda] cannot be alleged as definitive evidence for the other [scil. the Glaukos Pontios]’. 42 The contrary is stated by Campo 1940, 31–2; see also Bubel 1991, 28.

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ἐν Ἀχιλλέως ἐρασταῖς· ἢ δορὸς διχόστομον πλᾶκτρον· δίπτυχοι γὰρ ὀδύναι μιν ἤρικον Ἀχιλληΐου δόρατος).43 From Casaubon the hypothesis of the satyric quality of Sophocles’ Andromeda entered modern scholarship. Since then, it has prompted a great deal of discussion. The following pages make an attempt to put an end to this uncertainty through analysis of the roster of features established in chapter 1.

4 The Method at Work a. The Historical and Logical Likelihood Supporters of the satyric theory have argued that Euripides’ Andromeda, staged in 412 BC, would not have been such a successful novelty if it had been preceded by another serious treatment of the same story (i.e. by a tragic Andromeda by Sophocles).44 This kind of reasoning, however, is not compelling since the history of Attic Drama is full of examples of poets re-shaping for the tragic agon the same mythic material as their predecessors (the pool of possible plots being, after all, restricted), and obtaining more (or, as the case may be, less) success: Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, variously dated between 430 and 410 BC, was awarded only the second prize by the jury (see Aristid. Or. 3.466 Lenz/Behr), but soon eclipsed Aeschylus’ Oedipus (staged in 467 BC), while Euripides did not refrain from picking up the Antigone story about two or three decades after Sophocles’ masterpiece. Euripides’ Antigone is now fragmentary (fr. 157–78), but it does not seem to have been a fiasco; apparently, the poet managed to present a well-known myth (and theatrical plot) in a new light by focusing more on the relationship between Antigone and Haemon (in Sophocles, a minor character).45 Euripides’ late reprise of the Andromeda story could have been quite a similar case.46 Another version of this argument has been recently put forward C.W. by Marshall, in whose opinion 43 Several other similar cases can be found in the sources: see Hdn. Gr. 2.15.34–16.3 Lentz, with references to Sophocles’ Krisis fr. 360 and Sophocles’ Tereus fr. 586; Ath. 11.476c, with references to Sophocles’ Pandora fr. 483 and Aeschylus’ Perrhaibides fr. 185; Poll. 10.186 Bethe, with references to Aeschylus’ Kerykes fr. 109 and Sophocles’ Mousai fr. 407a; Ael. NA 7.47 with reference to Euripides’ Peliades fr. 616, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon 143 and Diktyoulkoi fr. 47a.809. 44 Ribbeck 1875, 163, n. 169; Rispoli 1972, 210, n. 108. On the immediate and long-lasting fortune of Euripides’ Andromeda see Klimek-Winter 1993, 105–8; Taplin 2007, 174–84 (with a focus on iconography); Marshall 2014, 140–4. 45 See Jouan and Van Looy 1998–2003, vol. I, 200–1; Collard and Cropp 2008, vol. I, 156–9. 46 On the probably early date and the possible plot of Sophocles’ Andromeda, see below.

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a satyric Andromeda by Sophocles could have worked as the main stimulus for and the ‘primary intertextual referent’ of Euripides’ tragic rendering of the same story.47 This argument serves to parallel and support the central theory in Marshall’s book, namely that Andromeda’s known (and fully preserved) companion play, Helen, derived its intrinsic theatrical significance mainly from a close comparison with an older satyr-play, Aeschylus’ Proteus (458 BC); however, both assumptions rest on shaky grounds, since Marshall’s notion that neither heroine had ever appeared as character endowed with tragic dignity on the Dionysian stage before Euripides’ namesake tragedy is highly questionable for Helen48 and precisely quod demonstrandum est for Andromeda. With the same right, one could reverse the perspective and maintain that Euripides would never have revived the subject of a Sophoclean satyr drama, since he was willing to measure himself on the same – tragic – terrain as his predecessor: this would imply that Sophocles’ Andromeda was also a tragedy.49 A couple of counter-examples, however, suggest caution here too: Euripides wrote a tragic Diktys (as well as a Danae) after Aeschylus’ satyr drama Diktyoulkoi50 and, perhaps, his preserved Herakles (variously dated between 423 and 416 BC) after (one of) the Sophoclean satyr drama(s?) devoted to this hero.

b. The Title The most common type of satyric title is the (proper) name of the wondrous or terrible creature playing a major role in the action: see, for example, Aeschylus’ Sphinx and Kirke, Sophocles’ Amykos and Euripides’ Cyclops. Another common type is a plural title defining the activity of the satyric Chorus on stage: so, for instance, Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi and Sophocles’ Ichneutai.51 The title Andromeda brings spontaneously to mind genuine tragic titles like Medea or Electra. However, one cannot exclude the possibility that it could be used as a title of a satyr drama: a handful of satyr dramas known to us are indeed named after

47 Marshall 2014, 187. 48 Marshall 2014, 64–79, tries to demonstrate that Helen was either absent from the many Sophoclean fragmentary plays devoted to the Trojan myth (several of which were named after her) or that, if she was present, then the play in question was satyric: but this seems, on the whole, prejudicial. On Sophocles’ Helen plays see most recently Carrara 2020, 32–33, with bibliography. 49 This argument was orally pointed out to me by prof. Francisco L. Lisi Bereterbide (Universidad Carlos III de Madrid). 50 Karamanou 2006, 127; Marshall 2014, 154–7. 51 On these typologies see Carrara 2014, 109–11, with further examples and references.

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their ‘positive’ hero (cf. Sophocles’ Amphiaraos, Achaeus’ Alkmaion) or heroine (Aeschylus’ Amymone, Sophocles’ Pandora, Ion’s and Achaeus’ Omphale). Of the eponymous heroines of these plays, however, only queen Omphale and Danaos’ daughter Anymone are comparable to princess Andromeda, since Pandora is a half-divine creature.

c. The Mythical Episode A plausible summary of the Andromeda myth would run as follow: ‘a beautiful noble girl is to be sacrificed to a monster; the male hero comes in due time, falls in love with her, defeats the monster, rescues and marries the girl’. Such a folklore tale52 clearly has a satyric potential.53 We need only to accommodate in it the customary Chorus of Satyrs – with such a plot, a pretty simple task.54 In Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi, for example, the Satyrs intrude in the tragic story of Danae, another girl exposed to death by her father: according to a reconstruction based on the papyrus fragments and accepted by many scholars,55 the Satyrs participate (in their own typically ineffective manner) in the rescue of the chest containing Danae and Perseus from the sea, play with the child and day-dream about the possibility of marrying the young mother, only to be ultimately brought back to reason by the male hero Dictys, who takes charge of Danae and her baby. But the presence and the role of the Satyrs in the action of the Andromeda remains a matter of speculation.56 The question to be asked concerning the outline of the myth is rather whether its indisputable basic elements as identified

52 On this background of the myth, see Klimek-Winter 1993, 1; Jouan and Van Looy 1998–2003, vol. I, 147, n. 1. 53 This was already recognized by Müller 1845, 388; see also Ribbeck 1875, 163, n. 169; Campo 1940, 32, 225, and now Gibert in Collard et al. 2004, 141. 54 In this context it needs to be stressed that Greek poets could turn basically any myth into a satyr drama, as has been well described by Lissarrague 1990b, 236, with his ‘basic recipe’ for obtaining a good Greek satyr drama: ‘take one myth, add satyrs, observe the result’. For instance, we do not know exactly how Sophocles could make a satyr drama out from the genuine tragic story of Amphiaraos, but he managed to do so: see Radt 1983, 194; Lloyd-Jones 22003, 46. 55 See Werre-de Haas 1961, 72–5; Wessels and Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 107–24; Podlecki 2005, 9–11; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 254–7; Lämmle 2013, 295–305; for the tragic quality of the Danaë story, see Paganelli 1989, 275; for its satyric potential Marshall 2014, 155, n. 43: ‘the folklore motifs seem perfectly appropriate for satyr drama’. 56 The most obvious solution would be to imagine a starting situation similar to the one in Aeschylus’ Diktyoulkoi, centered on the intemperantia (Müller 1845, 388) of the Satyrs faced with the beautiful (and half-naked?) exposed young woman.

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above (damsel in distress, rescue, marriage etc.) are intrinsically satyric. Mark Griffith has recently maintained that they are. He observes that the seven surviving Sophoclean tragedies do not contain much romantic material (meaning, to quote Griffith’s own words, ‘erotic engagement, courtship, sexual passion, and falling in love’), while his satyr dramas are often concerned with such themes (cf. Achilleos Erastai or Helenes Gamos).57 On this basis, Griffith establishes an almost necessary relationship between Sophoclean lost plays with (possibly) romantic plots and the satyric genre: in his opinion, a Sophoclean fragmentary play containing a love affair and/or a marriage has a good a priori chance of being a satyr drama of this romantic kind.58 Griffith’s remark that Sophocles’ satyric productions often touched upon romantic themes might be right. The problem is that it does not serve as a hermeneutical tool. First and foremost, as Griffith himself admits, it is not known on independent grounds that Sophocles’ Andromeda centered (as Euripides’ Andromeda demonstrably did)59 on the love story and/or the marriage between the title heroine and the male character: it could have treated other conflict themes, relegating love to the background.60 Secondly, even if all the plays listed by Griffith as potentially ‘romantic’ were really such, this would not make them ipso facto satyric; they might have been tragedies following the pattern known from the Euripides’ ‘happy ending’ plays, which means that they might have moved from bad (the conflict situation) to good (the marriage, the reunion, the salvation etc.), rather than the other way round, with their tragic core located elsewhere than in a final catastrophe. Compare the more cautious – and rightly so – approach Wright to a similar motif analysis: even if Sophocles’ Andromeda were an ‘escape-play’ (which is all but certain), this would still not make a satyr drama out of it, since the escape-theme was no exclusive feature of the satyric genre.61

57 Griffith 2006, 51, n. 1, 60–70. 58 Griffith 2006, 63–4, n. 44, on the Andromeda. This play is listed together with ten further Sophoclean lost dramas which might have contained romantic plots or scenes (albeit nothing concrete is known about this); according to Griffith, several items in this list ‘may in any case have been satyric’. 59 It is precisely because of its focus on a (strongly-opposed) marriage, that Pechstein 1998, 14, considers Euripides’ Andromeda to have been a ‘prosatyric’ play, like Euripides’ Alcestis. 60 This has been most clearly stated by Gibert in Collard et al. 2004, 143. Two other Sophoclean lost plays listed by Griffith 2006, 64, n. 44, in the same group as Andromeda and similarly named after their heroines, Iphigenia and Hermione, were (to judge from surviving fragments and testimonies) quite certainly no love dramas. 61 Wright 2005, 124–5, n. 210, and reference to Sophocles’ Philoctetes which might be seen as an ‘escape-play’ and is certainly not satyric or ‘pro-satyric’.

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d. The Ancient Plot Summaries Only a few prose passages help to define how Sophocles shaped the basic elements of the myth of Andromeda – whether into a satyr drama or into ‘romance’ or into a gloomy play. All these passages belong to the astronomical tradition originating from the learned work of Eratosthenes of Cyrene called, according to Suda ε 2898 Adler s.v. Ἐρατοσθένης, Ἀστρονομία ἤ Καταστηριγμοί.62 Among them, only two chapters of the work known today under the title Καταστερισμοί63 name the author and title of our play and will be analyzed more closely here. According to chapter 16 of the Καταστερισμοί (cf. also Σ S Arat. 188bis), Σοφοκλῆς ὁ τῶν τραγῳδιῶν64 ποιητής told ἐν Ἀνδρομέδᾳ that Andromeda’s mother Cassiepeia foolishly compared her beauty to that of the Nereids and inevitably brought about her own fall: Poseidon sent a κῆτος (sea monster) to ravage the land, and Andromeda was exposed to appease the monster because of her mother; as a constellation, Cassiepeia was represented in the heavens close to Andromeda, sitting on a throne. Chapter 36 is dedicated to the sea monster and says that Σοφοκλῆς ὁ τῶν τραγῳδιῶν ποιητὴς ἐν τῇ Ἀνδρομέδᾳ made Poseidon send the κῆτος to Cepheus ‘because Cassiepeia rivalled the Nereids in a beauty contest’; but in the end Perseus managed to kill the monster, which was put among the stars as a reminder of this deed. Two features of these accounts might seem relevant to the question of the genre of Sophocles’ Andromeda. First, there is the fact that Sophocles is twice called ὁ τῶν τραγῳδιῶν ποιητής, ‘the poet of tragedies’. Does this imply that the specific play dealt with, the Andromeda, was a tragedy? A survey of the ways later prose authors qualify dramatic poets suggests caution. Athenaeus uses the term τραγικός or similar ones even though he is referring to satyr dramas: see Ath. 10.411a Ἀστυδάμας ὁ τραγικὸς ἐν Ἡρακλεῖ σατυρικῷ [see TrGF 60. fr. 4],

62 On this work see Geus 2002, 211–23. All relevant passages of this tradition, the Latin and the Greek ones, have been conveniently collected by Klimek-Winter 1993, 24–5 as T1; see also Marshall 2014, 180–2. 63 The title Καταστερισμοί designates today a sourcebook in forty-four chapters about the origins of constellations from mythic characters, which dates to the Roman Imperial period and is only distantly related to the writings of Eratosthenes. It is impossible even to hint here at the intricate problems posed by the textual formation and transmission of this composite collection: for details see the introduction by Pámias and Zucker 2013, xvii–xxvii, ci–cvi; with a focus on the Andromeda-chapters also Klimek-Winter 1993, 96–8. 64 This is the reading of the Fragmenta Vaticana, one recensio of the Καταστερισμοί. The other recensio, the Epitome, has the singular form τῆς τραγῳδίας: on this difference see below. For the text of the Καταστερισμοί, Ι rely on the edition by Pámias and Zucker 2013.

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10.415b Σωσίθεος ὁ τραγῳδοποιός ἐν δράματι Δάφνιδι ἤ Λιτυέρσᾳ [see TrGF 99. fr. 2.6–8], 11.466e Ἀχαιὸς δ’ ὁ τραγικὸς ἐν Ὀμφάλῃ [see TrGF 20. fr. 33]).65 Aelian does the same in Natura Animalium 6.51: he gives a summary of the story underlying the Sophoclean satyr drama Kophoi, but calls the author Σοφοκλῆς ὁ τῆς τραγῳδίας ποιητής. Phrases such as ὁ τῶν τραγῳδιῶν ποιητής, or the like, were not meant to point to the genre of the play treated in the specific passage, but were rather employed as a general reference to the author, through mention of the kind of poetry he was most renowned for – in the case of Sophocles, doubtless, tragedy.66 Therefore, a qualification like ὁ τῶν τραγῳδιῶν ποιητής seems to be more suitable for a tragedy, but does by no means rule out a satyr drama.67 The same holds true for the alternative reading Σοφοκλῆς ὁ τῆς τραγῳδίας (sing.) ποιητὴς ἐν Ἀνδρομέδᾳ offered by the Epitome for chapter 16 of the Καταστερισμοί. Even accepting this as the original reading,68 it would still not be certain that the Andromeda was a tragedy: the more natural translation of this phrase is not ‘le poète Sophocle dans sa tragédie Andromède’, as Pámias and Zucker recently put it,69 but ‘Sophocles, the poet of tragedy, in his Andromeda’, as shown by the word order70 and by the similar passage from Aelian’s Natura Animalium quoted above.

65 The Sositheus reference was already adduced as a parallel by Ambrassat 1914, 21–2. On Athenaeus’ ‘tragic’ terminology see Cipolla 2003, 405, n. 63, who also points out that possible alternatives such as σατυρογράφος were late, and, in any case, not very common. Xanthakis-Karamanos 1994, 248, n. 73, uses inter alia Athenaeus’ wording Σωσίθεος ὁ τραγῳδοποιός to question the satyric status of the Daphnis or Lityerses; but the common opinion is still that this was a satyr drama: see Günther in Krumeich et al. 1999, 605; Cipolla 2003, 404–6; Lämmle 2013, 250, n. 10; O’ Sullivan and Collard 2013, 456–9. 66 Already seen by Ahrens 1844, 332: ‘at quia Sophocles tragicus fuit poeta, hoc nomine etiam in fabulis satyricis appellari potuit’. 67 See on this point Welcker 1839–1841, vol. I, 350; Fedde 1860, 8; Ribbeck 1875, 163, n. 169; Filippi 2011, 109. 68 In all other similar cases, the plural is used: cf. Καταστερισμοί 1 Ἄμφις ὁ τῶν κωμῳδιῶν ποιητής, 22 Αἰσχύλος ὁ τῶν τραγῳδιῶν ποιητής ἐν Φορκίσιν and 24 Αἰσχύλος ὁ τῶν τραγῳδιῶν ποιητής. 69 Pámias and Zucker 2013, 50. The same interpretation of τῆς τραγῳδίας is found in Ahrens 1844, 332, who did not know the alternative plural reading of the Fragmenta Vaticana (first published in 1899) and (implicitly) in Bubel 1991, 28, n. 15. 70 It is linguistically difficult to make the genitive τῆς τραγῳδίας, which primarily qualifies ποιητής, refer to the single play Andromeda. According to Richards 1900, 211, τραγῳδίας or κομῳδίας ποιητής [without article] was ‘the regular and perhaps technical expression in the formal language of inscriptions’ for a tragic or a comic poet.

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The second aspect that needs consideration is the content of the two chapters from the Καταστερισμοί. The basic plot elements which can be deduced from it for Sophocles’ Andromeda – Cassiepeia’s hybris, her punishment by a god, the sacrifice of her daughter for the salvation of the homeland, the intervention of Perseus – give the feeling of a tragedy.71 This feeling cannot, however, be further corroborated by noting the absence of the Satyrs. Ancient prose summaries of satyr dramas did not necessarily mention the role of the Satyrs, if they were not interested in them (and the Καταστερισμοί were primarily interested in the characters of the Andromeda story that ended their mythic ‘career’ as constellations). Neither of the two main testimonia of Sophocles’ satyr drama Kophoi (Σ Nic. Ther. 343–54 = Soph. fr. 362.1; Ael. NA 6.51 = Soph. fr. 362.2) even mentions the word ‘Satyr(s)’.72 The same goes for Athenaeus’ reference to Sophocles’ satyr drama Krisis (Ath. 15.687c = Soph. fr. 361.1): he only describes the roles played by the goddesses Aphrodite and Athena in the play, and ignores the Satyrs. Finally, something needs to be said about another character who, like the Satyrs, is conspicuously absent from the Eratosthenic summaries of Sophocles’ Andromeda. This is Phineus, the official fiancé of Andromeda, who intervened to prevent her marriage to Perseus according to Pseudo-Apollodorus’ Bibliotheca 2.4.3 [2.43–44 Wagner] (here Phineus is Cepheus’ brother), Hyginus’ fabula 64.1–3 (here the fiancé is called Agenor and is not Cepheus’ brother, but treacherously plots with him against Perseus), and Ovid’s Metamorphoses 5.1–235 (same version as in Pseudo-Apollodorus). If, notwithstanding the silence of the Καταστερισμοί, the intervention of Phineus – a seemingly tragic development – could be proved to have belonged to Sophocles’ Andromeda, then this could be a further proof (in addition to the other likewise apparently tragic ingredients detectable in the passages from the Καταστερισμοί) that this play was a tragedy. However, no surviving fragments of the play,73 nor works of art plausibly linked to it74 contain clues for Phineus’ presence. Likelihood-based arguments can be invoked in favour of the fiancé episode in Sophocles’ Andromeda,75 and the mythographic accounts can, 71 For these basic elements see Marijoan 1968, 65; Klimek-Winter 1993, 9, 31; Filippi 2011, 108–9; on their tragic character see Ahrens 1844, 332 (‘argumentum sit tragoediae’); Fedde 1860, 8. 72 This is a lamentable omission, since we are left with no clue at all as to the role of the Satyrs in this play: see Guggisberg 1947, 114–5; Scheurer and Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 353–5. 73 For some possible ‘Phineus-fragments’ see Petersen 1904, 104, 109–10, persuasively refuted by Klimek-Winter 1993, 33–4, 44, 49, 52. 74 Rispoli 1972, 209–10, adduces very uncertain evidence, while Petersen 1904, 106–7, is surely wrong (see below, n. 104). 75 See Post 1922, 16, 46–7, 51; Séchan 21967, 154; Klimek-Winter 1993, 9–10 (who, however, does not exploit further this hypothesis in his study of the fragments).

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by way of hypothesis, be traced back to this play.76 But such arguments are not easy to substantiate, and would not convince anyone already inclined to the satyric theory.77

e. The Artistic Evidence The first piece of evidence to be discussed is a beautiful calyx-krater from Irsina (Basilicata), a work by the Darius Painter dated to c. 340–320 BC, now kept in the archeological Museum of Matera. It illustrates the liberation of Andromeda (upper band, flanked by Aphrodite and Poseidon) in the presence of her parents, Cepheus and Cassiepeia (lower band), and of Perseus (center of the composition) (Figure 10.1).78 That this vase is somehow reminiscent of Sophocles’ Andromeda is quite plausible (mostly because of the remarkable throne in the lower band, which brings to mind the δίφρος, ‘throne’, in chapter 16 of the Καταστερισμοί),79 but not certain.80 Taking this connection for granted, the archaeologist Gioia Maria Rispoli has inferred mainly from the two marginal figures emphatically positioned on the same level as the protagonist (in her own terms, a σατυρίσκος on

76 Hartung 1851, 114–5; Wecklein 1888, 95; Wernicke 1894, 2156, and more recently Guidorizzi 2 2005, 303 have proposed to connect Hyginus’ fabula to Sophocles’ Andromeda; contra Müller 1907, 65; Pearson 1917, 79; Marijoan 1968, 67. On this fabula see also Huys 1997a, 16–17; Marshall 2014, 168–9. 77 Rispoli 1972, 210, can apparently even amalgamate Phineus and Silenos in a satyric Andromeda. The Phineus question has been even more hotly debated for Euripides’ Andromeda: in favour of Phineus’ inclusion in that play e.g. Welcker 1839–1841, vol. I, 662–4; Wecklein 1888, 89–98; Mette 1964, 74–5; Webster 1965, 32; Webster 1967b, 197–9; Marshall 2014, 164–5, 175–9; contra e.g. Engelmann 1900, 75; Müller 1907, 49–51, 64; Pearson 1907, 79; Klimek-Winter 1993, 15, 57, 243, 276, 285, 287, 304, 306; Jouan and Van Looy 1998–2003, vol I, 159; non-committal Gibert in Collard et al. 2004, 136; Collard and Cropp 2008, vol. I, 127. A good overall treatment of the problem is offered by Bubel 1991, 17–23, 33, 37–8, 41. 78 First noticed in Trendall 1966–1967, 33, n. 21; see Phillips 1968, 10 with Pl. 10, fig. 27 and Pl. 11, fig. 28, fig. 29; LIMC I.1 s.v. ‘Andromeda’ nr. 64, p. 780 (Schauenburg) and LIMC I.2 s.v. ‘Andromeda’ nr. 64, p. 633 (illustration); Lo Porto 1991, 94–7; Bottini and Lecce 2016, 41–3 with table 48. 79 Phillips 1968, 10; Rispoli 1972, 208; mentioned also by Lo Porto 1991, 95, n. 23. 80 Webster 21967, 155; Trendall and Webster 1971, 79, hesitantly followed by Wright 2005, 328, n. 379, connected it to Euripides’ Andromeda. Other archaeologists view the throne as symbolising the happy future of Andromeda, Perseus’ wife-to-be and queen of Argos, and reject any ‘tragic’ interpretation of the vase: see, e.g., Morard 2009, 107; Roscino in Todisco 2012, II, 283.

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Figure 10.1: The liberation of Andromeda. Apulian calyx-krater from Irsina (Basilicata), by the Darius Painter (340–320 BC). Matera, Museo archeologico nazionale ‘Domenico Ridola’ 151148.

the left and a Pan on the right) that Sophocles’ Andromeda was a satyr drama.81 However, the left small figure does not seem to be a σατυρίσκος, but rather a πανίσκος, a little Pan (he has goat-legs and horns),82 and Pans in the margin of the scene are common in Apulian pottery (sometimes even in the same pose or carrying the same attributes as the two on the Matera vase).83 On their function there is no complete agreement,84 but normally they are not interpreted as active

81 Rispoli 1972, 207–9; she also reports a letter by A.D. Trendall arguing against her interpretation; contra also Lo Porto 1991, 95, n. 22. For an overview of possible influences of Attic satyr drama on Apulian pottery see C. Roscino in Todisco 2012, II, 286–7. 82 Phillips 1968, 10 (‘Pan figure’); Trendall and Webster 1971, 79 (‘Paniskos’); Moret 1978, 89, n. 85 (‘Paniskos’); LIMC I.1 s.v. ‘Andromeda’, p. 781 (Schauenburg: ‘Pan’); Morard 2009, 108 (‘Pan et Panisque’); Bottini and Lecce 2016, 42 (‘Panisco’). 83 The Paniskos on the left holds a shell, and not a torch, as erroneously stated by Rispoli 1972, 207; on this attribute see Moret 1978, 89, n. 85; Lo Porto 1991, 94, n. 20. 84 With reference to the Matera vase, the Pans have been explained either as indicators of the ‘outdoor rustic setting’ of the episode (Trendall and Webster 1971, 79; Lo Porto 1991, 95, n. 26) or

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characters of the illustrated play, nor as a marker of its dramatic genre. As for Rispoli’s argument that the seated Aphrodite between Andromeda and the left Pan might also have played a significant role in the drama: this might be true, but only in the sense that the (marital) union between Andromeda and Perseus was an important ingredient of the myth underlying the play, not that Aphrodite herself appeared on stage. Even if this were the case, this would be irrelevant to the generic question, since the goddess of love was at home both in tragedy (Euripides’ Hippolytus) and in satyr drama (Sophocles’ Krisis). The second piece of iconographic evidence discussed by Rispoli is the decoration of a Praenestine cista (a feminine toilet-jewel-box), now in the Louvre (Figure 10.2).85 It shows, from left to right: two heroes, one mounted on a horse, fighting each other (Phineus and Perseus?); one hero (Perseus) killing a monster; a naked woman (Andromeda) chained to a wooden rack with a female figure (Cassiepeia) sitting next to her. Two other characters enrich the composition: an imposing winged figure (Nike) between the two fighting scenes, and a recumbent elderly Silenos, with equine tail, in the center of the scene. Rispoli maintains that the anonymous decorator of this cista drew on an illustrated text (manuscript) of Sophocles’ Andromeda86 and that Silenos, an unexpected figure here, must have featured (like the other characters engraved) in the model play, which thus would turn out to be satyric.87 Rispoli’s far-reaching interpretation starts from two premises, neither of which is certain. First, there is the very basic issue of the authenticity of the decoration of this cista, suspected by authoritative scholars to be a nineteenth-century fake.88 Next, there remains the question of the relationship between the cista and Sophocles’ Andromeda,

as boundary marks of the divine space in the upper band as opposed to the human world in the lower band (Bottini and Lecce 2016, 42; on this dimension of the composition see Morard 2009, 107–8). 85 Paris, Musée du Louvre, inv. Br. 1664. See MonIst VI (1860) tav. xl; Garrucci 1860; Minervini 1862, 52–6; Trendelenburg 1872, 113, n. 2, 117, n. 1; de Ridder 1915, 38–9; LIMC I.1 s.v. ‘Andromeda’ nr. 144, p. 786 (Schauenburg); LIMC VIII.1 (Suppl.) s.v. ‘Kassiepeia’ nr. 33, p. 669 (Balty); Phillips 1968, 13 with pl. 14 fig. 41; Bordenache Battaglia and Emiliozzi 1990, 186–90 (Leprévots Trogan), tav. cclxii–cclxx (nr. 60). 86 For the potential existence of such an object see also Phillips 1968, 22. 87 Rispoli 1972, 209–10; see already Ribbeck 1875, 163, n. 169. Sapelli 1975, 230 does not wholly discard Rispoli’s idea. The connection between this Silenos and the Silenoi of Soph. fr. 136 (with the old text of the Theocritean scholium discussed in chapter 3) already occurred to Garrucci 1860, 118, who rejected it. 88 LIMC I.1 s.v. ‘Andromeda’ nr. 144, p. 786 (Schauenburg); LIMC VIII.1 (Suppl.) s.v. Kassiepeia nr. 33, p. 669 (Balty); Sapelli 1975, 229–30; Bordenache Battaglia and Emiliozzi 1990, 188 (Leprévots Trogan); Simon 1996, 254; see also Filippi 2011, 123.

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Figure 10.2: The exposure of Andromeda (detail with Silenos). Praenestine cista. Paris, Musée du Louvre, Br 1664.

which also needs demonstration.89 If we admit, for the sake of argument, Rispoli’s (tenuous) premises and concentrate only on Silenos, the question to be asked is similar to the one posed for the Pans on the Matera krater, namely whether the presence of a Silenos on a Praenestine engraving normally points to the satyric genre of the play it is believed to illustrate.90 The most famous Praenestine decoration, the Ficoroni cista,91 seems to provide a good parallel for Rispoli’s interpretation of the Louvre Silenos. The

89 For some proof, see Rispoli 1972, 209–10, and already Garrucci 1860, 114–17. The main problem is the fighter on the horseback: assuming the other hero to be Perseus, this knight should be his rival Phineus. That Phineus appeared in Sophocles’ Andromeda is, however, not known with certainty (see above), so this could be circular reasoning. For an investigation of the connections between Praenestine scenes and Attic drama see Sapelli 1975; Simon 1996, 255. 90 This is the opinion of Sapelli 1975, 224: ‘Satiri o Sileni indicano generalmente l’influenza di drammi satireschi’. 91 Roma, Museo di Villa Giulia, inv. 24787, dating from the late fourth century BC. See LIMC I.1 s.v. Amykos nr. 5, p. 739 (Beckel) and LIMC I.2 s.v. Amykos nr. 5, p. 595 (detail); Foerst 1978, 194–5; Bordenache Battaglia and Emiliozzi 1990, 211–26 (cista nr. 68); Weis 1982, 33, nr. 3.

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Ficoroni cista features episodes from the Argonauts’ myth (most prominently Pollux binding Amycus to a tree) and has been widely connected to Sophocles’ satyr drama Amykos. The main proof for this is Silenos beating his fists on his belly in the right margin of the composition: since Silenos does not belong to the cast of the Argonauts’ myth, it is assumed that his presence here is due to the (remote) source of the chosen iconography, Sophocles’ Amykos.92 The theatrical interpretation of the Ficoroni frieze with the generic explanation of the presence of Silenos might (or, after all, might not)93 be correct; here it is important to realize that it cannot be extended to other artefacts of the Praenestine factory in an automatic way. As a warning example, it is enough to cite another cista preserved at the Museo di Villa Giulia,94 which shows the sacrifice of Iphigenia in a way perhaps reminiscent of Euripides’ Iphigenia Aulidensis.95 If this theatrical connection is right, the dancing Satyr and the Silenos playing the flute, who fill up the scene together with a naked woman, are certainly not meant to point to the satyric nature of the play which served as iconographic source.96 As a matter of fact, Silenoi, Satyrs and other Dionysian characters like Maenads, pop up everywhere on the ciste, not only as figures of the engraved decoration, but also as handles, feet and lids of the boxes.97 In general, it seems that these figures belonged to the motifs that the Praenestine decorators and/or their clients were fond of and wanted to insert, or to find engraved on the ciste, independent of the iconographic provenance of the main subjects of the decoration. Going back to the Louvre cista, it has been observed that the figures on it, most clearly the

92 For this explanation see e.g. LIMC I.1 s.v. Amykos, p. 741–2 (Beckel); Williams 1945; Howe 1957, 348–9; Del Corno 1971; Simon 1973, 406; Sapelli 1975, 248–9; Bordenache Battaglia and Emiliozzi 1990, 224, n. 18; Simon 1996, 254–5 (with parallel discussion of a cista now in London [this is cista nr. 34 in the catalogue of Bordenache Battaglia and Emiliozzi] in her opinion related to Sophocles’ satyr drama Pandora or Sphyrokophoi). 93 Contra Dohrn 1972, 30, 41, 49; Weis 1982, 26, n. 40 (with further literature); non-committal Foerst 1978, 46, n. 182; Scheurer and Bielfeldt in Krumeich et al. 1999, 245–7; see also Menichetti 1995, 125–9, who has persuasively shown that the two main decorative dimensions of the cista, that is, the theatrical and the symbolic, might not exclude each other. 94 Roma, Museo di Villa Giulia, inv. 13141, dating from the fourth century BC. See LIMC V.1 s.v. Iphigeneia in Etruria nr. 1, p. 729 (Krauskopf) and LIMC V.2 s.v. ‘Iphigenia in Etruria’ nr. 1, p. 480 (detail); Foerst 1978, 179–81; Bordenache Battaglia and Emiliozzi 1990, 273–7 (nr. 82); Menichetti 1995, 65–7 (fig. 22). 95 See Schefold and Jung 1989, 150–1; Simon 1996, 255; against a theatrical origin of this decoration, see Medda 2012, 107. 96 Bordenache Battaglia and Emiliozzi 1990, 276, define them as ‘figure di repertorio’. 97 See Menichetti 1995, with a global interpretation of the cultural significance and the function of these figures in the (Italic) world of the ciste. See already Garrucci 1860, 118; Minervini 1862, 55.

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chained Andromeda, ‘are in the same general poses’98 as their pendants on the famous Apulian red-figured loutrophoros by the Darius Painter now in Naples.99 This vase does not feature Silenoi or Satyrs: it is conceivable that the Praenestine engraver (provided he was not a modern forger) used this or a similar model100 and wished to add a local note through the insertion of Silenos. The third, and last,101 iconographic argument to be discussed here (Figure 10.3) seems to be in favour of the tragic theory. It involves a set of five Attic vases having as a common motif the exposure of Andromeda through binding to poles, the most famous of them being the following beautiful kalpis now in the British Museum:102 Since the binding motif is, for the age of the artefacts (the early 440’s BC), a new subject in Attic pottery, and since this chronology is not incompatible with a possible performance date of Sophocles’ Andromeda, these vases are commonly taken as having been prompted by this play (though not all depending on the same iconographic model).103 If this is right, we obtain some details about the

98 Phillips 1968, 13 with pl. 10, fig. 24; for a comparison between these two artworks, see already Minervini 1862, 54–6. 99 Napoli, Museo Archeologico Nazionale H. 3225. See Minervini 1862, 33–51; LIMC I.1 s.v. ‘Andromeda’ nr. 13, p. 777 (Schauenburg) and LIMC I.2. s.v. ‘Andromeda’ nr. 13, p. 626 (detail); Weis 1982, 34, n. 10; Maaskant-Kleibrink 1989, 31, nr. 11; Bottini and Lecce 2016, 42–3, with further literature. 100 For the acquaintance of Etruscan artists with iconographical schemes coming from Magna Graecia, see Phillips 1968, 13; Sapelli 1975, 222–3. 101 Papaspyridi Karouzou 1936, 154, very tentatively proposed also a connection between the satyric decoration of an Attic skyphos (450 BC) [upper band: satyrs stealing Heracles’ weapons, lower band: episodes from Perseus’ myth] and Sophocles’ Andromeda. But this is purely speculative. The same applies to Marshall’s connection of the famous Vlastos oinochoë (on which see also below, n. 109) to a satyric performance (Perseus delivering the prologue before the entrance of the satyric Chorus [?], so Marshall 2014, 161–3) and his identification of the source drama with Sophocles’ Andromeda (Marshall 2014, 186). 102 The five vases are: 1) a red-figure pelike in Boston, Museum of Fine Arts n. 63.2663; 2) a red-figure hydria in London British Museum, n. 1843.11–3.24 (inv. E 169); 3) a red-figure bell-krater in Gela, Museo Civico V 1818; 4) a white-ground calyx-krater in Agrigento, Museo Civico AG 7 (Perseus and Andromeda both inscribed); 5) a white-ground calyx-krater in Basle, Antikenmuseum BS 403. Lists of these vases with further details, bibliography and illustrations are to be found in Schauenburg 1967; Webster 21967, 116–17; Phillips 1968, 6–7 with pl. 6 and 7; LIMC I.1 s.v. ‘Andromeda’ nr. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 on p. 776 (Schauenburg); Schefold and Jung 1988, 108–9; MaaskantKleibrink 1989, 29; Green 1991, 42–3; Green 1994, 177, n. 10. 103 This is the (almost undebated) common opinion: see e.g. Schauenburg 1967, 5–7; Webster 1967a, 147; Webster 1967b, 193; Trendall and Webster 1971, 5, 63–5; Rispoli 1972, 195–6; Sutton 1974a, 109, n. 8; Sapelli 1975, 229; LIMC I.1 s.v. ‘Andromeda’, p. 787 (K. Schauenburg); Simon 1981b, 35; Kiso 1984, 53, n. 12; Schefold and Jung 1988, 108; Bubel 1991, 30–1; Green 1991, 42–3; Carpenter 1991, 106; Klimek-Winter 1993, 32–4; Green 1994, 20–2; Slater 2002b, 297; Gibert in Collard et al. 2004, 139; Filippi 2011, 129; Marshall 2014, 147–8, 184–5; cautious Weis 1982, 26, n. 40;

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Figure 10.3: The exposure of Andromeda. Attic red-figure kalpis from Vulci (Etruria) (450–440 BC). London, British Museum, 1843.1103.24.

Sophoclean drama and its production: (1) Andromeda was probably bound to stakes on stage, or this was recounted in an impressive messenger speech (cf. perhaps fr. 128a δυστυχὴς ἀθῷος ἐκκρεμωμένη ‘the unlucky one, hanging here, intact or guiltless’); (2) precious gifts (vessels, boxes, a chair) were put besides her by slaves (cf. fr. 130 αὐτοχειλέσι ληκύθοις ‘one-piece caskets’); (3) the slaves were black-skinned, which points to an exotic setting for the play (cf. 133.7 τῷ Λιβυκῷ); (4) the same holds for the dress of Andromeda (a tunic with trousers visible underneath),104 which, from a Greek perspective, suits a princess of a foreign country

Taplin 2007, 175; Roscino in Todisco 2012, II, 215, 282; contra Small 2005, 105–6. On the London hydria see already Séchan 21967, 149, 154; Marijoan 1968, 67, and also Minervini 1862, 57–9; Trendelenburg 1872, 111–13, 116. If the dramatic origin of the vases is accepted, there is no alternative to Sophocles’ Andromeda: the homonymous play by Euripides is too late (Engelmann 1900, 10–11, 66–8, seems to forget this chronology in his discussion), while nothing is known about the Andromeda by Phrynichus II (TrGF 212. T 1; see on this play Rispoli 1972, 195 and below). 104 Petersen 1904, 106, considered this an impossible outfit for a woman and identified the main character of the London hydria with Phineus – a theory already discarded before the discovery of the other Attic vases of the same set: see Séchan 21967, 153–4; Marijoan 1968, 67; Lucas de Dios 1983, 72, n. 173.

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(cf. fr. 135 σάρητον ‘garment’).105 While this scenery and the underlying theme (the sacrifice of a girl represented as ripe and ready to marry, but indeed destined to Hades) works well for a tragedy, there is nothing here that would suggest a satyr drama.106 Of course, the argument works only if one accepts the widely supposed but still hypothetical connection between this remarkable iconography and Sophocles’ Andromeda – and this is a step supporters or sympathizers of the satyric quality of this play may not be ready to take.107

f. The Relationship to Later Plays Webster conjectured that two lines in the parabasis of Aristophanes’ second Nubes108 (555–6 προσθεὶς αὐτῷ γραῦν μεθύσην τοῦ κόρδακος οὕνεχ’, ἣν | Φρύνιχος πάλαι πεποίηχ’, ἣν τὸ κῆτος ἤσθιεν ‘having added [scil. Eupolis] to this [scil. to his play Marikas] for the sake of the cordax, a drunken old woman, whom long ago Phrynichus dramatized, whom the κῆτος was on the point of devouring’) imply a parody of Sophocles’ Andromeda by Phrynichus,109 the comic poet.110 This 105 Some of the analogies listed here between the London vase and the fragments have also been noticed by the scholars quoted above, n. 103; on Soph. fr. 130, see also Trendelenburg 1872, 116, n. 1. 106 Vogel 1886, 44, n. 1, maintained that the representation on stage of a princess tied to poles would have caused much hilarity and that the source of this motif should have been a satyr drama, perhaps Sophocles’ Andromeda. This ‘hilarious’ reading of the scene seems to me to lack any basis: there is no single ridiculous item, gesture or detail in it. 107 Taplin 2007, 175, is exemplary of this attitude. 108 To be dated between 420 and 417 BC; see Dover 1968, LXXX–LXXXI. 109 Webster 1965, 33, n. 1; Webster 21967, 147. See also Trendall and Webster 1971, 117, on the famous Vlastos oinochoë (from Anavyssos, c. 420 BC; Athens, National Museum BΣ 518) showing a dramatic actor playing Perseus with sickle and Gorgon-bag, taken as an illustration of this Phrynichean parody (a possibility admitted also by Marshall 2014, 186, n. 134). But this is speculative; for other explanations of this oinochoë, see Brommer 1944, 25–9, and the bibliography given by Marshall 2014, 162, in his discussion (on which see above, n. 101). 110 This Phrynichus is almost certainly Aristophanes’ comic colleague, not one of the two tragedians of the same name, the pupil of Thespis (TrGF 3) and a mysterious namesake who wrote an Andromeda (TrGF 212): see Klimek-Winter 1993, 5; Stama 2014, 38–9, 348–9; Marshall 2014, 186; Olson 2016, 122, 127. Aélion 1986, 175, n. 75 and Bubel 1991, 32, thought instead of the tragedian registered as TrGF 212: this poet would have staged the drunken woman and the κῆτος in his Andromeda, which thus would obviously have been a satyr drama. This is not convincing, because (a) this Phrynichus lived perhaps after Aristophanes (so Klimek-Winter 1993, 5 and Filippi 2011, 108); (b) in the parabasis of the Nubes Aristophanes is taking issue with other comic poets, not with tragedians; (c) the adverb πάλαι in Ar. Nub. 556 does not need to mean ‘long ago’ (note the perfect tense πεπόηχ’; Dover 1968, 171, compares Soph. Phil. 1030 τέθνηχ’ ὑμῖν πάλαι), but is an

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would lend support to the tragic theory, since it is almost certain that Phrynichus would have parodied a tragedy, not a satyr drama. The target of his parody, however, must remain doubtful. The ancient scholia to this passage (Σ Ar. Nu. 555/6b α, β Holwerda = Phrynichus T8c Stama) say that Phrynichus put on stage a drunken old woman threatened by a sea monster κατὰ μίμησιν Ἀνδρομέδας: this formulation (provided it is not autoschediastic) is a little bit elusive, since it can mean both ‘in imitation of Andromeda’ (the mythical figure) and ‘in imitation of the Andromeda’ (a play of that title, perhaps the Sophoclean one).111 At the time of this comedy by Phrynichus112 (in the early 420’s BC?), the Andromeda story would also have been known in Athens independently of the Sophoclean drama; so the comicality of Phrynichus’ invention could have laid in the substitution of the young and beautiful princess of the myth with a typical character of Old Comedy, the mature bibulous woman,113 rather than in the mockery of a specific tragedy (the one by Sophocles?).114 On the Roman stage, Andromeda had a quite busy life too. The Latin poets Livius Andronicus, Ennius and Accius all wrote tragedies named after her. If it were possible to prove that at least one of these tragedies followed, in whole or in part, the outline of Sophocles’ Andromeda, then it would become almost certain that Sophocles’ play was a tragedy too.115 While it is commonly agreed that Ennius used Euripides’ Andromeda as his model,116 dependence on Sophocles has been suggested for both Andronicus and Accius. Regarding Andronicus’ Andromeda, the one surviving fragment (p. 3 Ribbeck3) does nothing to recomexample of dramatic exaggeration in referring to recent events (see Bruhn 1899, § 247, 22) and can indicate a play staged about ten years before the re-edition of the Nubes (the comedian Phrynichus debuted in 429 BC, see Stama 2014, 11). 111 J. Gibert in Collard et al. 2004, 143, gives both options; Olson 2016, 122, speaks of ‘the Andromeda story’. 112 Whose title is impossible to identify, since a scene with a drunken old woman, victim of a sea monster, could have occurred anywhere (cf. Aristophanes’ parody of Euripides’ Andromeda, which is limited to one episode of the Thesmophoriazusae, 1008135): for a collection of suggestions, see Stama 2014, 38, n. 38; see also Marshall 2014, 187, n. 135. 113 On this character, see Oeri 1948, 13–18; Henderson 1987, 119–20; Henderson 2000, 141–2. 114 Stama 2014, 39, 349, remains non-committal about the possibility of paratragedy. 115 Compare the opposite argument by Rispoli 1972, 210: if Sophocles’ Andromeda would have been a tragedy, the Latin literature would have preserved more certain traces of this: so it was a satyr drama. 116 Fedde 1860, 9; Ribbeck 1875, 163; Müller 1907, 48, n. 6; Ambrassat 1914, 24; Mette 1964, 75; Funke 1965–1966, 242; Bubel 1991, 11; Klimek-Winter 1993, 107, 318–19; Jouan and Van Looy 1998– 2003, vol. I, xlii, 164; J. Gibert in Collard et al. 2004, 143; Filippi 2011, 111–12; Manuwald 2012, 95; for an (important) argument against this hypothesis, see Jocelyn 1967, 254, 262; non-committal Marshall 2014, 166.

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mend this idea.117 As for Accius’ Andromeda, what has been taken as a proof of its relationship to Sophocles’ homonymous play is mainly the fact that both seem to have staged, or at least thematized, events leading to Andromeda’s sacrifice as well as the exposure itself (while Euripides, cf. fr. 114, and Ennius, cf. fr. 1 Ribbeck3, started in medias res).118 This similarity, however, exists only on a general level. At least as important is one main difference: Accius’ Andromeda was abandoned in a bleak atmosphere (fr. 8 Ribbeck3), while Sophocles’ heroine was apparently provided with lavish gifts (see above). No certain relation can be established between the development (if there was any) of the Accian play after the rescue of Andromeda by Perseus and the correspondent part of Sophocles’ drama, since both are affected by the same problem (did Phineus play a role or not?): to maintain that the Accian play featured Phineus on the model of Sophocles’ Andromeda (which thus would have included the Phineus episode too) would be circular reasoning.119 What would have been more revealing, such as precise parallelism in wording and/ or in content between the Accian and the Sophoclean surviving fragments,120 is missing.121 The links established by Filippi between Accius’ fr. 1 Ribbeck3 and Sophocles’ fr. 133 and 134; Accius’ fr. 15 Ribbeck3 (famulitas) and Sophocles’ fr. 128 and 133.6 (ζευξίλεως) and Accius’ fr. 4, 3, 6 Ribbeck3 (dialogue between Cepheus and Perseus) and Sophocles’ fr. 127, seem to me illusory or slight.122 On the other hand, the word saxo in Accius fr. 8 Ribbeck3, in a description of the miserable condition of Andromeda tied to the rock, points rather to Euripides (cf. Eur. fr. 125; Sophocles’ Andromeda was probably bound to stakes, see above).123 Moreover, if 117 This line probably describes the flood sent against Cepheus’ land (cf. Pseudo-Apollodorus, Bibliotheca 2.4.3 [2.43 Wagner] πλήμμυρα), a feature not documented for Sophocles’ Andromeda (as a punishment for Cepheus the Καταστερισμοί mention only the κῆτος): see Ambrassat 1914, 23–4; Klimek-Winter 1993, 31, 318, 333; Nosarti 1999, 109, n. 2. For Andronicus’ dependence on Sophocles see Fedde 1860, 9; Filippi 2011, 111. 118 For Accius’ use of Sophocles see Fedde 1860, 9; Petersen 1904, 110–12; Klimek-Winter 1993, 321; Nosarti 1999, 109–10; Filippi 2011, 112–13, n. 27 (with further bibliography), 118, n. 47, 128–9, 140. 119 In favour of the Phineus episode in Accius’ Andromeda are Ribbeck 1875, 561–4; Warmington 1936, 348–9; Mette 1964, 134–5; D’Antò 1980, 237–40; Pociña 1984, 167; Petersen 1904, 110–11 (with the circular argument discussed in text); contra Ambrassat 1914, 7, 9–11, 23; Klimek-Winter 1993, 355; Filippi 2011, 125–6, n. 80, 135, 151, 155, 158, 162. 120 Of the kind analyzed by Traina 1970, 181–203, for other Accian tragedies. 121 As noted by Ribbeck 1875, 564. This absence of comparable material might, of course, be due to the heavily fragmentary state of both the (supposed) model and the imitation. 122 Filippi 2011, 119, 127–8, 148–159. 123 Noted by D’Antò 1980, 236, n. 3, and admitted also by Filippi 2011, 140–2, with status quaestionis about the exact way the heroine was exposed in Euripides’ Andromeda; on this issue see

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Accius fr. 2 Ribbeck3 was part of the description of the flood sent together with the sea monster by Poseidon,124 then it would contain a reference to a feature of the Andromeda story that was seemingly absent from the Sophoclean version. Thus it cannot be excluded that Accius followed – instead of Sophocles – Euripides125 (like Ennius before him?), or later Greek authors of Andromeda tragedies (Lycophron [TrGF 100. fr. 1c], possibly also Phrynichus II [TrGF 212. T 1]),126 or even that he created for his Andromeda an independent and innovative plot,127 as he demonstrably did for other tragedies.128 The question about the model of Accius’ Andromeda is thus best answered with a non liquet.129 As already was the case with the iconographic evidence, this uncertainty allows supporters of the satyric nature of Sophocles’ Andromeda to remain committed to their generic view.130

5 Conclusion It is time for a conclusion which takes into account both dimensions of this article, the case study and the proposed general methodology. As for the former, in my opinion no real proof of Satyrspielqualität has come to light for Sophocles’ Andromeda. Casaubon’s initial suspicion lacks a factual basis, while the likelihood-based arguments (see chapter 4a) contradict each other and thus amount to little. The analysis of the title (see chapter 4b) and of the mythical episode (see chapter 4c) has not been conclusive: both, and in particular the latter, could suit not only tragedy but also a satyr drama. The study of the ancient summaries of the plot (see chapter 4d) and artistic evidence (see chapter 4e) has been on the whole favourable to the tragic theory. Not only do the existing prose accounts of Sophocles’ Andromeda omit Silenoi and Satyrs (this would still not

also Klimek-Winter 1993, 108, 200–1. Another interpretation of the Accian saxo (‘a stony arch’) is offered by Phillips 1968, 14. 124 Nosarti 1999, 111–12; Filippi 2011, 122–3 (with further bibliography), 128; contra Ambrassat 1914, 6–7. 125 Ambrassat 1914, 22–5; D’Antò 1980, 26; further bibliography in Filippi 2011, 113, n. 27. Dangel 1995, 336 maintains that Accius’ fr. 9–15 are close to Euripides, Andromeda fr. 129–31. 126 Pociña 1984, 50. 127 To the older scholarship quoted in Filippi 2011, 113, n. 27, add Slater 2002b, 297–301, with a new reconstruction of Accius’ Andromeda, which deviates in important points from what is known of all Greek classical dramas dedicated to this heroine. 128 For some examples see D’Antò 1980, 27–30; Dangel 1995, 35–6 129 Warmington 1936, 346; D’Antò 1980, 236; Pociña 1984, 50, 166; Dangel 1995, 335. 130 So Ribbeck 1875, 564.

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be decisive), they also contain key motifs of classical Greek tragedy (hybris or sin of a parent, sacrifice of the innocent child, etc.).131 As for the artistic evidence, the occasional representation of Silenoi and Satyrs on works of art illustrating the Andromeda myth does not function as a genre marker of their (presumed) source, Sophocles’ Andromeda. Pointing in the opposite direction are some Attic vases which are more convincingly (though still hypothetically) linked with the first performance of this drama (440’s BC?) and which convey, rather, a feeling of a tragic scenery. Nothing certain has been discovered by looking at later stage versions of the Andromeda story (see chapter 4f), since no later Andromeda tragedy – either Greek or Roman – can certainly be shown to have had Sophocles’ Andromeda as a model. Thus, weighing up all the evidence, I am inclined to regard Sophocles’ Andromeda as a tragedy. This judgment is also influenced by my conviction that the number of Sophoclean satyr dramas still missing from his satyric catalogue of works is not particularly high; as a result of this we are not justified in transferring titles and/or plays to this group unless the evidence is compelling (which is not the case with the Andromeda). Even more important than this specific conclusion is the methodological tool I have developed in this article, that is, the catalogue of features presented in chapter 1, for the purpose of determining the generic status of a Greek fragmentary play generis incerti. As early as 1974, Sutton, trying to define ‘an irreducible minimum group of plays that are demonstrably satyric’, stated that ‘it would be a worthwhile project to collect and review as many such suggestions as possible’.132 I completely agree with this position: only after having gathered and surveyed all known satyric proposals it will become possible to pick out those titles, or, better, plays which have, in a comparative perspective, the best satyric credentials, and to draw up the definitive and complete list of satyr dramas, not just for Sophocles, but also for Aeschylus,133 Euripides134 and the tragici minores. That

131 The most famous example of this constellation is the sacrifice of Iphigenia by Agamemnon. 132 Sutton 1974a, 108. 133 If Aeschylus wrote between eighty and ninety plays, as the sources seem to imply, we should expect roughly twenty of them to be satyric: see Wartelle 1971, 32–8; Gantz 1980, 216, n. 21; Müller 1984, 76–7; Wessels in Krumeich et al. 1999, 89, n. 2; Podlecki 2005, 4. Certain documentation and/or general scholarly consensus exist regarding the Satyrspielqualität of the following thirteen plays: Amymone, Diktyoulkoi, Glaukos Pontios, Kerkyon, Kerykes, Kirke, Leon, Lykourgos, Prometheus Pyrkaeus, Proteus, one Sisyphos, Sphinx, Theoroi or Isthmiastai: the missing satyr dramas should still lurk incognito in the third volume of Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta: see Radt 1983, 193; Radt 1986, 164. 134 On Euripides’ total output and satyric production see Kannicht 1996; Pechstein 1998, 10–38; Pechstein in Krumeich et al. 1999, 399–402, 474–5 and MECCARIELLO in this volume.

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this large-scale investigation, surprisingly enough, still remains a desideratum135 might depend not least on the lack of an instrument suitable for carrying out the necessary underlying research in a systematic and scientific way. It is hoped that this article will provide guidance in this direction.136

135 The volume by Krumeich et al. 1999 is very valuable, but does not aim at completeness. 136 This article was largely written in the unique environment of the Fondation Hardt (Vandœuvres/Genève), whose financial, material and human support I gratefully acknowledge. I thank Cameron Crawford for revising my English, as well as the many colleagues who, in the course of the years, have provided helpful suggestions and remarks, most recently Lea Niccolai (University of Cambridge), Chiara Meccariello (University of Göttingen), and Lyndsay Coo (University of Bristol).

Chiara Meccariello

11 Eight and Counting: New Insights on the Number and Early Transmission of Euripides’ Satyr Dramas 1 Introduction Our sources on the numerical consistency of Euripides’ dramatic production are few and somewhat discordant. Nonetheless, a combination of their testimony with that of the remains of ancient catalogues, and the more concrete evidence provided by the extant Euripidean fragments, from both papyri and the indirect tradition, have allowed scholars to piece together a virtually complete picture of the Euripidean tragedies and satyr dramas which were available in antiquity. But while the catalogue of Euripides’ opera omnia underlying modern collections of fragmentary plays has remained substantially unchallenged since Nauck’s edition,1 the proposed reconstructions do show variations in matters of detail. Some controversy, in particular, surrounds the list of the Euripidean satyr dramas circulating in antiquity, for which our documentation is much more tenuous than for the tragedies.2 In what follows, I will reassess the evidence on the number and titles of the satyr dramas that made their way into the Alexandrian corpus of Euripides’ plays and, contrary to the commonly accepted reconstructions, I will argue that nine plays reached Alexandria, and not eight as apparently stated or implied in our sources.

2 The Numerical Data Crucial data on the number of Euripides’ plays is preserved in the Lives of the tragedian included in the medieval manuscripts of his plays. Though largely interspersed with anecdotal information and historical inaccuracies, and presenting, in the current form, the typical features of derivative compilations, the Lives still

1 Nauck 1856 (1st ed.), 1889 (2nd ed.). 2 See in particular Kannicht 1996, 24–5, and Pechstein 1998, 19–20. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230–012

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bear traces of scholarly activity on the tragic production, including numerical information on Euripides’ oeuvre.3 According to a Γένος καὶ Βίος Εὐριπίδου preserved in several late codices (henceforth Life 1), the playwright wrote ninety-two plays, but only seventy-eight of them were still in circulation, including three spurious plays, Tennes, Rhadamanthys and Peirithous:4 τὰ πάντα δ’ ἦν αὐτοῦ δράματα ϙβ´ (92), σῴζεται δὲ οη´ (78). τούτων νοθεύεται τρία, Τέννης Ῥαδάμανθυς Πειρίθους. αὐτῷ GPgRw || καὶ τούτων Zc || νοθεύονται Sa || Τέννης – Πειρίθους om. RwZc

Another biographical note preserved in two manuscripts alongside Life 1 (henceforth Life 2) breaks down the numbers by genre and authenticity:5 τὰ πάντα δὲ ἦν αὐτοῦ δράματα ϙβ´ (92), σῴζεται δὲ αὐτοῦ δράματα ξζ´ (67) καὶ γ´ (3) πρὸς τούτοις τὰ ἀντιλεγόμενα, σατυρικὰ δὲ η´ (8), ἀντιλέγεται δὲ καὶ τούτων τὸ α´ (1). ἀντιλέγει codd., corr. Kirchhoff

According to this passage, the extant plays included sixty-seven genuine tragedies and three of disputed authorship, as well as eight satyr dramas. ‘One of these too’, the biographer continues, ‘is of disputed authorship’.6 According to a common interpretation of the latter sentence, the satyr dramas in circulation would thus have been seven plus one probably spurious. This is in line with the number seventy-eight preserved in Life 1 (67+3+7+1).7

3 The earliest roughly datable Euripidean biography handed down to us is the fragmentary dialogue by Satyrus of Callatis (late third century BC?) preserved in P. Oxy. 1176; see Schorn 2004 and Arrighetti 1964. On the Lives of Euripides preserved in the medieval manuscripts, whose current form, though deriving from late compilations, still includes Hellenistic materials, see Lefkowitz 2 2012, 87–103 and 152–5 and Schorn 2004, 27–31. 4 TrGF V.1, T1.IA (codd. G, Pg, S, Sa, Rw, Zc), § 9.28–9. The testimonia quoted in this section are also collected and translated in Kovacs 1994b. 5 TrGF V.1, T1.IB (codd. S, Sa), § 5.57–9. This second version is introduced in both manuscripts by the adverb ἄλλως. 6 All translations are mine. 7 In his biography of Euripides, based on a rather inaccurate conflation of earlier materials, Thomas Magister records that Euripides ‘wrote a total of ninety-two (92) plays, which included only eight (8) satyr dramas’ (TrGF V.1, T4.14–15 ἔγραψε μὲν οὖν δράματα δύο καὶ ἐννενήκοντα τὰ πάντα, ἐν οἷς ἦν ὀκτὼ μόνα σατυρικά).

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Similar information is reported in the Suda, whose entry on Euripides relates, in a pastiche of different numbers, that ‘his plays were seventy-five according to some, ninety-two according to others. Seventy-seven survive’:8 δράματα δὲ αὐτοῦ κατὰ μέν τινας οε´ (75), κατὰ δὲ ἄλλους ϙβ´ (92). σῴζονται δὲ οζ´ (77). σῴζονται δὲ οζ´ om. Sud. V et Mosch. BGuelf.

Finally, a section of Aulus Gellius’ Noctes Atticae, quoting Varro, specifies that ‘although Euripides wrote seventy-five tragedies, he won with only five’:9 Euripiden quoque M. Varro ait, cum quinque et septuaginta tragoedias scripserit, in quinque solis vicisse.

Despite some inconsistency, there are recurring figures: the total number of plays, ninety-two (92) (Life 1, Life 2 and Suda), the number seventy-five (75) (recorded in the Suda as the number of Euripides’ plays ‘according to some’, and in Gellius as the number of tragoediae written by Euripides according to Varro), and some intermediate numbers, seventy-eight (78) (Life 1) and seventy-seven (77) (Suda), both referring to the number of plays in circulation. Life 2, while not explicitly reporting the total number of extant plays, implies a total of seventy (70) tragedies, sixty-seven regarded as genuine and three of disputed authorship. For the satyr dramas, it reports the number eight (8), and adds information on one allegedly spurious play in this subset. Life 2 is notably the only passage in which the number of satyr dramas is explicitly stated. Life 1 and Life 2 clearly mark a divide between the total number of Euripides’ plays and the number of those in circulation (σῴζεται). From the parallel consideration of these passages and the didascalic section of the hypothesis by Aristophanes of Byzantium prefixed to Euripides’ Medea in the medieval manuscripts, we can further infer that the number seventy-eight refers to the Euripidean plays that made their way into the Alexandrian library, while the remaining fourteen (92 minus 78) were those the Alexandrians could not find. For when indicating the date of the first performance of the Medea and the titles of its companion plays, the hypothesis attaches the words οὐ σῴζεται to the title of the satyr drama Theristai, an otherwise unknown work.10 More generally, the fact that the computation of plays 8 TrGF V.1, T3.23 (Suda ε 3695). 9 TrGF V.1, T65b (Gell. NA 17.4.3 = Varro fr. 298 Funaioli). On this passage see further below, n. 64. 10 Hyp. Eur. Med. 40–43 Diggle: ἐδιδάχθη ἐπὶ Πυθοδώρου ἄρχοντος ... πρῶτος Εὐφορίων, δεύτερος Σοφοκλῆς, τρίτος Εὐριπίδης Μηδείᾳ, Φιλοκτήτῃ, Δίκτυι, Θερισταῖς Σατύροις. οὐ σῴζεται. The word σῴζεται can also be read in hyp. Eur. Phoen. (g) Diggle (= TrGF V.2 (50) i): ἐπὶ Ναυσικράτους ἄρχοντος ... δεύτερος Εὐριπίδης ... καθῆκε διδασκαλίαν ... περὶ τούτου. καὶ γὰρ

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was an actual concern of the Alexandrian grammarians, probably in the context of cataloguing and collecting enterprises or investigations of authenticity, is indicated by a passage in the Life of Sophocles preserved in the medieval manuscripts of his plays, in which the information on the total number of his plays and, perhaps, on the number of his spurious works is ascribed to Aristophanes of Byzantium.11 Combining this congeries of numbers and the titles and fragments preserved by ancient sources, scholars have been able to produce a virtually complete catalogue of the Euripidean oeuvre known in the Graeco-Roman world, after a minor loss of texts had affected it in pre-Alexandrian times. For the tragedies, the list of extant seventy, solidly based on a combination of textual evidence and epigraphic and papyrus catalogues, as masterfully collected by Kannicht, is now very hard to challenge. The case is slightly more problematic for the satyr dramas, for which we have comparatively little evidence. As we have seen, Life 2 speaks of eight satyr dramas, and seven of their titles have long been identified as such with certainty. One is, of course, the Cyclops (1), the only satyr drama to have survived complete; we then have more or less substantial fragments (of the text itself or the corresponding hypothesis) and in some cases catalogue entries of six further plays, which can be safely ascribed to the satyric genre. They are the following: (2) Autolykos. While the Latin grammarian Diomedes simply includes Autolycus among the ‘personae … ridiculae similes satyris’ suitable to the satiric genre, Pollux and Tzetzes explicitly refer to the Euripidean play Autolykos as Satyrikos;12 (3) Bousiris. The eponymous character features in Diomedes’ passage together with Autolycus, and the word σάτυροι can be read in a papyrus fragment of its hypothesis;13 (4) Eurystheus, which features as Satyrikos in Pollux and Stephanus of Byzantium;14

ταῦτα ... ὁ Οἰνόμαος καὶ Χρύσιππος καὶ … σῴζεται. However, the passage is extremely lacunose and we do not know whether the verb was originally preceded by a negative and referred to the title of a companion play now in lacuna. The readable play titles, Oenomaus and Chrysippus, are among the σῳζόμενα. At any rate, they cannot be safely considered companion plays of the Phoenissae: see most recently Carrara 2014, 241, n. 80, and the references therein. 11 TrGF IV, T1.76–7 ἔχει δὲ δράματα, ὥς φησιν Ἀριστοφάνης, ρλʹ(130), τούτων δὲ νενόθευται ιζʹ(17). 12 Diom. Ars gramm. 3.10.9 (= TrGF V.1 (15) (16) ii) Latina Atellana a Graeca satyrica differt, quod in satyrica fere satyrorum personae inducuntur aut si quae sunt ridiculae similes satyris, Autolycus, Busiris, in Atellana Oscae personae, ut Maccus; Tzetz. Chil. 8.552 p. 318 Leone (= TrGF V.1 (15) (16) iv); Poll. 10.111 (= TrGF V.1, fr. 283) and 10.178 (= TrGF V.1, fr. 284). 13 P. Oxy. 3651.27 σ]ά̣τυ̣ροι (= TrGF V.1 (19) iiia.5). 14 Poll. 10.145 (= TrGF V.1, fr. 373), 10.108 (= TrGF V.1, fr. 374), Steph. Byz. s.v. Τάρταρος, IV T 40 Billerbeck (= TrGF V.1, fr. 380).

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Sisyphos, likewise satyric according to a didascalic record reported by Aelian;15 Skiron, labeled Satyrikos in Pollux and in a second-century AD list of Euripidean plays;16 Syleus, Satyrikos according to the same list and a second-century AD collection of hypotheseis; moreover, Tzetzes uses its plot as a classic example of the nature of satyr drama.17

While this list is virtually certain, the identification of the eighth play has generated debate among scholars, including the speculative postulation of a lost title. Wilamowitz, for example, reached the number eight by positing a lost Πbeginning title, which in his opinion originally appeared in the now lacunose Π section of a book catalogue from the Piraeus.18 However, in 1996 Kannicht convincingly revived an older theory for the existence of two Euripidean satyr dramas entitled Autolykos. Originally based on a passage of Athenaeus in which the quotation of a Euripidean passage is introduced by the words Εὐριπίδης ἐν τῷ πρώτῳ Αὐτολύκῳ,19 this theory was further supported by a school papyrus of the second century AD, P. Vindob. G 19766 (Figure 11.1), as read and interpreted by Bastianini and Luppe.20 Here the hand of a student has penned a brief anecdote (chreia) and then Αὐτόλυκος α.[] as the title of a drama, probably introducing an exercise of

15 Ael. VH 2.8 (= TrGF V.2 (62) ii). A late Hellenistic epigraphic catalogue of library holdings from the Piraeus, IG II/III2. 2363, col. ii.40, reads σ]άτυροι Σίσυ[φος (= TrGF V.1, T7a and 5.2 (62) i), but σ]άτυροι might refer to a preceding lost title (perhaps Skiron); see Whitmarsh 2014, 111–12, n. 16. 16 Poll. 10.35 (= TrGF V.2 fr. 676); P. Oxy. 2456, col. ii.3 [Σκί]ρων σατυρικός (= TrGF V.1, T8 and V.2 (63) i). 17 P. Oxy. 2456, col. ii.5 [Συλε]ὺς σατυρικός (= TrGF V.1, T8 and V.2 (65) i); P. Strasb. inv. gr. 2676, fr. a.1: Συλεὺς σατυ]ρικό[ς, οὗ ἀρχή (= TrGF V.2 (65) ii); cf. Tzetz. Proleg. de com. XI a.59 (= TrGF V.2 (65) iiia). 18 Wilamowitz 1875, 158–9, on IG II/III2. 2363 (= TrGF V.1, T7a, col. ii.44), quoted above, n. 15. 19 Ath. 10.413c (= TrGF V.1 fr. 282). Accordingly, Casaubon 1605, 141, stated the existence of two satyric Autolykoi and Meursius 1619, 462, included an ΑΥΤΟΛΥΚΟΣ ΠΡΩΤΟΣ and an ΑΥΤΟΛΥΚΟΣ ΣΑΤΥΡΙΚΟΣ in his collection of Euripidean fragments. Conversely, Nauck 1856, 350 proposed to emend τῷ πρώτῳ to τῷ σατυρικῷ, whereas Schmid 1936, 767 suggested τῷ πρώτῳ (presupposing the plays’ alphabetical arrangement). See further Bastianini and Luppe 1989, 35, n. 12. 20 Bastianini and Luppe 1989. The papyrus was first edited by Oellacher 1939, and re-edited with commentary by Gallo 1980, 341–8. In both editions, the text is seen as a collection of anecdotes, and no connection with the play Autolykos is made. Re-editions based on Bastianini and Luppe’s reading and interpretation in Van Rossum-Steenbeek 1998, 189; TrGF V.1, (15) (16) iiib and Meccariello 2014, 163.

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narration (diegema) based on its hypothesis.21 The addition of the number, which was clearly meant to disambiguate two homonymous plays, is in line with the discrepancies between two different accounts of the Autolycus story preserved in Hyginus and Tzetzes respectively.22 With Αὐτόλυκος πρῶτος and (8) Αὐτόλυκος δεύτερος both computed among the extant satyr dramas, we reach the desired number eight. This number should include, as Life 2 seems to suggest, one play of disputed authorship. Many scholars have identified this play with the Sisyphos, since a famous atheistic speech spoken by Sisyphus, the so-called ‘Sisyphus-fragment’, is alternatively ascribed to Critias or Euripides in our sources.23 According to other scholars, who take τὸ α´ in Life 2 as an ordinal number, the spurious satyr drama would be ‘the first’ in a hypothetical

21 The word δρᾶμα appears in the papyrus in the line immediately above the title. For the sequence chreia-diegema in progymnasmata see Pseudo-Hermog. Prog. 2.1 Patillon and PSI I 85. A strong parallel for the use of a hypothesis as a diegema is offered by P. Mich. inv. 1319; see Meccariello 2016, 1190–2. For numerical specifications in play titles as preserved in papyrus hypotheses see in particular the cases of Phrixos I and II in P. Oxy. 2455, fr. 14.3 and 17.2. 22 Hyg. Fab. 201 (= TrGF V.1 (15) (16) va); Tzetzes Chil. 8.435–53, p. 317–18 Leone (= TrGF V.1 (15) (16) iv). See in particular Kannicht 1991, 94: ‘Autolycus Tzetzis ab Autolyco Hygini aliorumque imprimis eo discrepat, quod non rem quam furatus est ingeniose ita mutat ut furti convinci nequeat, sed pro re quam furatus est multo ingeniosius rem vilem reddit eamque ita mutatam ut dominus suam rem feliciter recepisse putet’. For a positive reassessment of Athenaeus’ testimony, see already Sutton 1974b, according to whom the stylometric analysis of Autolyk. fr. 282, the diatribe against athletes quoted by Athenaeus, would point to an early date, whereas the use of trochaic tetrameters in fr. 283 and fr. 284 would be a later feature of the Euripidean production (but note that the metre of both is uncertain, probably owing to textual corruption). Thus, Sutton concluded that the first Autolykos had athletics as its main theme, while the second had a plot along the lines of Hyg. Fab. 201. However, the mention of Hermes at the beginning of the summary in P. Vindob. (cf. Tzetz. Chil. 8.435–7 Ἑρμοῦ παῖς ὁ Αὐτόλυκος ... ἐκ τοῦ Ἑρμοῦ χαρίζεται τὴν κλεπτικὴν τὴν τέχνην, Hyg. Fab. 201 Mercurius Autolyco, ex Chione quem procreaverat, muneri dedit ut furacissimus esset nec deprehenderetur in furto), as well as the theme of the preceding chreia involving Diogenes, which focuses on greed (cf. Van Rossum-Steenbeek 1998, 14: ‘Diogenes’ saying and the part on Autolycus might have been put together in view of the theme ‘greed’ or ‘the greedy’’), seems to be suggestive of a plot where theft played a role: cf. the supplements proposed by Angiò 1991, and see also Mangidis 2003, 158. But the papyrus and Athenaeus both refer to the same Autolykos, i.e. the first one, which suggests that athletics might not have been the main thematic area of that play. 23 TrGF I. 43. fr. 19, assigned to Critias in Sext. Adv. Math. 9.54 and to Euripides in Aëtius, where it is only partially quoted (Aet. Plac. 1.6 = Chrys. SVF. 1009 = [Plut.] Plac. 879f Aet. Plac. 1.7 = [Plut.] Plac. 880e-f). The ascription to Critias was especially sustained by Wilamowitz 1875, 161–72, who believed that Tennes, Rhadamanthys, Peirithous and the satyric Sisyphos constituted a tetralogy by Critias wrongly ascribed to Euripides. On the matter see now Cropp 2020. Note that the authorship of the Peirithous was also debated between Critias and Euripides, see below.

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alphabetical list, i.e. the Autolykos.24 This interpretation of τὸ α´, however, is doubtful. Compelling parallels strongly suggest that it must be understood as τὸ ἕν, to indicate one specific piece;25 moreover, ‘the first’ would make sense if the titles were listed, but in the absence of such a list it is hard to see how a reader would infer the presupposed arrangement.26

Figure 11.1: P. Vindob. G 19766 (second century AD). Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Papyrussammlung.

24 Schmid 1936, 766–8, followed by Steffen 1971, 213. 25 See e.g. Suda H 5 διασαφητικὸς δέ, ὅταν τῶν δύο προτεθέντων τὸ ἓν ἀναιρῆται, E 3715 τὸν γὰρ Εὐρύβατον, τὸν ἕνα τῶν Κερκώπων, K 1832 Κλωθώ, ἡ μία τῶν Μοιρῶν, schol. B ad Eur. Hec. 353 (Dindorf) Ἑστία καὶ ἡ μία τῶν δώδεκα θεά, and especially Suda E 3675 (= TrGF V.1, T3.24–5) νίκας δὲ ἀνείλετο ε´, τὰς μὲν δ´ περιών, τὴν δὲ μίαν μετὰ τὴν τελευτήν. Cf. Kannicht 1996, 27, n. 12. 26 On the different criteria of arrangement of plays in antiquity, see in particular Caroli 2006. Sutton 1974a, 141 unconvincingly interprets τὸ α´ ‘as referring to two or more plays of the same title, suggested by the way plays were catalogued: the capsa containing plays of this letter, so, by extension, plays beginning with the same letter’; but note Sutton 1974b, 53: ‘Does the biographer mean that the authenticity of both (scil. Autolykos plays) is to be queried? I do not think so. All he seems to be saying, in effect, is that a problem of authenticity lurks in the A-group, and interested persons may care to pursue the subject’.

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Nevertheless, it still remains possible that the spurious satyr drama is not the Sisyphos. The Sisyphus-fragment is never explicitly traced to a play titled Sisyphos, but only assigned to a character named Sisyphus. One of the attested Autolykosplots features Sisyphus as a character, and thus the ascription to this play cannot be excluded. Moreover, the connection between the passage of Life 2 on the spurious satyr drama and the controversial attribution of the Sisyphus-fragment is itself not entirely certain. The parallel case of the Peirithous, to whose author Athenaeus refers with the words ὁ τὸν Πειρίθουν γράψας εἴτε Κριτίας ἐστὶν ὁ τύραννος ἢ Εὐριπίδης,27 is no more than suggestive. It is not inconceivable that there might have been discussion in antiquity, or even just confusion in our extant sources, on the authorship of the Sisyphus-fragment and/or the entire play it belonged to, as well as debate on the authenticity of one of the other Euripidean satyr dramas. After all, the three tragedies named as spurious in Life 1 are not the only Euripidean tragedies whose authorship was questioned in antiquity,28 and thus we do not need to expect from the Lives a complete account of all the debated cases.

3 Evidence for a Ninth Satyr Drama: Epeios The reconstruction of the list of eight satyr dramas outlined so far would be hard to challenge, if it were not for the fact that the title of a ninth satyr drama is apparently recorded in a catalogue of the Roman period, the so-called Marmor Albanum (IG XIV. 1152 = IGUR IV. 1508). The catalogue constitutes the background of a marble statuette of Euripides found on the Esquiline Hill (Louvre, inv. Ma 343) and dated to the first or second century AD (Figure 11.2).29 It contains an alphabetical list of titles of Euripidean plays, including both tragedies and satyr dramas with no explicit distinction as to their genre. The titles are distributed between two columns, one to the left and one to the right of the statuette. Currently, twenty-six titles are readable in the first column; here a fracture has taken away part of the

27 Ath. 11.496a (= TrGF I. 43. fr. 2). 28 The authenticity of the Rhesus is briefly discussed in hyp. Rhes. b.23–6 Diggle. On the issue see Fries 2014, 22–4 and Fantuzzi 2020, 16–23, with further bibliography. The play was certainly computed in Euripides’ oeuvre and recorded as Euripidean in the didascaliae (hyp. Eur. Rhes. b.24–5 Diggle). Accordingly, its summary is included in the collection of Euripidean hypotheseis preserved in PSI XII. 1286, and the drama was considered a juvenile play of Euripides by Crates of Mallus (see schol. ad Eur. Rhes. 528). 29 The statue is about 55 cm tall, and its head is a modern addition: see Winckelmann 1767, 224–6, and de Clarac 1851, 79–80. Modern discussions of the Marmor Albanum can be found in Richter 1965, 137; Pechstein 1998, 29–34; Lang 2012, 131–2 and 182.

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first Η-beginning title and all the titles between it and the Κ-beginning plays, which open the second column. The latter includes only eleven titles, as the stone-cutter stopped writing after the title Ὀρέστης.30

Figure 11.2: Statuette of Euripides with catalogue of plays (first or second century AD). Paris, Musée du Louvre, Ma 343.

30 There is a fracture here as well, but it does not start immediately after Ὀρέστης. Indeed, there would have been room for about four more titles after the latter, so it is clear that the lack of further titles is not due to an accident of preservation.

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In brief, some relevant characteristics of the inscription. Duplicate titles are never repeated: thus, we read Alkmaion (col. i.7), Autolykos (col. i.13), Iphigenia (col. i.19) and Melanippe (col. ii.6) only once, without further specification, although each of these titles indicated two distinct plays in antiquity. Moreover, the stonecutter made several mistakes (for example col. ii.2 ΚΡΗΣΣΑ for ΚΡΗΣΣΑΙ, ii.3 ΚΡΕΣΦΟΝΤΥCΣ for ΚΡΕΣΦΟΝΤΗΣ, and ii.6 ΜΕΛΑΝΙΠΠΟΣ for ΜΕΛΑΝΙΠΠΗ) and a mechanical omission (ΑΛΚΜΗΝΗ is not included probably owing to haplography with ΑΛΚΜΑΙΩΝ, col. i.7); ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ is written twice (col. i.6 and i.12), once probably mistakenly for ΑΝΤΙΛΟΠΗ; also, two of the Ι-beginning titles, Ino and Iphigenia, are placed in the E-section due to iotacistic spelling (col. i.19 and i.21). Finally, as usual in antiquity, the alphabetical order is limited to the title’s first letter. Crucial to our reconstruction of Euripides’ satyric corpus is the fact that after ΕΥΡΥΣΘΕΥΣ the catalogue records an otherwise unattested ΕΠΕΟΣ (col. i.25, to be read as ΕΠΕΟΣ).31 Since the inscription is consistent in placing satyr dramas last in their respective alphabetical groups as is the case for Autolykos (col. i.13), Bousiris (col. i.16) and Cyclops (col. ii.4), the only verifiable examples, a play that comes after Eurystheus, which, as we saw, is certainly satyric, must also be a satyr drama. Thus, the Marmor Albanum constitutes sound evidence that the Epeios was a Euripidean satyr drama. But was it one of the Alexandrian σῳζόμενα? The inscription provides strong indications that it was, as it only preserves titles of plays belonging to the familiar list of seventy-eight. Of course one may suppose that all the other οὐ σῳζόμενα were in the missing parts of the inscription, but there are three serious objections. 1) There is not enough room on the writing surface for all the ninety-two titles (which, in view of the treatment of duplicate titles, would actually be no more than eighty-five entries). One could play devil’s advocate and suppose that the stone-cutter stopped writing precisely because he realised that the available space could not accommodate all the titles; but this would presuppose a very surprising lack of planning for an epigraphic product.32 On the other hand, Kaibel has noted that, if we complete the first column with the known titles missing between ΗΡΑΚΛ[ and the Κ-beginning plays, the total number

31 See already Wickelmann’s description of the artifact (1767, 225): ‘ΕΠΕΟΣ, che dovea essere scritto ΕΠΕΙΟΣ’. The spelling -εος for -ειος may perhaps be explained by the ‘visual’ influence of the Latin Epeus. 32 For an overview of the Roman inscribing techniques, and particularly the ordinatio, see Edmondson 2015, 117–21.

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of items on this column would be thirty-four.33 This number would be the same as in col. ii, if that column is also brought to completion so as to include all the remaining titles of σῳζόμενα except the four of disputed authorship (Tennes, Rhadamanthys, Peirithous, Sisyphos).34 2) The inscription does cover Λ-beginning plays, but does not contain the title Lamia, which is attested in Lactantius as the title of a Euripidean play.35 Lactantius refers to the prologue of this play in his treatment of the Sibyls, and adduces it as the source on one of them, Libyssa: secundam Libyssam, cuius meminerit Euripides in Lamiae prologo (Inst. div. 1.6.8). The passage is based on Varro’s Antiquitates rerum divinarum (fr. 56a Cardauns), which is explicitly mentioned at 1.6.7. A Greek source, Diodorus Siculus, also quotes a Euripidean fragment on the Lybian Lamia, in which scholars have recognised the very beginning of the Lamia prologue, although the play title is not quoted.36 This scanty but reliable evidence demonstrates the existence of a

33 The total includes the title Alkmene, on the assumption that it was omitted accidentally by the stonecutter. 34 Kaibel 1890, 308. 35 This title is better suited to a satyr drama than a tragedy. Lamia was a popular monstrous character, and her hybrid sexual attributes are parodied by Aristophanes (Vesp. 1035). Further, the story of Lamia as told in Diod. Sic. 20.41.5, immediately before a quotation from the Euripidean play, refers to her sexual looseness linked to wine-drinking. The extant iconography on this character is also indicative of a potential satyric treatment, although the identification of Lamia is only conjectural: see most recently Landucci Gattinoni 2008, 168–71, and especially n. 35 for further bibliography. 36 Diod. Sic. 20.41.6 (= TrGF V.1, fr. 472m) ὅτι δὲ κατὰ τὴν Λιβύην γέγονεν αὕτη (scil. Λαμία) καὶ τὸν Εὐριπίδην δείξαι τις ἂν μαρτυροῦντα. λέγει γὰρ ‘τίς τοὔνομα τὸ ἐπονείδιστον βροτοῖς/ οὐκ οἶδε Λαμίας τῆς Λιβυστικῆς γένος;’. The comparison with HF 1 (τίς τὸν Διὸς σύλλεκτρον οὐκ οἶδεν βροτῶν) and Hipp. 1–2 (πολλὴ μὲν ἐν βροτοῖσι κοὐκ ἀνώνυμος/ θεὰ κέκλημαι Κύπρις οὐρανοῦ τ’ ἔσω) compellingly indicates that the fragment opened the play (see Kannicht ad TrGF V.1, fr. 472m). The alternative hypothesis that the fragment is the beginning of the Bousiris, which might have featured Lamia as prologue-speaker (the eponymous character being an Egyptian ogre: see e.g. Pherec. fr. 17 Fowler), is ruled out by P. Oxy. 3652, which records a different play incipit in the heading of the respective summary (TrGF V.1, fr. 312b). It is important to notice that both the extant fragment of the Lamia (472m) and the reference in Lactantius stem from the prologue, which might have enjoyed a longer survival than the play as a whole, perhaps as an extensive quotation. At any rate, plausible pre-Alexandrian sources for the two Lamia fragments include Duris of Samos (approx. 340–270 BC) and Heraclides Ponticus (approx. 390–310 BC). The former is often thought to be Diodorus’ source for the passage on Lamia, since a similar account is ascribed to him in schol. ad Ar. Vesp. 1035 (= Duris FGrH 76. fr. 17). The latter is mentioned in the same passage of Lactantius as a source on another sibyl (Lactant. Div. Inst. 1.6.12, = Heraclid. Pont. fr. 120a Schütrumpf) and is known to have written a περὶ χρηστηρίων which included a treatment of the sibyls (cf. e.g. fr. 117–26 Schütrumpf and Clem. Al. Strom. 1.21.108). Moreover, his

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Euripidean play, titled Lamia, that was not included in the Marmor Albanum. The most likely explanation is that the Lamia was not one of the Euripidean σῳζόμενα, and that the inscription did not include οὐ σῳζόμενα. A similar point could be made for another possible Euripidean title, Kadmos, although in this case the evidence for its very existence is highly controversial. The title is known from Pseudo-Probus’ commentary on Vergil’s Eclogues, where an alleged fragment of this play is also quoted.37 Scholars tend to discard this isolated testimony, which is indeed problematic. This quotation, like other Greek fragments included in the commentary, does not appear in the extant manuscripts, but only in Egnatius’ editio princeps, which was based on a manuscript now lost. Even though a forgery by Egnatius is unlikely, especially given the far from perfect state of the fragment,38 the generally troubled manuscript tradition of this work recommends caution; however, another Euripidean fragment is quoted in the same section of the commentary, and its genuineness is confirmed by external sources.39 Thus, although the evidence is meagre and uncertain, there seems to be no compelling reason to deny that Kadmos was an actual Euripidean drama. If this was the case, then its absence from the K-beginning titles in the Marmor Albanum might be meaningful: as in the case of the Lamia, Kadmos could be another of the οὐ σῳζόμενα not recorded in the inscription, which would make the case for its including only σῳζόμενα even stronger. It is true that the sequence of K-beginning titles, which now opens the second column, might have begun at the bottom of the first column, now lost; however, all the securely known K-beginning titles are in the second column, so ΚΑΔΜΟΣ would be the only one in the first column, which seems too convenient a coincidence. Further, while the problematic wording of the fragment quoted by Pseudo-Probus does not offer indications as to the genre of the play, Cadmus as a character is suitable to both a tragic and a non-tragic treatment;40 if it was a satyr

work on Euripides and Sophocles assures us that he was familiar with Attic tragedy (Diog. Laert. 5.92 = Heraclid. Pont. T1 and fr. 180 Wehrli = n. 17.31 Schütrumpf; cf. also TrGF V.1, T209). Finally, Heraclides is certainly one of the ultimate sources of Diodorus: see, e.g., Diod. Sic. 15.48, from which Heraclides’ fr. 26b Schütrumpf derives. 37 App. Serv. ad Eclog. 6.31, p. 333.29 Thilo-Hagen =TrGF V.1, fr. [448]. 38 See Gioseffi 1991, 76, n. 39. 39 TrGF V.2, fr. 941. In all likelihood, TrGF V.1, fr. 182a was also originally quoted in the same section, but it is omitted in both the manuscripts and Egnatius. 40 On the humourous treatment of Cadmus (as a cook, a merchant and a liar) see Crusius 1894, 880. A burlesque ithyphallic Cadmus brandishing a whip is represented on a 420–400 BC vase (LIMC s.v. ‘Kadmos I’ 20). TrGF II, fr. 536 (adesp.) and V.2, fr. 930 have also been tentatively

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drama, we would expect it in the second column, right before or right after the Cyclops.41 3) The final argument against the hypothesis that the inscription covered all the Euripidean titles, including those of lost plays, is a probabilistic one. The lost plays constitute about the 15% of the total Euripidean production, so if the list were complete and included σῳζόμενα and οὐ σῳζόμενα, a lost play should surface roughly every six preserved ones. And if the list originally included the whole Euripidean production and not just its extant corpus, the titles we read now would constitute about half of the original list. In this case, the probability for one and only one title of a lost play to surface in the extant part of the inscription is a comforting 0.2%.42 This strongly discourages us from reconstructing the inscription as an originally complete list of both σῳζόμενα and οὐ σῳζόμενα, in which the current appearance of just a single lost play is due to mere chance. In this context, the only way to deny the ancient survival of the Epeios is to consider it a mistaken entry. According to Kannicht, for example, the presence of Epeios in the list may stem from a mistake of either (a) the stone-cutter (‘qui plura peccavit’),43 or (b) the catalogue author, who would have erroneously taken it from a didascalic record. Neither option is convincing. As to (a), it would be quite a coincidence for our maladroit stone-cutter to have wrongly inserted in a list of Euripidean plays the name of a mythological character suitable to several themes assigned to this play, but without foundation: see Collard and Cropp 2008, vol. I, 491, and Collard and Cropp 2008, vol. II, 523 respectively. 41 The title Mysioi is, on the contrary, just the result of a very dubious supplement in P. Herc. 248 I, and is therefore excluded from this discussion: see TrGF II, fr. 327c; V.1, 568, V.2, 1125–6. 42 Let us consider a set of eighty-five elements, of which fourteen (14) of the type x and seventyone (71) of the type y. If we take a random subset of thirty-seven (37) elements from the total, the probability for one and only one element of the type x to be the only one of that type in this random subset is calculated as follows: 14* (36 choose 71) / (37 choose 85) = 0.002 (0.2%). Thirtyseven (37) is the number of titles extant in the inscription; eighty-five (85 = 92–1–6) would be the total number of titles in the whole inscription, if it included the entire Euripidean production, σῳζόμενα and οὐ σῳζόμενα (minus Alkmene and the six duplicate titles Alkmaion, Autolykos, Hippolytus, Iphigenia, Melanippe, Phrixos); fourteen (14) is the number of the οὐ σῳζόμενα. This calculation is based on the assumption of a fairly regular distribution of the lost titles throughout the list: it presupposes that the titles of the οὐ σῳζόμενα did not all begin with the same letter, and that there was no specific reason for them to belong to the parts of the alphabet that are not preserved in the inscription. This assumption is confirmed by the fact that Theristai and Lamia do not fall within an alphabetic block (and if they had been lost because of their alphabetical placement, we would have lost the Cyclops too). 43 TrGF V.1, 390.

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of satyr drama.44 As to (b), it is inherently unlikely that our list drew on a complete record of Euripidean plays, including works that had been lost for five centuries; in fact, most of the extant lists of play titles from the Roman period unequivocally relate to actual library holdings or readers’ realistic desiderata, rather than cataloguing authors’ opera omnia.45 Titles of οὐ σῳζόμενα were surely preserved in ancient didascalic materials, which recorded the results of dramatic competitions.46 However, those materials were historical records of performances, arranged by date and not alphabetically, and included far more than just play titles: in particular, the extant records include the date of each performance, the names of the competing poets and their respective placement, and the titles of the plays of each competitor’s slate in the dative case.47 Compiling an alphabetical list of Euripidean titles from such records would require one to browse through a wealth of different information, pertaining to several poets, and subsequently rearrange the selected information. This would be a very uneconomical choice, especially given the fact that catalogues of plain dramatic titles were widely available in the Roman period.48

44 There are several possible themes for the Epeios, if its eponymous character was the son of Panopeus widely known since the archaic period. (a) Athletics: Epeius is a boxer in Il. 23.664–99. (b) Cowardice/ineptitude: the proverbial expression Ἐπειοῦ δειλότερος, used for Cratinus (K-A IV, 115, T15), suggests that Epeius was a coward par excellence; cf. Lycoph. Alex. 930–50, Dissoi Logoi 9.6. (c) Building/invention: he was the builder of the Trojan Horse; see, e.g., Od. 8.493, 11.523, Eur. Tro. 9–14 and Apollod. Epit. 5.14. (d) Banqueting: he was a water-carrier according to a tradition that can be traced at least to Stesichorus (fr. 100 Finglass; see also Finglass 2015), and the cook of the Greeks according to Varro Ling. 7.38. A distinct Epeius, son of Endymion and eponymous forefather of the Epeans, is mentioned in Paus. 5.1.4–6, but is less likely to be our character. 45 See especially Puglia 2013, 33–50. A library provenance has indeed been supposed for the Marmor Albanum itself: see Neudecker 1988, 71, n. 709, and Lang 2012, 131–2. 46 The extant inscriptional records of the Athenian didascaliae, IG II2. 2319–24, are reedited with commentary and ample discussion in Millis and Olson 2012, together with other related inscriptions, the Fasti (IG II2. 2318) and the Victors’ Lists (IG II2. 2325); they can also be found, alongside with the literary sources listing the results of dramatic competitions, in TrGF I, DID A 1–3 and C. See also Millis 2014, 434–40, for a description and discussion. Aristotle is credited with work on the  topic, now lost, including Διδασκαλίαι (fr. 415–62 Gigon) and Νῖκαι Διονυσιακαὶ ἀστικαὶ καὶ Ληναϊκαί (n. 135 Gigon), and the Suda (K 227) ascribes to Callimachus a πίναξ καὶ ἀναγραφὴ τῶν κατὰ χρόνους καὶ ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς γενομένων διδασκάλων. A didascalic section was included in the learned hypotheseis by Aristophanes of Byzantium, on which see the brief overview, with further bibliography, included in Van Rossum-Steenbeek 1998, 32–4. 47 On the full structure of the inscriptional didascaliae see Millis and Olson 2012, 61. 48 See in particular the already mentioned alphabetical list of Euripidean plays in P. Oxy. 2456, the list of Cratinus’ and Epicharmus’ plays in P. Oxy. 2739 and P. Oxy. 2426 respectively, the alphabetical list of Menandrean comedies in P. Oxy. 2462, and the list of comedies by various authors

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On these grounds, the conclusion that the Epeios was among the extant Euripidean satyr dramas seems inescapable. Accordingly, Welcker’s ascription of TrGF V.2, fr. 988 to this play should be reconsidered, against its attribution to the Kretes with Wilamowitz.49 The line in question, quoted by Plutarch (Prae. Ger. Reip. 812e), reads τέκτων γὰρ ὢν ἔπρασσες οὐ ξυλουργικά (‘Despite being a builder, you did no carpentry’) and could plausibly be addressed to the builder of the Trojan Horse, Epeius, in a non-tragic setting. The context of Plutarch’s quotation, which focuses on examples of ineptitude, is certainly compatible with a derisory Euripidean line.50

4 One Too Many? How to reconcile the number eight of Life 2 with the inclusion of both a satyric Epeios and two Autolykoi among the Euripidean σῳζόμενα? In this paragraph I will suggest a number of possibilities and set out their respective counter-arguments. 1) One of the alleged satyr dramas may have been a tragedy. This is the solution adopted by Pechstein, who does include the Epeios among the extant satyr dramas, but believes that one of the two Autolykoi was a playful tragedy.51 However, the two documented plots of the homonymous plays are not different enough to suggest different genres, and neither seems to suit a tragedy52; moreover, as we have seen, Autolycus is mentioned by Diomedes

in P. Oxy. 2659. All these papyri are dated to the second century AD. On these and other lists of books on papyrus, see Otranto 2000. 49 Welcker 1839–1841, vol I.523; Wilamowitz 1935, 192 (‘in Cretensibus enim Daedalus auxilii quod vacca lignea extructa Pasiphaae libidini tulerat Minoi poenas dabat’). 50 ὁ δ’ ἀπληστίᾳ δόξης ἢ δυνάμεως πᾶσαν αὑτῷ τὴν πόλιν ἀνατιθεὶς καὶ πρὸς ὃ μὴ πέφυκε μηδ’ ἤσκηται προσάγων αὑτόν, ... οὐκ ἔχει παραίτησιν ἁμαρτάνων ἀλλὰ προσακούει τὸ τοῦ Εὐριπίδου ‘τέκτων γὰρ ὢν ἔπρασσες οὐ ξυλουργικά’, λέγειν ἀπίθανος ὢν ἐπρέσβευες ἢ ῥᾴθυμος ὢν ὠκονόμεις, ψήφων ἄπειρος ἐταμίευες ἢ γέρων καὶ ἀσθενὴς ἐστρατήγεις (‘Those who entrust to themselves the entire city out of greed for fame or power, and apply themselves to tasks for which they are not prepared by nature or training, [...] such persons have no justification when they make mistakes, but also hear the line of Euripides ‘Despite being a builder, you did no carpentry’, being unpersuasive you were an ambassador, or being shallow you undertook administration, being inexpert in accounting you were a treasurer, or being old and weak you were a general’). For ineptitude as a thematic aspect of satyr drama see e.g. Hedreen 2007, 166–7. 51 Pechstein 1998, 39–40, and 113–4. See already the discussion in Angiò 1992, 84–7. 52 Tzetzes’ satyric terminology has been particularly highlighted by Masciadri 1987. Giuseppetti 2020 reconstructs a plausible satyric context for the invective against athletes which Athenaeus quotes as from the first Autolykos. On athletics as a satyric theme, see Pritchard 2012.

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as one of the characters particularly suitable to satyr drama, and such a statement is hardly compatible with the existence of a tragic treatment of the same character. We may instead be tempted to consider meaningful the fact that the title Sisyphos lacks the specification σατυρικός in a single papyrus list of the Roman period, where the specification is regularly appended to Syleus and Skiron.53 However, Aelian’s didascalic record, where the play is explicitly listed as the satyr drama of the 418 BC tetralogy, is an authoritative source on its satyric nature. If (but this is by no means certain, see above) the Sisyphos included in the Euripidean corpus was by Critias, and thus distinct from Euripides’ satyric Sisyphos recorded by Aelian, it would still seem unlikely that such a substitution might have taken place if Critias’ Sisyphos was not satyric.54 More importantly, if we move one of the satyric titles to the tragedy group, there would be an additional tragic title, and so the problem would remain; it would just affect a different dataset, but crucially one on which we have much more data and solid reconstructions.55 2) The two Autolykos plays may have been computed only once, either (a) by mistake, for example on the grounds of a list of plays in which the two titles occupied a single entry (just like we read Ἀδελφοί α̅ β̅ on the same line in a second century list of Menander’s plays56), or (b) because they were perceived as two versions of the same play, rather than two distinct productions. This would be particularly persuasive if one of the two versions was never staged. 53 P. Oxy. 2456, see above, n. 16 and 17. Arist. Poet. 18.1456a.19–24 seems to indicate the plausibility of the use of Sisyphus as a tragic character (see Sutton 1974a, 111), but the logic of the passage as a whole is problematic; see Else 1957, 550–1 and Lucas 1968, ad loc. 54 The ascription of the Sisyphos to the satyric genre is in line with the contents of TrGF V.2, fr. 673, the only extant fragment certainly from this play to contain more than one word, and with the style of the Sisyphus-fragment (TrGF I. 43. fr. 19, see above, n. 23), on whose genre and authorship see now Whitmarsh 2014, 111–13 and Cropp 2020, 248–249. 55 This objection remains valid for whichever title is moved from the satyric to the tragic set. Another satyr drama that has been considered a tragedy is the Epeios itself, which Wilamowitz 1875, 142, included in the Euripidean corpus circulating in antiquity, based on the Marmor Albanum and his own reading and supplement of a line of the above-mentioned Piraeus catalogue (TrGF V.1 T7a.52). Wilamowitz’s catalogue only included one Phrixos (1875, 158), so computing the Epeios among the tragedies allowed him to reach the number seventy (70) attested in Life 2 for the tragic set. Since Wilamowitz did not include two Autolykoi in the corpus, he also postulated a further lost satyric title in order to reach the number eight (8) preserved in Life 2; see above, p. 287. See, however, Wilamowitz 1962, 289, n. 1: ‘Wer will, kann den Epeios für ein Satyrspiel halten, zu dem der plumpe Handwerker, dem im Achäerlager als Wasserträger diente, wohl geeignet war’. 56 P. Oxy. 2462.9.

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Against (a) is the observation that the computation works smoothly in all other cases of duplicate titles (Alkmaion, Hippolytus, Iphigenia, Melanippe and Phrixos) and we should here assume an isolated as well as gross oversight, something particularly unlikely if the computation was made or at least verified by Alexandrian scholars. As to (b), the existence of two titles is itself an indication that the plays were perceived as two different entities, however interrelated. Furthermore, we have a helpful parallel in the ancient computation of Aristophanes’ comedies. The Prolegomena de Comoedia ascribe to him forty-four (44) plays, and list them roughly in alphabetical order (PCG III.2, T2; the same number also in the Vita, T1.59). The titles listed are thirty-eight, but four of them (Αἰολοσίκων, Θεσμοφοριάζουσαι, Νεφέλαι and Πλοῦτος) are followed by a β’, and two versions of each are indeed attested. If we compute these four comedies twice, we add the lost version of the Εἰρήνη57 and the Σκηνὰς Καταλαμβάνουσαι, missing in the Prolegomena probably owing to mechanical omission,58 we reach precisely the number forty-four.59 This is a clear indication that Aristophanes’ second versions were indeed included in the computation of his plays, even when one of the two versions did not circulated widely, as in the case of the Εἰρήνη. 3) The evidence for the existence of two Autolykoi indicates that a number was attached to the titles, but does not assure us that both plays survived. In this case, however, there would be little need to disambiguate the two Autolykoi in a quotation and, especially, in a school exercise of the second century AD. If, as highly plausible, the exercise of narration in P. Vindob. derives from a narrative hypothesis of the play, it is likely to derive from a collection of the type attested in several papyri of the Imperial period, which are extremely unlikely to preserve summaries of lost plays.60 Moreover, positing

57 In this catalogue Εἰρήνη is not followed by the number β’. However, the existence of an alternative version, not available to Eratosthenes but of which Crates was aware, is authoritatively attested; see K-A III.2, 170. Accordingly, Kaibel 1895, 972, read Εἰρήνη . 58 The title is attested in another list of Aristophanic titles (P. Oxy. 2659, second century AD) and in literary sources (see K-A III.2, 257–64). Cf. the omission Ὁλκάδες, Ὄρνιθες, Πολύειδος and Φοίνισσαι in one manuscript of the Prolegomena, the codex Vat. 918. 59 Cf. Wilamowitz 1879, 464: ‘Paci repetitae editionis notam addendam esse patet; casu intercidit unum nomen Σκηνὰς Καταλαμβανουσῶν’. 60 The extant papyrus fragments of Euripidean hypotheseis bear no trace of plays that did not belong to the Alexandrian corpus (note that such plays should constitute about the 15% of the total Euripidean production). None of the two dozen headings preserved in these papyri is of one of the οὐ σῳζόμενα, and all the identifiable fragments can be securely traced to summaries of known plays, for a total of about forty-two different dramas (the papyri are collected in

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a lost Αὐτόλυκος δεύτερος would force us to dismiss the alleged evidence for two distinct plots based on discrepancies between Hyginus and Tzetzes (unless we assume that one of them was drawing on a pre-Alexandrian source, which is implausible). While Hyginus’ use of a different source or Tzetzes’ inaccuracy in reproducing the Euripidean plot cannot be excluded in principle, paradoxically we would end up dismissing part of the evidence on which the argument for the existence of two homonymous dramas was based in the first place, and we would have to uneconomically accept two different explanations for two subsets of data that could easily be traced to the same phenomenon. 4) Two of the nine satyr drama titles could be alternative titles of the same play. Since the plot of at least one Autolykos appears to have included Sisyphus as a character,61 Autolykos and Sisyphos are the obvious candidates, while it is harder to make a similar case for any other two satyric titles. However, there is not much evidence of double titles for Euripides.62 The only extant examples are found in late authors, the earliest being Stobaeus, and do not provide sound evidence for the parallel circulation of alternative titles in antiquity: for example, the use of the title Pentheus instead of Bacchae in three passages of Stobaeus likely stems from the fact that the three quotations come from Teiresias’ speech to Pentheus in the Bacchae, rather than from the play being known in antiquity as Βάκχαι ἢ Πενθεύς, and similar cases can be made for the other examples.63 In our case, it is particularly striking that the title Sisyphus Van Rossum-Steenbeek 1998 and, with necessary additions, in Meccariello 2014; now also add P. Oxy. 5283–5). In particular, the extensive P. Oxy. 2455, containing hypotheseis of plays belonging to the second half of the alphabet (Μ‒Ο; Σ‒Χ), bears remains of thirteen titles and fragmentary summaries of twenty plays, all among the σῳζόμενα. 61 Hyg. Fab. 201 (= TrGF V.1 (15) (16) va); cf. Polyaenus Strat. 6.52; schol. T ad Hom. 10.266–7a; schol. ad Lycoph. Alex. 344; LIMC s.v. Sisyphos I 1–3, TrGF V.1 (15) (16) vb; TrGF V.2, 658 and see Mangidis 2003, 94–107. 62 See Sommerstein 2010b, 18–19. There are however examples of double titles for nonEuripidean satyr plays, including Aeschylus’ Theoroi or Isthmiastai, Sophocles’ Pandora or Sphyrokopoi and Sositheus’ Daphnis or Lityerses. 63 Stob. 3.36.9, 4.4.2 and 4.23.8. Pentheus is also the title of Bacchae in the codex Laurentianus 32.2, where likewise Phaedra is used instead of Hippolytus (in one of the two occurrences of the title). Stobaeus is the only witness to the use of the title Glaukos instead of Polyeidos (TrGF V.2, fr. 643, 644, 645b) and Theseus instead of Aigeus (TrGF V.1, fr. 7 and 7a). In the latter case, the variants Θησεῖ and Θησεῖ Αἰγεῖ are attested (from Θησεὺς (ἐν) Αἰγεῖ?) in the sentence introducing the quotation; see Kannicht’s apparatus ad TrGF V.1, fr. 7a. Cf. also TrGF V.2, fr. 661.4–5 and 666, from the Stheneboia, which Stobaeus introduces with the words Εὐριπίδου Βελλεροφόντης in 4.22.125 and 4.22.168 respectively (but the former is quoted as Εὐριπίδου Σθενεβοίας in 4.22.46). Finally, Eustathius uses the title Kerkyon instead

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and the evidence for the existence of two Autolykoi are found in roughly contemporary and likely related sources. In particular, a fragment of a Sisyphos summary is found among the Σ-beginning titles in the most extensive collection of hypotheseis on papyrus, P. Oxy. 2455, dated to the second century AD. That P. Vindob. G 19766 could preserve or presuppose a different title would be particularly striking, since, as we saw, the narration it contained is very likely to derive from the same set of dramatic hypotheseis as preserved in P. Oxy. 2455. If, as I believe, none of these explanations is satisfactory, we are left with one other solution: to reconsider the evidence on the number of Euripides’ satyr dramas. Indeed, at a closer examination, it will appear that the evidence itself gives clues to the right answer. In breaking down the number of the extant plays by genre and authenticity, Life 2 apparently gives the following figures: sixty-seven genuine tragedies plus three of disputed authorship; eight genuine satyr dramas including one of disputed authorship. What I suspect might have happened here is that an original symmetry of the two statements regarding genuine and spurious plays among tragedies and satyr dramas respectively, was later obscured by an ambiguous syntax: if the phrasing σατυρικὰ δὲ η´, ἀντιλέγεται δὲ καὶ τούτων τὸ α´ might induce us to refer τούτων to the eight satyr dramas, and to consider the spurious one included among the eight, I believe that the passage originally meant to indicate the presence of a spurious play in the satyric category as a whole, in addition to the genuine eight: not ‘one of these eight satyr dramas is spurious’, but ‘one of the satyr dramas’ in general, with τούτων referring to σατυρικά, as a genre, rather than to σατυρικὰ η´, as a subset of plays. The number seventy-five, preserved in the Suda and Gellius, would thus be, consistently, the total number of certainly genuine plays, 67+8, rather than a hybrid computation excluding spurious tragedies but including one spurious satyr drama. This would be particularly appropriate for Gellius’ passage, which derives from Varro, whose philological activity on Plautus’ corpus for the establishment of a canon of unquestionably genuine plays is well known.64 of Alope in four different passages (Il. 2.368.14–15 van der Valk, Od. 1607.3, 1640.60, 1681.42 and 1902.1 Stallbaum = TrGF V.1, fr. 106 and fr. 107). On some of these cases see Carrara 2014, 233–4 and 366. 64 See Gell. NA 3.3.2–14, and cf. Deufert 2002, 213–16. An alternative explanation of Varro’s number is offered by Pechstein 1998, 23, who interprets the sentence ‘cum quinque et septuaginta tragoedias scripserit’ as referring strictly to tragedies, excluding satyr dramas and including five tragedies that had not reached Alexandria. However, the title prefixed to this section of the Noctes Atticae reads ‘Quid Menander poeta Philemoni poetae dixerit, a quo saepe indigne in certaminibus comoediarum superatus est; et quod saepissime Euripides in tragoedia ab ignobilibus poetis victus est’ (‘What the poet Menander said to the poet Philemon, by whom he was often

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If this is correct, then the figure seventy-eight of Life 1 could derive from a misunderstanding of the data compiled in Life 2: τούτων in the latter would have been taken as referring to the eight satyr dramas, rather than to satyr dramas in general, and thus the single spurious play would have been included in the eight. Seventy-eight would therefore result from 67+3+8. Alternatively, we may speculate that the number could derive from some source in which only three of the spurious plays were computed in addition to the genuine seventy-five. It might be relevant that only three spurious tragedies are mentioned in Life 1 itself; while this may stem from simple omission of the single spuriousness case within the satyric genre, it is not inconceivable that the spurious satyr drama might have been entirely discarded and excluded from the computation. In this case, the fact that Life 1 only includes three spurious titles in the seventy-eight might actually indicate that the fourth spurious play was a seventy-ninth play. Similarly, the number seventy-seven preserved in the Suda might derive from either a miscopying of a close number, which would be by no means uncommon (in this case, one may speculatively think of an original οθ´, 79, for the transmitted οζ´), or from a tradition in which only two of the four plays of disputed authorship were deemed spurious. So, to conclude, the extant evidence suggests that the Euripidean corpus surviving in antiquity included nine satyr dramas; of these, one was of disputed authorship. And as the Marmor Albanum strongly suggests, the Epeios was one of the Euripidean satyr dramas circulating in antiquity. The consequence of this reassessment of the evidence is that we should now be more open to the possibility that unassigned fragments, as well as future papyrus findings, might actually bear remains of the text or, more likely, a summary, of this unlucky play.65

undeservedly defeated in comic contests; and that Euripides was very often beaten in tragedy by obscure poets’). The expression ‘in tragoedia’ clearly indicates tragic competitions as opposed to comic competitions, rather than the tragic genre as exclusive of satyr drama. For the inclusive meaning of ‘tragoedia’, which clearly replicates that of the Greek equivalent (Sansone 2015, 6–7), see also Gell. NA 15.20.5 ‘speluncam ..., in qua Euripides tragoedias scriptitarit’ (‘the cave … in which Euripides used to write his tragedies’). Clearly, what would be really relevant to Gellius’ argument would be the number of competitions, not of plays, but the discussion undoubtedly gains strength from a higher number. 65 I would like to thank Laura Carrara for helpful comments, Anne-Catherine Biedermann, Florence Hemici, Laure-Hélène Kerrio, Claudia Kreuzsaler, Ralf Krumeich and Jutta Schubert for help with the illustrations, and Alessandro Sisto and Benjamin Strittmatter for mathematical assistance.

Bernd Seidensticker

12 Some Notes on Euripides’ Cyclops James Diggle’s OCT (1984) provided us with an excellent edition of the Cyclops, and in the same year, Richard Seaford published his commentary, which occupies an outstanding position among the many commentaries on the play. Since all later discussions of the text and the play have been shaped by the decisions and commentaries of these two scholars, they will play a central role in the following notes. My discussion of select lines focuses primarily on passages where I disagree with them. But I would like to stress at the outset how much my current work on a commentary of the Cyclops1 owes to their achievements. Line 60:2

εἰς αὐλὰν πότ᾽ † ἀμφιβαίνεις † ποιηροὺς λιποῦσα νομοὺς Αἰτναίων εἴσω σκοπελῶν;

ἀμφιβαίνεις is metrically incorrect (no responsion with line 46: ὕ-δωρ ποταμῶν) and semantically problematic (why ‘go around’ ?). Triclinius’ correction ἀμφιβαλεῖς does not solve these problems. Parallels for the intransitive use of βάλλειν, εἰσβάλλειν or προσβάλλειν do exist),3 but there is no apparent meaning for the preposition ἀμφι- in this situation, where the ewes are ordered to run into the cave quickly (scilicet directly).4 Following Seidler, Hartung and others, Seaford5 suspects an adjective instead of a verb form and suggests ἀμφίθυρον. But the reason he gives for this choice is not plausible. He accepts Dale’s suggestion that by supplying the surprising information that the cave has a rear exit in line 707, Euripides is alluding to the cave in Sophocles’ Philoctetes, a play that may have been produced shortly before the Cyclops. ‘The curtness of the allusion and the strangely elliptical phrase δι᾽ ἀμφιτρῆτος τῆσδε (sc. πέτρας) would be more intelligible if the Cyclops could be dated to 408, the year after the memo-

1 This paper was written in 2017 during the work on my commentary on the Cyclops, which was published in 2020. Just before the present volume went to print, I was able to add a few references to the commentary by Hunter and Lämmle 2020. 2 Here – and in most of the following notes – the text is taken from Diggle’s OCT (1984); in some cases I will present the text as it is transmitted (L). 3 See LSJ s.v. βάλλειν ΙΙΙ; εἰσβάλλειν II; προσβάλλειν II. 4 For the numerous older conjectures see Hoepfner 1789, 35–7 and Duchemin 1945, 65–7. 5 Seaford 1984, 112; cf. Seidler (ἀμφιθαλεῖς); Hartung 1852, 24ff. (ἀμφιλαφῆ) and Paley 1872–1880, vol. III, 564 (ἀμφιλαφεῖς). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-013

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rable performance of the Philoctetes’.6 Seaford believes that the allusion ‘might seem too abrupt and improvised unless we read ἀμφίθυρον here’. The adjective would provide a second reference to the Sophoclean cave, which is called both ἀμφιτρής (Phil. 19) and ἀμφίθυρος (Phil. 159). It cannot be excluded that Euripides got the idea of a cave with two exits from Sophocles’ Philoctetes.7 But aside from the rather unlikely assumption that Euripides would expect his audience to recognize the allusion8 (even if Sophocles’ play was produced shortly before the Cyclops), it is difficult to see what the function of such an allusion (Seaford calls it ‘parodic’ [?]) could be. In a dramatic version of this famous epic episode, a rear exit to the cave weakens the logic of the story. The audience would then expect that Odysseus and his men could easily escape. It is therefore rather improbable that Euripides would refer to a second rear exit right at the beginning of the play. In addition, a reference to a rear exit would be particularly awkward here, because the Satyrs are trying to get the sheep to move into the cave and not run out again through the back exit.9 Seaford acknowledges that ‘the consequent ellipse of a verb of motion’ would be ‘difficult’, and offers some parallels (Theocr. Id. 8.49–55; 4.46; 5.3; 5.100; 5.102), which however turn out to be inappropriate. For unlike in the Theocritean passages, here we cannot easily supply an imperative, whether we read πότε or ποτε in line 60.10 Kovacs11 als opted for an adjective, but did not accept Seidler’s ἀμφιθαλεῖς (‘flourishing meadows’). He instead adopted Hartung’s ἀμφιλαφῆ (‘roomy cave’) together with Seidler’s εἴσει (for εἴσω) as the required verb. But this solution assumes two corruptions of the text instead of one.12 Willink13 is also convinced that a verb form is required, but rejects Seidler’s conjecture. Instead he proposed εἰς αὐλὰν πότ᾽ ἄν σφιν ἅνοις ... (‘or perhaps: πότ᾽

6 Dale 1969, 129. 7 Müller 1997, 103ff., has argued that the cave with two exits was ‘invented’ by Euripides for his lost Philoctetes and then used by Sophocles in the Philoctetes and by Euripides himself in the Cyclops. 8 The same holds true for the alleged allusion in line 218 to [Aesch.] Prom. 116 (cf. Ussher 1978, 80). 9 Kovacs 1994b, 146, gives another reason: ‘Seaford’s ἀμφίθυρον, though possible, is a touch irrelevant, for the number of entrances can make no difference to the sheep’. 10 Cf. Willink 2001, 520, n. 13. 11 Kovacs 1994b, 146, and 2003, 151. 12 Furthermore cf. Willink 2001, 520: ‘But εἴσει cannot be right, thus inserted within the participial phrase ποιηροὺς λιποῦσα νομοὺς Αἰτναίων σκοπέλων’. – It is unclear why Kovacs 1994b, 146 thinks that ‘transmitted εἴσω is implausible’. Cave and grassy meadows lie ‘within’ (i.e. encircled by) the Aetnean heights (or promontories); cf. Slings 1997, 103. 13 Willink 2001, 519–22.

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ἄν σφιν ἴοις or πότ᾽ ἄν σφ᾽ ἀνίοις’). The suggestion that αμφι- is an accidental misspelling of ανσφι (ἄν σφι) had already been made by Desrousseaux (apud Duchemin; not mentioned by Willink).14 This suggestion stays closer to the transmitted text than other attempts to repair the passage. An additional advantage is that – as emended by Willink – line 60 would pick up on lines 58ff., where the Satyrs say that the lambs long for their mothers (sc. their udders). ‘So the sense required in 60ff. is not simply ‘When will you leave the pastures and go into the cave?’ but ‘When will you ... go into the cave in response to their bleating?’ or simply ‘... for them’ (Willink). But as Willink himself admits, the conjecture is ‘at best a long shot’. So it is perhaps best to retain Diggle’s daggers here. Lines 90–3 (L):

 οὐκ ἴσασι δεσπότην Πολύφημον οἷός ἐστιν ἄξενον στέγην τήνδ᾽ ἐμβεβῶτες καὶ Κυκλωπίαν γνάθον τήνδ᾽ ἀνδροβρῶτα δυστυχῶς ἀφιγμένοι.

Seaford15 defends Jacob’s16 conjecture τε γῆν (for the transmitted στέγην), which is also accepted by Diggle and Kovacs.17 Only the first of the four arguments for his decision holds significant weight: ‘ἐμβαίνει with the accusative in E. means to step onto something’.18 But by adding ‘except HF 164 τάξιν ἐμβεβώς’, he accepts that ἐμβαίνω can not only mean ‘to step onto something’, but also ‘to enter’. The second of the two parallels which Wieszner19 cited in his defense of στέγην is another example for this meaning: ναύταν οὐκέθ᾽ ὁρῶν ὅμι- / λον Τροίαν / Ἰλιάδ᾽ ἐμβεβῶτα (Eur. Hec. 921–3), ‘not noticing that the crowd of sailors had entered Troy’. στέγην, however, is not only defensible, but fits better with γνάθον than τε γῆν. Seaford argues that ‘the Greeks have left their ship and are on land’; but at this moment they have reached the orchestra (and therefore the cave is within their sight). In Silenos’ imagination, they have already walked right into the cave and into Polyphemus’ jaws. – It is also not necessary to change the τήνδε transmitted in line 93 to τήν (as Diggle does following the Parisinus gr. 2887, a 15th century copy of L). Comparable repetitions exist, and Euripides may not have shared Seaford’s view that ‘it is easier to refer to an absent Pol.20 with a deictic 14 Duchemin 1945, 66. 15 Seaford 1984, 120. 16 Jacobs 1790, 121ff. 17 Diggle 1984; Kovacs 1994a, 68. 18 The other three reasons are: ‘ἄξενον στέγην is unparalleled’, ‘τε creates smoother syntax’, and ‘without word-division the corruption would have been easy’. 19 Wieszner 1866, 2. 20 Seaford is referring to line 30, where Silenos refers to the absent Polyphemus with τῷδε.

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pronoun than to his absent jaw’. Silenos ‘sees’ the huge jaw of the Cyclops right before his eyes!21 Line 104: οἶδ᾽ ἄνδρα, κρόταλον δριμύ, Σισύφου γένος.

Silenos reacts here to Odysseus proudly introducing himself as ‘king of the Cephallenians’ with a smug and condescending reply. He addresses his famous guest not in the first person but in the third, and then mockingly describes him as a loud babbler and scoundrel of dubious parentage. κρόταλον is a ‘hand clapper’, similar to our castanet, used for rhythmic accompaniment of orgiastic dances in the worship of Cybele and Dionysos. The word can also be used metaphorically in colloquial speech for a ‘chatterbox’ whose jaws or lips open and close quickly and continuously like the parts of a clapper (similar to ‘blabbermouth’ in English or ‘Plappermaul’ in German). Besides κρόταλον (which appears twice with this meaning in Aristophanes’ Nubes 260 and 448) there is also the neuter κρότημα. In the only two passages where this form occurs, it is used to describe Odysseus as a cunning22 orator (Soph. fr. 913 and [Eur.] Rhes. 499). Interestingly, a scholion ad Aristophanes’ Nubes 260, the Suda, and Eustathius ad Od. 1.1, all present an alternative to the description of the Homeric Odysseus as πολύτροπος. The scholiast and the Suda say that there are some who believe that the correct reading in the first line of the Odyssey is πολύκροτον und not πολύτροπον, whereas Eustathius states that the alleged alternative comes from an (epic?) parody of the Odyssey.23 In adapting a famous Homeric episode, Euripides may possibly have intended to allude to this alternative reading, or evoke the alleged parody of the Odyssey known to his audience. The second part of Silenos’ description of Odysseus is no less offensive: Σισύφου γένος. We do not know how old the story is, according to which Sisyphus

21 Cf. the commentary on lines 342–4. 22 Long 1968, 115, n. 13, explains the word as: the result of hammering (κροτέω), i.e. an intricately worked bronze tool or artefact and so figuratively a cunning man. 23 How old the lectio varia was (if there was one), cannot be determined; it is, however interesting that Odysseus is described by Hesiod (fr. 198 Merkelbach-West, from the Ehoiae) as ‘son of Laertes skilled at πολύκροτα μήδεα’. As indicated by the combination with μήδεα, the meaning of the adjective here is obviously ‘clever, cunning’, but in other passages where it occurs, πολύκροτος means ‘ringing loud or clearly’ (Hymn. Hom. Pan. 37: about Pan; Athenaeus 5.46.31 = Poseidonius fr. 157a Theiler: about the lyre; Nonnus 24.300 and 47.393 about the loom; Nonnus 11.108: about Dionysos dancing and clapping with his hands). In Anacreon fr. 427.2 PMG, both meanings are possible.

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impregnated Anticleia before her father Autolycus married her to Laertes.24 It was obviously invented to create a blood tie between the three shrewdest figures in Greek mythology: besides having the cunning master thief Autolycus for a grandfather, the story also gives Odysseus a father who was called the ‘cleverest of all men’ by Homer (Il. 6.153). Sisyphus and his accomplishments – such as his repeatedly outsmarting Death or his encounter with Autolycus – were popular subjects of satyr drama. All three tragedians produced at least one satyr drama in which Sisyphus played the or a leading role: see Aesch. Sisyphos Drapetes and Sisyphos Petrokylistes (fr. 225–34); Soph. Sisyphos (fr. 545); Eur. Autolykos I and II (fr. 282-4) and Sisyphos (fr. 673). There is also a fragment ascribed to Critias’(?) Sisyphos (fr. 19), which may, however, come from one of the two Sisyphos plays by Euripides.25 Given the particular liking satyr drama appears to have had for Sisyphus, Silenos’ reaction to Odysseus’ proud introduction of himself may amount to an inside joke: Silenos may be drawing Odysseus’ attention to the fact that here he is not in the heroic world of the Homeric epics or of tragedy, but in a satyr drama.26 Lines 163–7 (L):

δράσω τάδ᾽, ὀλίγον φροντίσας γε δεσποτῶν. ὡς ἐκπιεῖν γ᾽ ἂν27 κύλικα μαινοίμην μίαν, πάντων Κυκλώπων ἀντιδοὺς βοσκήματα ῥῖψαι28 τ᾽ ἐς ἅλμην Λευκάδος πέτρας ἄπο ἅπαξ μεθυσθεὶς καταβαλών τε τὰς ὀφρῦς.

Silenos declares his firm intention to take the deal offered by Odysseus, regardless of what any master thinks (163). He goes on to explain that he would willingly swap the flocks of all the Cyclopes for a single cup of wine (164ff.), and then fling himself drunk and happy (167) from the Leucadian rock into the ocean (166), that is, die. This is obviously one of the many variations on the literary trope of ‘vedi Napoli e poi muori’, which first appears in the Odyssey when Odysseus says that he 24 The earliest testimony is a fragment from a lost tragedy by Aeschylus concerning the fight between Odysseus and Ajax over the fallen Achilles’ weapons (Aesch. fr. 175). The scholiast cites the two lines as a parallel to Soph. Aj. 190, where Odysseus is described by the Chorus as ‘from the wicked line of Sisyphus’. As further examples, he also cites Soph. fr. 5 and Eur. Cycl. 102–4; cf. also Soph. Phil. 416–8 and 1311; Eur. IA 524–6, 1362; Lycoph. Alex. 344 and Ovid, Met. 13. 32. 25 Cf. Pechstein 1998, 289–343. 26 There are a good number of references to the genre in the Cyclops, especially in the prologue (cf. lines 3ff., 5–9, 11ff., 36–40, 212). But we cannot determine if Euripides is referring to specific satyr dramas, or generally to typical satyr drama material. 27 Hunter and Lämmle 2020 accept Paleys κἂν, which is ‘attractive’ but not compelling. 28 L has ῥίψαι; the wrong accent has been taken as an indication that ῥίψαι is a slip of pen for ῥίψας (s. above).

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would be ready to die if he could just see his homeland one last time (1.57ff. and 7. 223–5).29 Diggle30 replaced the infinitives transmitted in lines 164 and 166 (ἐκπιεῖν and ῥῖψαι) with participles (ἐκπιών and ῥίψας).31 The emendation is based on the assumption that μαίνομαι with the infinitive could not have the meaning ‘to be eager to do something’ as required by the context here. But already Schmid had drawn attention for such meaning to a fragment of Aelian (p. 244.26 Hercher),32 and Seaford33 additionally referred to the perfect form from the same root (with present meaning) μέμονα with the infinitive (= ‘to be very eager to do something’). As a result, Kovacs34 (like Duchemin, Paganelli, Paduano and others)35 was right to retain the transmitted infinitives. If one accepts Kassel’s view that ‘der Optativ mit ἂν schlecht genug zu dieser Bedeutung stimmen würde’,36 then the minor emendation of μαινοίμην to μαοίμην suggested by Schmidt,37 is entirely adequate. Seaford’s argument that μαίομαι (= ‘search, seek, desire’) is not attested in Euripides (accepted by Hunter and Lämmle) is unpersuasive, given that the verb is used by Aeschylus (Cho. 786) and Sophocles (Aj. 287). – His suggestion that καταβαλὼν τὰς ὀφρῦς in 167 ‘refers perhaps to drunken sleep’ also is improbable, because this meaning does not fit well with Silenos’ imagined leap from a cliff or with line 168.

29 Cf. Kassel 1973, 203. 30 Diggle 1984. 31 Kirchhoff is generally credited with these changes of the transmitted text, although in both of his editions of 1855 and 1867/1868 he has only replaced ῥίψαι with ῥίψας and did not follow his own recommendation: ‘scribendum ἐκπιών’, made in the Adnotationes criticae to the edition of 1855 (vol. II, 484). – The sense of Diggle’s text would be: ‘Having drunk a single cup I would be mad , giving in return the flocks of all the Cyclopes and flinging myself from the Leucadian rock into the sea’. This makes the ‘vedi Napoli e muori’ motif less explicit. – Wilamowitz 1913, 30ff. n. 2, accepts Hartung’s (1852, 38) μή before the participle ἀντιδούς in 165; with μή and the two infinitives in 164 and 166, the sense would be: ‘I would be crazy not to give all the herds of the Cyclops in exchange for drinking one cup (of that wine) and plunge myself from the Leucadian rock into the sea’; cf. also Nagy 1973, 142. 32 Schmid 1896, 52ff.: ‘Daß sich aber ein Dichter diese Verwendung des Wortes = μανικῶς ἐπιθυμεῖν erlauben könne, wäre glaublich, auch wenn wir dafür sonst in der griechischen Litteratur gar keinen Beleg hätten – wie viel mehr, wenn uns ein solcher, wiewohl aus späterer Zeit, doch von einem Nachahmer klassisch-poetischer Diktion, zu Gebote steht!’. 33 Seaford 1984, 134; cf. also Eur. IA 1264f. and my commentary, 132. 34 Kovacs 1994a, 80. 35 Duchemin 1945, 83ff.; Paganelli 1991, 42; Paduano 2005. 36 Kassel 1973, 104. But also the passage that he himself cites has a κεν: βουλοίμην κεν ἔπειτα, γύναι εἰκυῖα θεῇσι, / σῆς εὐνῆς ἐπιβὰς δῦναι δόμον Ἅιδος εἴσω (Hymn. Hom. Ven. 153). 37 Schmidt 1886–1887, vol. II, 319.

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Lines 182–5:

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τὴν προδότιν, ἣ τοὺς θυλάκους τοὺς ποικίλους περὶ τοῖν σκελοῖν ἰδοῦσα καὶ τὸν χρύσεον κλῳὸν φοροῦντα περὶ μέσον τὸν αὐχένα; ἐξεπτοήθη ...

Like the Satyrs in this passage, Hecuba in the Troades (991ff.) and Agamemnon in the Iphigenia Aulidensis (71–4) also say that Helen was so impressed by Paris’ oriental clothing and gold jewellery when she first saw him, that she immediately fell in love with him and followed him to Troy. But unlike Hecuba and Agamemnon, the Satyrs here do not speak in general terms of his ‘barbaric’ (Tro.) or ‘extravagant’ (IA) clothing, but instead focus on the characteristic detail of his wide, colourful pants, which were worn by Persians and Scythians at the time when the play was produced. The Satyrs do not use the customary term ἀναξυρίδες for these trousers, attested in Herodotus (1.71.2; 5.49.3) and Xenophon (An. 1.5.8); instead they simply call them θύλακοι (‘bags’); and the term used for the gold chain Paris wore around his neck (κλῳός 184) is similarly derogatory.38 It is highly unlikely that Euripides intended to make a sexual reference to the scrotal sack by calling the oriental pants ‘bags’ (like ‘baggy pants’) as Henderson claims.39 Already the plural here conflicts with this second meaning;40 but also the passages Henderson cites as proof are hardly convincing: θυλάκη = ‘scrotal sack’ is first attested in Late Antiquity, in Hippiatrica 50,41 and it is not certain that the diminutive θυλάκιον (Ar. Ran. 1203) has sexual connotations. Equally unpersuasive is Henderson’s argument that Paris’ neck under the gold chain is ‘euphemistic for phallos’,42 even if Aristophanes uses the word αὐχήν once with that sense in the Lysistrata (680).43 In that passage every aspect of the sentence has a double sexual meaning,44 whereas in this passage the gold necklace makes 38 The word actually indicates a collar for dogs (Ar. Vesp. 897; Xen. Hell. 2.4.41; Plut. Sol. 24) and for horses (AP 9.19), or a collar for prisoners (Xen. HG 3.3.11). 39 Henderson 1991a, 27; cf. Seaford and O’Sullivan and Collard, who even describe the sexual innuendo as ‘inescapable’. 40 θυλάκη or θύλακος do not actually refer to the testicles, but to the scrotal sack, which contains the testicles. 41 The word θύλακος, which is not cited by Henderson, refers to the egg sack in a tuna fish (Arist. HA 571a.14 and 552b.19. 42 Henderson 1991, 114. 43 Seaford adduces as parallel a fragment from a Sophoclean satyr play (fr. 756): ἀνακειμένῳ μέσον εἰς τὸν αὐχέν᾽ εἰσαλοίμην; but the meaning is not clear enough to serve as a parallel the alleged sexual connotation of αὐχήν. 44 Ar. Lys. 680: ἀλλὰ τούτων χρῆν ἁπασῶν εἰς τετρημένον ξύλον / ἐγκαθαρμόσαι λαβόντας τουτονὶ τὸν αὐχένα: ‘We should get hold of this cock and put it into the wooden stocks’ (literally: ‘into wood with holes drilled in it’).

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no sense if αὐχήν is understood to refer to the penis. O’Sullivan and Collard’s45 comment that they accept the sexual connotation of the neck ‘notwithstanding the gold necklace around it’ only betrays the weakness of the argument.46 Lines 342–4:

ξένια δὲ λήψῃ τοιάδ᾽, ὡς ἄμεμπτος ὦ, πῦρ καὶ πατρῷον τόνδε χαλκόν, ὃς ζέσας σὴν σάρκα δυσφόρητος47 ἀμφέξει καλῶς.

Odysseus had reminded Polyphemus in lines 301–3 of his obligation to give gifts to guests seeking protection and to provide them with clothing. Now Polyphemus promises Odysseus a special kind of clothing: a bronze pot which, once heated up, will clothe his body nicely. The problems in the text of 343–4 appear to have been solved by the conjectures of Jackson48 (χαλκόν instead of the dubious λέβητά γ᾽ in 343)49 and Seaford50 (δυσφόρητος instead of the senseless δυσφόρητον in 344). But most commentators have ignored the question of why Polyphemus says τόνδε χαλκόν and not simply χαλκόν. In the absence of stage directions,51 demonstrative pronouns are often a welcome indication that a person or object is actually on

45 O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 156. 46 Cf. Hunter and Lämmle 2020, who also consider the suggested elaborate sexual pun in 182–4 as ‘unproved and unnecessary’. It is also unlikely that in line 171 ὀρχηστύς has a sexual connotation because it sounds similar to ὀρχεῖς (‘the testicles’), as Henderson 1991, 27 argues; Euripides probably chose this relatively rare word for dancing (instead of the prosaic ὄρχησις) because it is Homeric (cf. e.g. Il. 13.731; Od. 1.152). 47 In 344 Diggle 1984, 15 prints διαφόρητον and has Seaford’s δυσφόρητος in the apparatus criticus; in my commentary I returned to Scaliger’s διαφόρητον, which is, as Hunter and Lämmle 2020 point out, an hapax legomenon, but in view of the fact that διαφορέω is used by Euripides in the sense of ‘tear apart’ (Ba. 739; see also HF 571 and Hdt. 7.10), certainly possible. 48 Jackson 1955, 91ff. 49 Kovacs 1994b, 154, arguing ‘Jackson picked the wrong word to attack’, kept λέβητα and changed τόνδε (cf. below). 50 Cf. Seaford 1984, 170, and 1975, 207ff. The hapax legomenon δυσ-φόρητος requires a minor change in the text and the meaning ‘difficult or unpleasant to wear’ (φορεῖν like ἀμπέχειν frequently applies to wearing clothes or weapons) fits particularly well with the clothing metaphors in both lines, as well as with χαλκόν, without losing its normal meaning of ‘difficult to bear’. The only problem with this suggestion is that it does not fit perfectly with ἀμφέξει καλῶς. This may be the reason why Diggle 1984, 15 prefers Scaliger’s (1610, 524) διαφόρητον. Kovacs 1994, 155 is right when he points out: ‘an unironically dyslogistic word is not particularly welcome’. But Barnes’ δυσφάρωτον which he prints is palaeographically too far from the δυσφόρητον of L to be convincing. 51 Cf. below on line 487.

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stage. But there is no way that the pot is visible here, as Ussher52 argues. Having it on stage from the beginning makes no sense, and there is no indication in the text that it has been brought out of the cave at some previous point. Yet, there is still no persuasive reason to emend τόνδε as Kovacs (following Nauck) has done.53 The demonstrative pronoun can always be used when a speaker imagines a person or an object clearly in his mind’s eye:54 eagerly anticipating the meal of human flesh that has so long eluded him, Polyphemus can already see the pot standing right in front of him. Lines 356–60:

Εὐρείας φάρυγος, ὦ Κύκλωψ, ἀναστόμου τὸ χεῖλος· ὡς ἕτοιμά σοι ἑφθὰ καὶ ὀπτὰ καὶ ἀνθρακιᾶς ἄπο < θερμὰ > χναύειν βρύκειν κρεοκοπεῖν μέλη ξένων δασυμάλλῳ ἐν αἰγίδι κλινομένῳ.

The Satyrs have just sided with Odysseus after their father accused him of stealing, and pleaded with Polyphemus not to mistreat the stranger (270–2). So it is surprising that they now urge the Cyclops to begin his meal. This minor inconsistency could be explained by O’Sullivan and Collard’s55 argument that, as long as Polyphemus is in earshot, the Satyrs do not dare to express their abhorrence and condemnation of his plan to eat Odysseus and his men. They note that ‘the strophe (356–60) was probably sung, while Polyphemus was driving Odysseus into the cave after the latter’s brief soliloquy (347–55)’. But there is no indication in the text that Polyphemus, who appears to leave the stage at line 346, returns to fetch Odysseus.56

52 Ussher, 1978, 104; it is not clear what Hunter and Lämmle 2020 mean, when they comment that τόνδε χαλκόν ‘assumes that the cauldron is currently (?) visible on stage’. 53 Hermann had already suggested πατρῶιον τόδε (= water): ‘res ipsa monstrat, dona hospitalia, quae promittit Cyclops, esse ignem et aquam, quique per ignem et acquam concoquat Ulixem, lebetem’; Nauck 1866, vol. I, 14: ‘an λίβα λέβητά θ᾽?’; Kovacs 1994b, 154 and 2003, 151ff.: πῦρ καὶ πατρῶιον ἅλα λέβητά θ᾽, ὃς ... . But πατρῶιον τόδε (Hermann) is rather elliptic, the rare λίψ (Nauck) is hardly the right word for Poseidon’s ‘water’, and it is hard to imagine why a scribe should have changed Kovacs’ ἅλα (‘salt’) into τὀνδε. A third gift is not asked for; cf. 244–6, where Polyphemus only mentions fire and cauldron when describing the meal he is looking forward to. 54 Cf. e.g. Cyclops 30: τῶιδε δυσσεβεῖ / Κύκλωπι δείπνων ἀνοσίων διάκονος (Silenos referring to the absent Polyphemus) or Med. 38: ἐγὦδα τήνδε (the Nutrix referring to the absent Medea), and the commentary on lines 90–3. 55 O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 176. 56 That Odysseus after 347–55 enters the stage, although he could run away, is explained later (476ff.): He wants to rescue his companions.

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It is also surprising that the Satyrs encourage Polyphemus to open his throat wide, indicating that the meal is ready to eat although it has yet to be prepared (cf. 382–404). A possible explanation for this inconsistency could be that the Chorus, shocked by Polyphemus’ intention, is vividly imagining the gruesome meal already prepared. But since the play contains a fairly large number of inconsistencies, it is perhaps better not to try to explain them away, but to look for another explanation instead.57 Line 360: δασυμάλλῳ ἐν αἰγίδι κλινομένῳ.

If Reiske’s58 generally accepted conjecture at the end of the strophe is correct (κλινομένῳ instead of καινόμενα),59 then there are two ways to understand the rest of the line. Many commentators have interpreted δασυμάλλῳ ἐν αἰγίδι to mean ‘on a soft-fleeced goat-skin’. Diggle60 presented a number of reasons why it cannot mean ‘on’ but must mean ‘in a goat-skin’, scilicet ‘clothed in a goat-skin’. Seaford, Kovacs and O’Sullivan and Collard 61 all agree with him. But Diggle’s arguments do not seem entirely persuasive. It is certainly true that there are many examples of the preposition ἐν with a dative of a piece of clothing. But that does not mean that ἐν with the dative could not mean ‘on’: for example in Hom. Od. 8.422 it is used for ‘sitting on a throne’62 and in Hom. Il. 2.455ff. it describes something happening on a mountain.63 This means that the preposition ἐν must not necessarily be emended to ἐπί, if the phrase is understood to mean ‘on a goat-skin’.64 Diggle’s comparison to 386ff. is likewise not conclusive. The fact that in that passage Polyphemus spreads out a bed of branches near the fire (or moves his στιβάς closer to the fire),65 does not mean that the Satyrs here cannot imagine that he will make himself comfortable on a goat-skin.66 With the above in mind, there is no doubt then that both 57 For a list of consistencies and an attempt to explain them, see below on lines 382ff. 58 Reiske 1754, 117. 59 Masaracchia1994, 41–66 disproved Diggle’s (1971, 48–54) hopes that the transmitted reading καινόμενα would never be defended again. 60 Diggle 1971, 45ff. 61 Seaford 1984, 175ff.; Kovacs 1994a, 103; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 177. 62 ἐλθόντες δὲ καθῖζον ἐν ὑψηλοῖσι θρόνοισι. 63 ἠύτε πῦρ ἀίδηλον ἐπιφλέγει ἄσπετον ὕλην / οὔρεος ἐν κορυφῃς ...; cf. also the more extensive discussion in my commentary, 200. 64 Another good example of the interchangeability of ἐν and ἐπί are the lemmata on ἀποβώμιος quoted below in n. 74. 65 This would be the sense, if in line 387 one rejects Pierson’s conjecture ἔστρωσεν and keeps L’s ἔστησεν. 66 There is no persuasive reason to assume with Diggle 1971, 46, that ‘goatskin rugs are a luxury unknown to the Cyclopean household’. Polyphemus has servants at least, and in 329ff. he refers

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translations are possible here; in fact ‘on a goat-skin’ may be more likely, because an indication of where or on what the Cyclops will rest, seems much more appropriate in this context, than information about what he will be wearing.67 Line 364–7:

χαιρέτω δὲ θυμάτων ἀποβώμιος † ἃν ἔχει θυσίαν † Κύκλωψ Αἰτναῖος ξενικῶν κρεῶν κεχαρμένος βορᾷ.

In line 365, Seaford68 prefers Jackson’s69 ἀνάγει (‘conduct, celebrate ’) to the other conjectures.70 But Wilamowitz’s71 παρέχει (‘present, offer ’) is at least equally attractive. It is close to the transmitted text and fits well with line 361, where the Chorus refuses to take part in the abominable meal. There are two ways to understand the syntax of the line. The first is that the subject of χαιρέτω is ἀποβώμιος ... Κύκλωψ Αἰτναῖος, θυσίαν being an accusative of respect modifying ἀποβώμιος (Ussher:72 ‘in the manner of his sacrificial offerings’) and θυμάτων depends on θυσίαν. The second is that the subject of χαιρέτω is the sacrifice (namely the relative clause ἃν ἔχει θυσίαν Κύκλωψ Αἰτναῖος)73 and θυμάτων depends on ἀποβώμιος (Seaford: ‘sacrifice which is away from the altar, [i.e. unholy] in respect of the victims’). The second option is not as certain as Seaford believes (‘ἀποβώμιος refers surely to the θυσία, not to Pol.’). But the first option, which Ussher prefers, has justifiably found fewer supporters. The link between ἀποβώμιος and θυσία is not only supported by the word order, but also by Aristophanes of Byzantium and by Hesychius who both define the word as

to the animal skins he uses to keep himself warm in winter; and even if Diggle is correct that ‘on a goat-skin’ is incompatible with the description in lines 386ff., it is still possible that this is one of the many inconsistencies found in the play (cf. below on lines 382ff.). 67 On the Lucanian crater of the ‘Cyclops Painter’ (420–410 BC, London BM 1947.7–14.18, cf. Krumeich et al. 1999, pl. 26b) which probably was inspired by Euripides’ Cyclops, Polyphemus is clearly lying on something that looks like a pelt. 68 Seaford 1984, 176. 69 Jackson 1941, 37. 70 The combination ἀνάγειν θυσίαν is well attested; cf. Jackson: ‘the phrase is pure Greek from Herodotus far into the Christian era’ (cf. e.g. Hdt. 2.60); Kovacs 1994a, 102 (like Ussher 1978, 110) prefers Spengel’s ἀνέχει. 71 Wilamowitz 1896, 261. 72 Ussher 1978, 109. 73 To make this explicit, Hartung 1852, 56, emended θυσίαν to θυσία. But this correction is unnecessary: on the attraction of the nominative to the case of the relative pronoun, cf. K-G vol. II 2, 416 and Schwyz. vol. II, 641.4.

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‘sacrifice not on the altar’.74 Aristophanes’ addition ‘ but on the ground’, fits well with Polyphemus’ ‘sacrifice’, since he ‘sacrifices’ Odysseus’ two companions on the floor of the cave, not on an altar. It is implausible that Euripides chose this word to make reference to the altar in the orchestra as Seaford75 believes (‘with the extra implication that the sacrifice would defile the altar in die ὀρχήστρα’). There is absolutely no archaeological evidence for the view, widely held for a long time, that there was a permanent altar in the middle of the orchestra of the Theatre of Dionysos in the fifth century.76 There are certainly many dramas in which altars play a more or less important role; in these cases portable altars would have been used. A large, permanent altar would have considerably reduced the Chorus’ freedom of movement when dancing. In addition, a permanent altar would have been an unwelcome object during the performance of plays that did not require an altar. This applies to the Cyclops, which in no way required an altar in its set design. When Polyphemus in line 346 orders the Greeks to gather around the altar of the cave god, he is clearly referring to the fire and the large pot (and to himself, the god of the cave). Lines 382ff.:

Odysseus begins his ‘messenger speech’ (382ff.) with a detailed description of the preparations that Polyphemus made for his meal. It is surprising that he does everything himself. For Polyphemus in the Cyclops (unlike in the Homeric version of the story) has servants (cf. 82ff.), and previously ordered Silenos to build a large fire (242ff.). The fact that Silenos does not leave the stage before the end of the epeisodion (together with Odysseus and his men) and as a result does not have the time to carry out the command does not remove this inconsistency. An even clearer inconsistency is that Euripides has Polyphemus milk the young cows and fill a huge mixing bowl with milk (388–91), even though earlier the Satyrs when asked by the Cyclops whether the mixing-bowls are filled with milk, had responded: ‘so that you can drink an entire storage jar’ (216ff.).

74 Ar. Byz. fr. 48c Slater: ἀποβώμια δέ τινα ἱερὰ ὧν οὐκ ἐπὶ βωμοῦ ὁ καθαγισμὸς ἀλλ’ ἐπὶ ἐδάφους; Hsch. Α 6269 Latte: ἀποβώμος· ἄθεος (Eur. Cycl. 365? see above) καὶ θυσίαι ἀποβώμιοι, αἱ μὴ ἐν τοῖς βωμοῖς. Hesychius also attributes a second, more general meaning to ἀποβώμιος (= ἄθεος). But as Latte observed, this explanation of the word as a (metaphorical) synonym for ἄθεος may actually be an ad hoc interpretation of the passage in the Cyclops. If this is true, then what remains is the explanation of Aristophanes of Byzantium, which follows the word formation ἀπο-βώμιος. 75 Seaford, 1984, 170 (ad 345ff.) and 176ff. (ad 365). 76 The small altars that have been found by archaeologists in some theatres are more or less near the edge of the orchestra, not in the centre.

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The Cyclops contains a large number of similar minor and major inconsistencies and contradictions: – Line 53: The Satyrs call Polyphemus μηλοβότας (‘shepherd’) and Silenos declares that the Cyclopes live on milk, cheese, and the flesh of sheep (122), but then surprises an audience familiar with Homer (where Polyphemus has only sheep) by offering Odysseus meat, cheese and cow milk (134–6). – Line 89: Silenos describes the approaching Greeks as carrying, not only empty vessels (for food), but also pails for water, and the first thing Odysseus asks for is water (96ff.); in what follows, the topic ‘water’ is completely forgotten. – Lines 123ff.: The audience learns that, unlike in the Homeric version of the story, the Cyclopes are not familiar with the drink of Dionysos (wine) and, as a result, neither with dancing. But when Polyphemus enters and realizes the Satyrs are taking things easy (203), he asks: τί βακχιάζετ’; οὐχὶ Διόνυσος τάδε (204). He is even familiar with the instruments used in the worship of Dionysos, crotala and tympana (205), and a little later worries that if he gobbles the Satyrs down with his drink, their dance steps inside his stomach may ruin him (221). – Lines 213ff.: see below (time-scheme). – Lines 356–60: see note above. – Line 395: Odysseus (among Polyphemus’ preparations for his meal of human flesh) mentions σφαγεῖα (bowls for catching the blood of a victim in a sacrifice’), which, however, later are not used. – Line 397ff.: see note below. – Line 405: It is not clear why Odysseus approaches the Cyclops and even waits on him; according to lines 30ff. that would be Silenos’ job. – Line 508: Although Polyphemus is not familiar with wine before Odysseus introduces him to it, he declares that he wants to go to his brothers to celebrate a κῶμος (445ff., 508); and later, in the middle of his initiation into the rules of wine-drinking by Silenos, he even quotes the proverb ἠλίθιος ὅστις μὴ πιὼν κῶμον φιλεῖ); cf. already 204ff. – Lines 511ff.: Euripides seems to have taken a ‘Homeric nap’: Polyphemus cannot at this point come out of the cave, since the Chorus has already described his exit from the cave in 488–91. – Lines 593ff.: When Odysseus declares that the burning stake is ready, the audience may wonder when Odysseus had the chance to do what he describes in 455–7: ἀκρεμὼν ἐλαίας ἔστιν ἐν δόμοισί τις / ὃν φασγάνῳ τῷδ᾽ ἐξαποξύνας ἄκρον / ἐς πῦρ καθήσω (‘there is an olive-stake in his hall, whose tip, when I have sharpened it with this sword of mine, I shall put into the fire’). As Odysseus has not left the stage since line 482, there would be no time for him to prepare

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the burning stake. It seems that dramatic logic has been violated to accommodate the increasing pace of the action. last, but not least: the direct and indirect references to the time of the action are completely inconsistent: ‘We leap from one part of the day to another with a freedom unparalleled in Greek drama’.77

Without doubt similar inconsistencies can be found in many of Euripides’ plays, but this list seems to be extraordinarily long and difficult to explain. Peter Arnott has argued that the Cyclops shows ‘many marks of hasty composition’.78 His ‘picture of the harassed playwright finding that he had spent too long on the composition of the required three tragedies’ and running out of time, did not find many supporters, chiefly because most of his arguments (combined with a very negative verdict on the play) were unsound. But we should perhaps reconsider the possibility he raises. It is certainly possible that an author who appears to have produced four plays at least every second year may at times have been under considerable time pressure.79 Lines 397b-404:   φῶτε συμμάρψας δύο ἔσφαζ᾽ ἑταίρων τῶν ἐμῶν, ῥυθμῷ θ᾽ ἑνί τὸν μὲν λέβητος ἐς κύτος χαλκήλατον < > τὸν δ᾽ αὖ, τένοντος ἁρπάσας ἄκρου ποδός, παίων πρὸς ὀξὺν στόνυχα πετραίου λίθου ἐγκέφαλον ἐξέρρανε· καὶ † καθαρπάσας † λάβρῳ μαχαίραι σάρκας ἐξώπτα πυρί, τὰ δ᾽ ἐς λέβητ᾽ ἐφῆκεν ἕψεσθαι μέλη.

According to Diggle,80 there are two faults in lines 397b-9. ‘First, the phrase ῥυθμῷ τινί is in this context a meaningless locution, and second, line 399 is lacking in construction’.81 The two errors appear to be linked: if it can be shown that ῥυθμῷ τινι requires no emendation, then ἔσφαζ᾽ (398) can be taken as the predicate for

77 Arnott 1961, 169; cf. Seaford 1984, 145ff.; Ussher’s (1974, 188ff.) attempt to solve the problem of the time-scheme or Pathmanathan’s (1963, 128) doubts about ‘the legitimacy of seeking a logical time-sequence in a drama of this type’, are unconvincing. 78 Arnott 1961, 164. 79 The fact that the play contains a considerable number of major and minor inconsistencies does not mean that it is not a good and, as modern productions show, effective and successful play. 80 Diggle 1971, 47. 81 Diggle argues that the predicate for τὸν μέν is missing, and therefore concludes that a line has dropped out after 399.

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399.82 But Diggle claims that ῥυθμῷ τινι is ‘meaningless’ in this context, and so follows Murray83 in adopting Wilamowitz’s84 suggestion ῥυθμῷ θ᾽ ἑνί. Because of the copula, a second finite verb form is then required (Diggle therefore posits a lacuna after 399).85 Wilamowitz86 later rejected his own conjecture, which he had made at the age of 27 in his habilitation thesis (1875).87 In fact the suggestion cannot be reconciled easily with the lines that follow: Polyphemus cannot kill both companions and then kill the second of the two again by striking him against the edge of a rock! (400–2a). In addition, it is unclear how he could throw two dead men ‘in a single sweeping motion’ (Wilamowitz’s translation of his conjecture) into the cauldron and smash them on the ground. And above all: if one of the two dead men has already been thrown into the cauldron in line 399, does that mean that only the other one is then dismembered with the butcher knife and partly roasted and partly boiled in lines 402b-4? Seaford’s suggestion for lines 395–9 avoids all of these problems, and repairs the corruption in line 395 at the same time: ὡς ἦν ἕτοιμα πάντα τῷ θεοστυγεῖ Ἅιδου μαγείρῳ, φῶτε συμμάρψας δύο τὸν μὲν λέβητος ἐς κύτος χαλκήλατον, σφαγεῖον Αἰτναῖόν γε, πελέκεως γνάθοις ἔσφαζ᾽ ἑταίρων τῶν ἐμῶν, ῥυθμῷ τινι, τὸν δ᾽ αὖ ...

396 397 399 395 398

But his solution requires the rearrangement of two lines and one alteration of the transmitted text, an ‘operation’ which Seaford himself describes as ‘complicated’. It also results in a highly unlikely placement of ἑταίρων τῶν ἐμῶν, which is too far removed from τὸν μὲν in 399; and lastly, if this was the original text, it would be very difficult to explain how the transmitted text came into being. It seems therefore a better choice to retain the transmitted text until a more persuasive solution is proposed, even if the present text is not entirely satisfactory: ῥυθμῷ τινι, described by Diggle as ‘meaningless’, is indeed not easy to understand. But it seems at least possible that it means ‘using a particular method’,

82 Diggle’s description of the resulting syntax as ‘flaccid’ is not a persuasive argument, even if he is correct. For nobody would argue that there are no flaccid constructions in Euripides. 83 Murray 1902, vol. I. 84 Wilamowitz 1875, 225ff. 85 Diggle 1971, 48. 86 Wilamowitz 1906, 44. 87 Cf. n. 75; so did Wieseler, who in 1880, independently from Wilamowitz, also suggested ῥυθμῷ θ᾽ ἑνί, but changed his mind and in 1881 proposed ῥυθμῷ τέ νιν.

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that is ‘as is appropriate ’.88 However, the problem remains that, as in Homer’s version, Polyphemus ‘seizes the two simultaneously’ (cf. Od. 9.289: σὺν δὲ δύω μάρψας ...). In Homer he smashes them both to the ground like puppies. But what does the Euripidean Cyclops do with the one victim while he is slitting the throat of the other (which requires two hands!) over the pot? I believe, however, that this would be much less obvious to the audience than the logical problems resulting from Diggle’s suggestion.89 Lines 432–4:

ἀλλ᾽ ἀσθενὴς γὰρ κἀποκερδαίνων ποτοῦ ὥσπερ πρὸς ἰξῷ τῇ κύλικι λελημμένος πτέρυγας ἀλύει.

Silenos has agreed to the plan of blinding the Cyclops, but Odysseus knows he cannot in any way rely on his help. Silenos is not only old and weak, but his top priority is getting as much wine as he can. He cannot part from the wine, and he sticks fast to the cup like a bird caught by bird lime. – There is some disagreement about the question of which word the accusative πτέρυγας (at the beginning of line 434) belongs to: λελημμένος (as Duchemin, Biehl, Ussher and Paduano90 for example believe) or ἀλύει (as Seaford and O’Sullivan and Collard91 assume)? In both cases, it would be an accusative of respect. Seaford argues that the latter is correct because birds are caught in lime by their feet, not their wings. But this is obviously false. Birds can just as easily be caught by their wings on lime rods hidden in bushes, or on branches covered in lime.92 Seaford’s second argument (‘and the flow of the trimeter gives us πτέρυγας ἀλύει’) is not persuasive either. Enjambment (λελημμένος / πτέρυγας) is not unusual. The advantage of connecting πτέρυγας with the participle is that an accusative of respect works better with λελημμένος (literally: ‘caught by the wings’) than with ἀλύει, which always indicates a particular state of excitement: ‘to be beside oneself with pain, desperation or, as here, joy’.93 The alternative ‘beside himself in respect to his wings’ makes little sense. Seaford thinks that he has found a parallel for his translation ‘his body in incoherent motion’. But in the line he cites, τὸν μὲν ἔπειτ᾽ ἔρριψεν ἀπὸ ἕο χερσὶν ἀλύει (Hom. Od. 9.398), χερσὶν appears to qualify 88 Seaford correctly points out that ῥυθμός and σχῆμα can have similar meanings (cf. LSJ s.v., 2–6); cf. also my commentary, 214. 89 For inconsistencies in the Cyclops cf. the note on lines 382ff. 90 Duchemin 1945, 147ff.; Biehl 1986, 164; Paduano 2005, 91. 91 Seaford 1984, 186; O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 433. 92 Plenty of examples can be found on the internet; cf. www.youtube.com/watch?vgYbtToUjwKQ, or the images under the search term ‘bird catching with limes sticks’. 93 Cf. LSJ s.v. 1, 2 and 6.

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ἔρριψεν, not ἀλύει (‘he flung it away (i.e. the burning stake that Odysseus had used to blind him) with his hands, beside himself (’); in the absence of a parallel for the alleged meaning of ἀλύει, we should in our passage stay with the normal sense of the word: ‘like in lime, he sticks fast to the cup with his wings (i.e. ‘hands’) (λελημμένος πτέρυγας) besides himself ’.94 Line 487: ᾠδὴ ἔνδοθεν

At this line, L includes a stage direction (παρεπιγραφή): ᾠδὴ ἔνδοθεν (‘singing from inside’). A small number of similar additions directing sounds of one sort or another are found in our manuscripts of dramatic texts (Aesch. Eum. 117, 120, 123, 126, 129; Diktyoulkoi 803; Ar. Thesm. 129, 276). In his study of all alleged stage directions, Taplin95 demonstrated that they were not written by the authors of the texts, but were added later by readers, commentators and editors. Since Greek dramatists in the Classical period staged their own plays (or in rare instances when they did not, were present for the rehearsals), stage directions were unnecessary. Curiously, although Taplin argues ‘that Greek dramatists did not write stage instructions, at least not explicitly’, he still considers it possible that this stage direction in the Cyclops (and three other cases), ‘might well go back to the dramatist himself’.96 But a single exception would prove his entire theory false! Here a reader, copyist or editor could have easily inferred the singing from the text itself (488–91). Line 534: πυγμὰς ὁ κῶμος λοίδορόν τ᾽ ἔριν φιλεῖ.

Athenaeus seems to cite this line (36d). The discrepancies of the quote (πληγὰς ὁ κῶμος λοίδορόν θ᾽ ὕβριν φέρει) from the transmitted text have been explained by the possibility that Athenaeus was quoting from memory. But since the wording differs considerably (just three of the seven words are identical!) and Athenaeus attributes the quote to Euripides without specifying the play, the possibility that this phrase comes from another play by Euripides cannot be excluded.97

94 Kovacs 1994a, 108 also assumes that πτέρυγας qualifies ἀλύει. But there is no parallel for the meaning of ἀλύει that he uses in his translation (‘flapping his wings in vain’) and the same is true for ‘he struggles with his wings’, suggested by Hunter and Lämmle 2020. 95 Taplin 1977b. 96 Cf. also Seaford: ‘possibly E.’s’. 97 Athenaeus (36d–e) gives a number of further examples (mostly from comedy) for the thought, which show how common it was.

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Lines 539–44 (L):

ΚΥ. ΣΙ. ΚΥ. ΣΙ. ΚΥ.

τί δρῶμεν, ὦ Σιληνέ; σοὶ μένειν δοκεῖ; δοκεῖ· τί γὰρ δεῖ συμποτῶν ἄλλων, Κυκλωψ; καὶ μὴν λαχνῶδές τοὖδας ἀνθηρᾶς χλόης. καὶ πρός γε θάλπος ἡλίου πίνειν καλόν. κλίθητί νύν μοι πλευρὰ θεὶς ἐπὶ χθονός. ἰδού.

Line 541 is attributed to Polyphemus in the manuscripts, and most editors and commentators have accepted this attribution. Since 540 is a question addressed to him, it seems natural that he answers it in 541. But Diggle98 agrees with Mancini’s99 attribution of the line to Odysseus, and Seaford is even certain of the attribution (‘surely spoken by Odysseus’).100 But his argument is not persuasive. It is true that the particle combination at the beginning of the line (καὶ μήν) expresses assent.101 But it does not follow that Polyphemus –if he speaks this line– must already be completely decided on taking Silenos’ advice, so that lines 542ff. are ‘unnecessary’ (Seaford). It is also possible that in line 541 Polyphemus concedes the plausibility of Silenos’ argument (in 540) and adds102 that the spot is very enticing; Silenos realizes that the Cyclops is about to acquiesce, and so adds yet another argument (542); he then invites him to take advantage of the ideal conditions (543), and now Polyphemus indicates his agreement to the plan of continuing the feast in front of the cave, by following Silenos’ advice and lying down on the ground (544). There is another reason why it is more likely that Polyphemus is the speaker of this line: stichomythic dialogue among three characters is extremely rare in Euripides. If three characters are in a scene together, the conversation consists typically of successive dialogues among two of them.103 The reason for this may be that in masked theatre the audience, when the characters are close together, have problems determining who is speaking. As a result, changes in speaker are generally clearly indicated. This is the case in lines 539, 548, 551ff.104 and 566. But there is no such indication in line 541!

98 Diggle 1884, 23. 99 Mancini 1899, 448. 100 Cf. O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 200: ‘plausible’; cf. also Hunter and Lämmle 2020. 101 Cf. Denniston 1954, 157, 353–5. 102 Cf. Denniston 1954, 352: ‘progressive καὶ μήν often introduces a new argument’. 103 Cf. Krieg 1934, 52ff. (‘colloquia succedentia’); Seidensticker 1971, 210ff. 104 It is not completely impossible that L’s attribution of the line to Odysseus is correct. In that case the change of speaker would be even clearer in 552.

12 Some Notes on Euripides’ Cyclops 

Lines 608–10a:

 321

λήψεται τὸν τράχηλον ἐντόνως ὁ καρκίνος τοῦ ξενοδαιτυμόνος·

Because of the similarity of crab claws to tongs, the Greek word for crab (καρκίνος) that Euripides uses in line 609 can also indicate any kind of tongs. Seaford105 argues that the image of tongs is a clever literary reference to the second of the two similes the Homeric Odysseus uses when describing how he will blind Polyphemus:106 ‘The Satyrs appear to remember that other great simile from the Homeric narrative, the simile of the smith dipping burning metal into cold water’. This is not completely impossible, but Seaford’s comment that ‘here the joke is a little more complicated’ is an understatement. Unlike in the case of the first comparison,107 here there is absolutely no linguistic parallel to alert the audience of the ‘joke’ (Homer does not even use the word καρκίνος). To my knowledge there is no parallel for an indirect literary reference of this sort in surviving satyr drama.108 It remains unclear why Euripides chooses this image for the punishment of the Cyclops.109

105 Seaford 1984, 214. 106 Hom. Od. 9.391–3: ὡς δ᾽ ὅτ᾽ ἀνὴρ χαλκεὺς πέλεκυν μέγαν ἠὲ σκέπαρνον / εἰν ὕδατι ψυχρῷ βάπτῃ μεγάλα ἰάχοντα / φαρμάσσων. 107 Eur. Cycl. 460–3 = Hom. Od. 9.383–6. 108 Cf. also my commentary on line 60. – According to Seaford 1984, 219ff. Euripides in line 661, by using the imperatives τόρνευ᾽ ἕλκε, is ‘probably’ referring to ‘another technological image, derived from the circular motion of the lathe (τόρνος). ... The Athenian potter’s lathe was turned by a lower wheel persistently pulled round by an assistant with his hands. ... ἕλκε probably refers to this pulling of the wheel, which is of course comparable to the pulling of the thongs to turn the auger in the earlier image’ (sc. 460ff.). But unlike the turning of the auger, an image of the lathe does not sit well with the action of blinding. The audience will have been reminded here of the earlier comparison of the blinding to drilling holes into the beams of a ship (460ff.), and assume that ἕλκε refers to the drawing back and forth of the leather straps used to turn the drill. 109 The words cannot possibly indicate that the Satyrs will hold Polyphemus’ neck with tongs and choke him, while Odysseus blinds him. The next lines (610bff.) show that καρκίνος is a metaphor for the δαλός, which Odysseus uses; cf. Ussher, who considers it possible that with λήψεται τὸν τράχηλον ὁ καρκίνος Εuripides is alluding to a colloquial expression similar to the English ‘he will get it in the neck’ (= ‘he will be punished’).

James Diggle

13 Thundering Polyphemus: Euripides, Cyclops 320–8 (Κυ.)

Ζηνὸς δ᾽ ἐγὼ κεραυνὸν οὐ φρίσσω, ξένε, οὐδ᾽ οἶδ᾽ ὅτι Ζεύς ἐστ᾽ ἐμοῦ κρείσσων θεός. οὔ μοι μέλει τὸ λοιπόν˙ ὡς δ᾽οὔ μοι μέλει ἄκουσον˙ ὅταν ἄνωθεν ὄμβον ἐκχέῃ, ἐν τῇδε πέτρᾳ στέγν᾽ ἔχων σκηνώματα, ἢ μόσχον ὀπτὸν ἤ τι θήρειον δάκος δαινύμενος, εὖ τέγγων τε γαστέρ᾽ ὑπτίαν, ἐπεκπιὼν γάλακτος ἀμφορέα, πέπλον κρούω, Διὸς βρονταῖσιν εἰς ἔριν κτυπῶν.

320

325

324 ἔχων Reiske: ἔχω L, quo seruato καὶ μόσχον  325 Boissonade 326 εὖ τέγγων τε Reiske: ἐν στέγοντι L  327 πέπλον] πέδον Musgrave

So the Oxford Text and apparatus criticus.1 ‘I do not tremble before the thunderbolt of Zeus, stranger, and I do not know that Zeus is a god more powerful than I am. He does not concern me for the future; hear how he does not concern me. Whenever he pours down rain from above, having a watertight dwelling in this cave, dining on a roasted calf or some wild beast, and giving my upturned belly a good soaking, by drinking off as well a storage jar of milk, I strike my clothing, making a noise that rivals the thunders of Zeus’. Before I come to the main issue, at the end of the passage, I offer some comments on the earlier lines. In 321 I print ὅτι ‘that’, not ὅ τι (Markland),2 ‘in qua re’ (as he translated it), ‘in what respect’, favoured by many. No good parallel has been produced for such an adverbial accusative. Seaford3 cites Eur. IA 525, which is different, and Bacch. 506, which is corrupt.4 Wecklein accordingly proposed ὅτῳ, Blaydes ὅπου.5 But the sense is inferior. οὐκ οἶδα here has the same ironic tone (‘I am not aware’, i.e., ‘I do not recognize’, ‘I do not acknowledge’) that it has in Eur. Supp. 518–19 οὐκ οἶδ᾽ ἐγὼ Κρέοντα δεσπόζοντ᾽ ἐμοῦ | οὐδὲ σθένοντα μεῖζον, Heracl. 198 οὐκ οἶδ᾽ Ἀθήνας τάσδ᾽ ἐλευθέρας ἔτι,6 Hec. 397 οὐ γὰρ οἶδα δεσπότας κεκτημένος. 1 Diggle 1984, 14. 2 Markland 1763 (on Supp. 518). 3 Seaford 1984, 165. 4 For a contrary view see Rijksbaron 1991, 75–6. 5 Wecklein 1898, 15; Blaydes 1901, 488. 6 οὔ φημ᾽ Kirchhoff (accepted by Kovacs 1996, 3–4), wrongly. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110725230-014

324 

 James Diggle

Kovacs7 (taking οὔ μοι μέλει as impersonal, with genitive Διός understood) postulates a lacuna before line 322, because (i) the asyndeton is displeasing, (ii) ‘I have no concern for Zeus in the future’ implies that Polyphemus has said that he had concern for him in the past. It is certainly unwelcome to have to understand a genitive (this is a greater problem than the asyndeton). But the alleged difficulties are illusory, since (i) we may take Zeus as subject of μέλει8 (this verb has a personal subject at Alc. 1034, Hipp. 104, Andr. 850, and in other authors), and the asyndeton is then natural; (ii) οὔ μοι μέλει τὸ λοιπόν no more requires a mention of the past than does οὔ μοι ... μέλει ... ὀπίσσω at Hom. Il. 6. 450. In line 324, between the alternatives ἔχων (with ἤ in 325) and ἔχω (with καί in 325) choice is finely balanced. The former gives a series of participles, which some find displeasing: ‘The style is too heavy in participles’.9 One might argue, in response, that the monotony of style, as detail after detail is laid on by one participle after another, is deliberate and effective, building up our anticipation of the main verb, which introduces the main point, and that an earlier main verb would weaken the effect. I regard the conjecture εὖ τέγγων τε for ἐν στέγοντι in line 32610 as both certain and brilliant: cf. Cycl. 573–4 κἂν μὲν σπάσῃς γε δαιτὶ πρὸς πολλῇ πολύν, | τέγξας ἄδιψον νηδύν, Alc. fr. 347a1 Lobel-Page τέγγε πλεύμονας οἴνῳ.11 For εὖ in the sense ‘well’, ‘thoroughly’, we need look no further than lines 214 and 237. The objection that εὖ τέγγων τε gives ‘questionable word-order’12 is answered by Eur. Hipp. 503 εὖ λέγεις γάρ, HF 1235 εὖ δράσας δέ, fr. 545a.1 Kannicht (909. 7 Nauck) εὖ λέγειν δέ; Soph. fr. 434.2 εὖ παθόντα δέ; Bacchyl. 5.36 εὖ ἔρδων δέ, 14.18 εὖ ἔρδοντα δέ; Ar. Pax 1311 εὖ ποιεῖς δέ; Antiphan. 94.3 εὖ λέγει τε. This order is found even in prose: εὖ οἶδα γάρ Pl. Phd. 60d, Xen. An. 7.3.20, εὖ φρονεῖν δέ Dem. 6.18.2, εὖ πάσχειν γάρ Arist. Eth.Nic. 1163b 26, εὖ ποιῶν γάρ Theophr. Char. 20.9.13 I shall say a little more on this conjecture later. For now, let it simply outdazzle all rivals. Here is my collection: ἔνθ᾽ ἔχων τε Florens Christianus (1605, 34), εὖ στέγων τε Scaliger (1610, 524), εὖ στέγοντι γαστέρ᾽ ἑψίαν Musgrave (1778, iii. 424), εὖ στένων τε Jacobs (1790, 123–4), ἐκτείνων τε olim Faehse,14 εὖ σάττω τε Schenkl 7 Kovacs 1994b, 150. 8 So, for example, Duchemin 1945, 119; Seaford 1984, 165; O’Sullivan 2013, 170–1. 9 Kovacs 1994b, 151. 10 Reiske 1754, 116. 11 Burzacchini 1979, detects other possible echoes of Alcaeus in this speech. See also Burzacchini 2005, 139–41, 147. 12 Kovacs 1994b, 151. 13 See Blomqvist 1969, 115. 14 According to Duncan and Duncan 1821, vi. 200; printed (without attribution) by Fix 1844, 326 (to whom it is ascribed by Wecklein 1898, 33); proposed as if new by Masaracchia 1994, 46–8.

13 Thundering Polyphemus: Euripides, Cyclops 320–8 

 325

(1869, 259), ἐγγελῶν τε (and nine other less favoured proposals) Ritschl (1872, 394–5), εὖ στένον τι Wieseler (1880, 6), εὖ τέρπων τε F.W. Schmidt (1886, ii. 322), εὖ στέγω τε Schenk, ἓν στέργων τε L. Schmidt, εὔπλειόν τε γαστέρ᾽ ὑπτιῶν Neumann,15 ἐν στεγνῷ (but στέγνῳ in text) τε γαστέρ᾽ ὑπτιῶν Ussher (1978, 101–2), εὖ σάττων τε Seaford (1984, 166). I shall report two further recent conjectures below. There are two puzzling expressions at the end of this passage (327–8): (i) ‘I strike my clothing’. Why does he do that? (ii) ‘making a noise that rivals the thunders of Zeus’. How does he do that? When we read the two clauses in sequence, ‘I strike my clothing, making a noise that rivals the thunders of Zeus’, we naturally assume that the second clause explains the first, that the noise of thunder is the result of striking the clothing. But you do not make a noise of thunder by striking your clothing. I begin with the second expression, Διὸς βρονταῖσιν εἰς ἔριν κτυπῶν. It was first suggested by Erasmus16 that Polyphemus makes a thunderous noise by farting, like the Clouds in Aristophanes, who boast that they are able ἀνταποπαρδεῖν | πρὸς τὰς βροντάς (Nub. 293–4), ‘to fart back against the thunder’. This suggestion, which has had many supporters,17 is open to the following criticism: that in Aristophanes the meaning ‘fart’ is conveyed explicitly by the verb ἀνταποπαρδεῖν, but in our passage there is no word which suggests that meaning. There is no reason why the verb κτυπέω should not be used to describe the sound of farting. But it never does so, and with the context offering no suggestion of this meaning, one would not expect it to do so here. In 1577 Scaliger suggested that these lines are reflected by Catullus 32.10–11: nam pransus iaceo et satur supinus | pertundo tunicamque palliumque, ‘for I am lying down after lunch, and being replete and on my back I bore a hole through my tunic and cloak’.18 Scaliger may not have been the first to make this connection. Already in 1562 Brodaeus had translated πέπλον κρούω as ‘tunicam arrecta mentula pertundo, vel crepitu quatio’, where the first translation appears to be his own (and to reflect Catullus, although he does not cite him), and the second is based on Erasmus.19 And Florens Christianus (1541–1596), whose translation of 15 I know of Schenk, L. Schmidt and Neumann only from Wecklein 1898, 33. 16 Erasmus 1508, 82, s.v. Oppedere, translating πέπλον κρούω as ‘peplum quatio’, by which he did not mean ‘I raise my skirts’, as the authoritative modern translation quaintly has it (Mynors 1989, 113), but ‘crepitu quatio’, as observed by Brodaeus (1562, 724), who first reported Erasmus. 17 For example (among recent commentators or translators) Zanetto 1998, 125; Arrowsmith 1956, 25 (translating πέπλον κρούω as ‘fart through the blankets’); Bain 1995a, 183, n. 6, 1995b, 232; Burzacchini 2005, 145–6. 18 Scaliger 1577, 30. Catullus is imitated by Mart. 11.16.5 o quotiens rigida pulsabis pallia uena. For the verbs (pertundo and pulso) see Adams, 1982, 148. 19 See n. 16.

326 

 James Diggle

the play was published after his death by Casaubon in 1605, translates (without reference to Scaliger or Broadeus) ‘pertundo pallium’, and cites the Catullan lines.20 Those (and they are many) who have accepted this interpretation of πέπλον κρούω have supposed that the sated and supine Polyphemus, like the sated and supine Catullus, strikes his clothing with an erect penis. Why Catullus does this is clear and intelligible; why, and to what effect, Polyphemus should do so is not. Catullus is describing himself as being in a state of sexual arousal, as he waits impatiently for his girl-friend. Polyphemus is not waiting for anyone, so there is no reason for him to be sexually aroused. It is therefore suggested that what Polyphemus is describing is not the anticipation of sex but masturbation.21 Now, the verb κρούω may be used with an accusative object to describe sexual activity with a woman.22 In this use, the verb corresponds to the English colloquialism ‘bonk’ or ‘bang’. But ‘I bonk (or bang) my clothing’23 would be a most unconvincing way to describe masturbation. In any case, such a notion would have no connection with the clause which follows, whatever we take to be the sense of that clause: ‘I masturbate, thereby making a thunderous noise’ is a practical impossibility; and ‘I masturbate, while farting thunderously’ is a combination of ideas which is not only tasteless, but, what is worse than tasteless, pointless.24 For the next significant contribution we must wait two hundred years. In 1778 Musgrave conjectured πέδον for πέπλον, ‘I strike the ground’, and he supposed Polyphemus to strike the ground with his feet, while dancing: ‘terram pedibus pulso, i.e. salto, tripudio’.25 To this there are two decisive objections: that you cannot dance while lying flat on your back; and that there is no dancing on this island, as Silenus ruefully remarked at 124.

20 Florens Christianus 1605, 17 and 34–5. 21 So (for example) Seaford 1984, 166; Henderson 1991, 245; Slenders 2005, 46; O’Sullivan 2005, 137; 2013, 171–2. 22 LSJ s.v. 8; Henderson 1991, 27, 171. 23 So it is translated by Slenders 2005, 46 (‘I bang my mantle’) and by O’Sullivan 2005, 137 and 2013, 99 (‘I bang my clothes’). 24 You cannot have it both ways. If Catullus does not refer to masturbation (and he does not), then he throws no light on this passage, and should therefore not be cited in support by those who find here a reference to masturbation. This point is well brought out by Rosivach 1978, 205–6; also by Kovacs 1994b, 152; Bain 1995b, 232. 25 Musgrave 1778, iii. 424. The conjecture won early support from Matthiae 1824, 121; Bothe 1825–6, ii. 311; Dindorf 1840, 788; and it appears to have occurred independently to Blaydes 1901, 488. It is now out of fashion, though Bain 1995b, 232 has a good word for it.

13 Thundering Polyphemus: Euripides, Cyclops 320–8 

 327

I come to a modern Italian interpretation, proposed by Massimo Di Marco26 and modified by Paolo Cipolla.27 Di Marco observed that the verb κρούω is sometimes used of striking the strings of the lyre, and he suggested that πέπλον κρούω conveys a musical image, as if Polyphemus were saying ‘I play a tune  on my clothing’. Then, in place of Reiske’s conjecture εὖ τέγγων he proposed ἐντείνων, a verb which has a technical sense, ‘tighten’ (the strings of the lyre, in tuning them), and is also found with a more general sense ‘pitch’ (one’s voice). And he took ἐντείνων γαστέρα to mean ‘playing a tune with my belly’. Finally he observed that the medical writer Galen uses the adjective ὕπτιος, the noun ὑπτιασμός, and the verbs ὑπτιάζειν and ὑπτιοῦσθαι, in connection with an upset or unsettled stomach. And he suggested that it is this upset stomach which is the cause of the music, or thunderous noise. It causes Polyphemus not to fart but to belch. When Polyphemus belches, his belly is agitated, and it strikes his πέπλος, as if it were a lyre, creating a noise comparable to thunder. Cipolla has rightly objected that an upset belching stomach cannot naturally be described as striking clothes. He observes that in comedy clothing is sometimes described as being shat upon, and that shitting, no less than farting or belching, is a natural consequence of an upset stomach. So (accepting the conjecture ἐντείνων) he takes πέπλον κρούω to mean ‘I strike my clothing by shitting into it’. This interpretation has the advantage of unifying the notions of striking (by shitting) and thundering (by farting), insofar as both activities proceed from the same location. But it is impossible. The expression ἐντείνων γαστέρα defies credibility. No more credible is the interpretation of ὕπτιος. We have no evidence that ὕπτιος was used with this medical sense in the time of Euripides, six centuries before Galen. There cannot be any doubt what sense Euripides gave to ὕπτιος. In Hom. Od. 9.371 Polyphemus, after dinner, πέσεν ὕπτιος, ‘fell flat on his back’. If you are ὕπτιος when you fall, your belly will be ὕπτιος, ‘upturned’.28 Homer uses the adjective to describe the physical posture of the Cyclops. Euripides could not have used it in any other way. And his audience, who knew their Homer, could not have imagined him to be using it in any other way.29

26 Di Marco 1999. 27 Cipolla 2004. 28 The expression γαστέρ᾽ ὑπτίαν has an exact parallel in Hor. Sat. 1.5.85 uentrem ... supinum. No  need for ὕπτιος (Leutsch, according to Wecklein 1898, 33), let alone ὑπτιῶν (Neumann, Ussher; see p. 325 above). 29 There are some pertinent criticisms of Di Marco and Cipolla by Burzacchini 2005, 142–7.

328 

 James Diggle

Finally I turn to David Kovacs,30 who in place of εὖ τέγγων τε proposes ἑστιῶ τι, in place of ἐπεκπιών accepts Musgrave’s conjecture εἶτ᾽ ἐκπιών,31 and in place of πέπλον accepts Gilbert’s conjecture πλέων.32 He translates ‘I put on a feast for my upturned belly, then drinking dry a whole storage vat of milk, I drum on it, making a din to rival Zeus’s thunder’. First, in the conjecture ἑστιῶ τι, the τι (‘I feast my belly with something or to some extent’) contributes nothing. Second, if we replace ἐπεκπιών by εἶτ᾽ ἐκπιών, discarding the prefix ἐπ-, we weaken the point of the verb. The compound ἐπεκπιών means ‘drinking (a jar of milk) on top of or after’ (a meal). This is a regular use of the preposition ἐπί: for example, with reference to drinking ‘next after eating’, Hes. Op. 589–92 εἴη ... μᾶζά τ᾽ ἀμολγαίη γάλα τ᾽ αἰγῶν σβεννυμενάων | καὶ βοὸς ὑλοφάγοιο κρέας μή πω τετοκυίης | πρωτογόνων τ᾽ ἐρίφων˙ ἐπὶ δ᾽ αἴθοπα πινέμεν οἶνον, Epicharm. 122.1–3 ἀφύας ἀποπυρίζομες | στρογγύλας, καὶ δελφακίνας ὀπτὰ κρέα καὶ πωλύπους, | καὶ γλυκύν γ᾽ ἐπ᾽ ὦν ἐπίομες οἶνον, Ar. Eq. 354–5 θύννεια θερμὰ καταφαγών, κᾆτ᾽ ἐπιπιὼν ἀκράτου | οἴνου χοᾶ (an echo of Hom. Od. 9.297, cited below), Pl. Phdr. 247e παρέβαλεν ἀμβροσίαν τε καὶ ἐπ᾽ αὐτῇ νέκταρ ἐπότισεν, Xen. Cyr. 6.2.28 μετὰ δὲ τὸν σῖτον ἐὰν οἶνον ἐπιπίνωμεν; with reference to eating ‘next after drinking’, Callim. Hymn 1.49 ἐπὶ δὲ γλυκὺ κηρίον ἔβρως; with reference to eating ‘one dish on top of another’, Eur. fr. 907 κρέασι βοείοις χλωρὰ σῦκ᾽ ἐπήσθιεν, Xen. Mem. 3.14.3 μικρῷ σίτῳ ... πολὺ ὄψον ἐπεσθίων. And the use of ἐπ- here is a clear echo of Hom. Od. 9. 296–7 αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ Κύκλωψ μεγάλην ἐμπλήσατο νηδὺν | ἀνδρόμεα κρέ᾽ ἔδων καὶ ἐπ᾽ ἄκρητον γάλα πίνων.33 Third, Kovacs, like others before him, argues that the present participle in the phrase ‘giving my upturned belly a good soaking’ should not be followed by an aorist participle ἐπεκπιών, if ‘having in addition drunk up a storage-jar of milk’ (his translation) describes the same action as that described by the earlier phrase. I see no problem here. The second phrase amplifies and explains the preceding phrase: ‘giving my upturned belly a good soaking, after (or by) drinking a jar of milk’.34

30 Kovacs 1994a, 98–9; 1994b, 150–4. 31 Musgrave 1778, iii. 424. 32 In Ritschl 1872, 394–5; also proposed by Schmidt 1886–1887, ii. 322. 33 As a modification of Musgrave’s conjecture, Seaford 1984, 166 proposed κᾆτ᾽ ἐκπιών, quoting in support Ar. Eq. 354 (above), which has κᾆτ᾽ ἐπιπιών, not κᾆτ᾽ ἐκπιών, though this phrase does actually appear in 357, κᾆτ᾽ ἐκπιὼν [v.l. ἐπιπιὼν] τὸν ζωμόν). No more desirable is κἀπεκπιών (Schenkl 1869, 259). 34 ‘ces deux termes ne sont pas sur le même plan ... τέγγων exprime le résultat de l’action exprimée dans ἐπεκπιών’ (Duchemin 1945, 120); ἐπεκπιών ‘specifies the general τέγγων’ (Seaford 1984, 166).

13 Thundering Polyphemus: Euripides, Cyclops 320–8 

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Fourth, Kovacs objects to πέπλον, because it entails punctuation before the final iambus of the line, which he believes to be uncommon. ‘If we leave out cases where the comma is one of two surrounding a vocative or other parenthetic expression earlier in the line (e.g. Pho. 43135 and 576) and cases of ‘Sophoclean’ enjambment of ἐπεί or ὅπως (Pho. 1318, Or. 1161), seven prima facie candidates remain: El. 779, HF 975, IT 1435, Pho. 22, HF 593, And. 50, and Or. 521’.36 We need to define more precisely what kind of punctuation we are dealing with. Strong punctuation at this point is certainly uncommon. But light punctuation, such as we have here, is not uncommon. Elsewhere37 I have listed three examples of what I call strong punctuation (two of them are on Kovacs’ list) and twenty-five of what I call light punctuation. I do not understand what disqualifies from consideration ‘cases of ‘Sophoclean’ enjambment’, though I do in fact disqualify the first passage which Kovacs cites (Phoen. 1318), as belonging to an interpolated passage. If we apply his second criterion (‘where the comma is one of two surrounding a vocative or other parenthetic expression earlier in the line’), my list of twenty-five might be reduced to twenty-two.38 Fifth, the conjecture πλέων introduces a word which we do not need and are better without. The Greek for ‘a jar of milk’ is γάλακτος ἀμφορεύς.39 The word πλέων gives us ‘a full jar of milk’ or ‘a jar full of milk’. There are circumstances where it is appropriate to mention the notion of fullness: as at 216, where Polyphemus asks ἦ καὶ γάλακτός εἰσι κρατῆρες πλέῳ;, or Ar. Pax 703 ἰδὼν πίθον καταγνύμενον οἴνου πλέων. Here it is not.40 Sixth and finally, in the sequence ‘After drinking a full jar of milk, I strike (κρούω)’, what is the object of the verb? We are asked to understand ‘jar’ as the

35 A wrong reference (for 444?). 36 Kovacs 1994b, 153, n. 2. Of these I discount Phoen. 22 (as corrupt) and Or. 521 (as not meriting a comma). 37 Diggle 1994, 454. 38 By the removal of Hipp. 1431, Phoen. 1233, fr. 530.4. I decline to remove Hcld. 567 and Or. 671, since a new clause begins after the vocative. 39 To the passages which I have cited elsewhere (Diggle 2004, 359), I add Eur. fr. 146.2 γάλακτος ... σκύφος; Hom. Il. 4.345–6 κύπελλα | οἴνου, 23.170 μέλιτος καὶ ἀλείφατος ἀμφιφορῆας, Od. 1.141 κρειῶν πίνακας; Hippon. fr. 58 West λέκος πυροῦ; Hdt. 3.20 μύρου ἀλάβαστρον καὶ φοινικηίου οἴνου κάδον; Thuc. 4.115.2 ὕδατος ἀμφορέας; Ar. Ach. 1110 λεκάνιον ... κρεῶν, Av. 1325 κάλαθον ... πτερύγων; Xen. An. 6.2.3 οἴνου κεράμια; PMG 848.8–9 οἴνου ... δέπαστρον | τυροῦ τε κάνυστρον; Men. Epit. 331 πηρίδιον γνωρισμάτων, Theoph. fr. 3 Koerte, Sandbach (224 Kock) ποτήριον ... ἀκράτου; Theoc. 5.53 κρατῆρα ... γάλακτος, 58 γαυλὼς ... γάλακτος, 5.114 μύρω ... ἀλάβαστρα; A.R. 4.1187 ἀμφιφορῆας ... οἴνου; Plut. Artax. 3. 2 ποτήριον ... ὀξυγάλακτος. 40 Rightly Burzacchini 2005, 143, n. 35 (‘fortemente peggiorativo’).

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object. I would more readily accept the invitation if I thought that it were appropriate to make thunder by striking a jar of milk.41 Kovacs makes one pertinent observation, which others have missed: that πέπλος is not the right word to describe what Polyphemus is wearing. ‘The singular ... usually denotes a woman’s garment ... . In the few cases where the word is used of a man’s garment, all but the present passage show it being held in front of the face: HF 1205, IT 1218, IA 1550. It is not, therefore, the ordinary Euripidean word for a full-length man’s garment’. This is true, but it gives only a partial picture of the use of this noun. The singular is relatively uncommon in tragedy: plural ~ singular, Aesch. 15 ~ 3, Soph. 1 ~ 4, Eur. c. 97 ~ 8 (giving a combined total of c. 113 ~ 15). Of the fifteen instances of the singular, no fewer than ten refer to male dress: Aesch. Pers. 1030, 1059 (of the Persian king and elders), Eum. 635 (of Agamemnon); Soph. Trach. 602, 674, 758, 774 (the ceremonial robe presented to Heracles); Eur. (the passages cited by Kovacs) HF 1204 (of Heracles), IT 1218 (of a king), IA 1550 (of Agamemnon, but hardly Euripidean). The males, then, who wear the πέπλος are persons of status, usually of royal status. But that is less important than this simple fact: that a πέπλος is a manufactured garment, of woven cloth.42 What is Polyphemus wearing? Presumably something like the animal skins with which he keeps warm in winter (330 δοραῖσι θηρῶν σῶμα περιβαλὼν ἐμόν) or the thick goat-skin in which he takes his ease (360 δασυμάλλῳ ἐν αἰγίδι).43 Whatever Polyphemus is wearing, it is not a πέπλος, the product of the loom.44 So the word πέπλον cannot stand. It must be replaced. But by what? Here is a simple question: where does thunder come from? Here is the simple answer: it comes from Zeus, in the heaven above (ἄνωθεν 323). But there is another answer. There is a further kind of thunder, a thunder which comes from below, from the earth, often described as ‘chthonic’ or ‘subterranean’, and this too is associated with Zeus: Aesch. PV 993–4 βροντήμασι | χθονίοις, 1082–3 βρυχία ... ἠχὼ ... | βροντῆς; Ar. Av. 1745 χθονίας ... βροντάς, 1750–1 χθόνιαι ... βρονταί; Eur. Hipp. 1201 ἠχὼ χθόνιος, ὡς βροντὴ Διός, El. 748 νερτέρας βροντῆς Διός. Similarly (but without specific association with Zeus) Aesch. fr. 57. 10–11 ὑπογαίου βροντῆς.

41 If it were, then πίθον (Hartung) for πέπλον would satisfy the need for a specified object. 42 Bain 1995b, 232, commenting on Kovacs’ observations on the word, mentions Theoc. 7.17, where a χιτών worn by a rustic is described as a πέπλος. But a χιτών, even a rustic’s, is a woven garment. 43 See Diggle 1971, 45–6 (= 1994, 38–40). 44 When Odysseus tells Polyphemus that it is the duty of Greeks to present shipwrecked suppliants with πέπλοι (299–301), he is not so naive as to suppose that Polyphemus has a stock of them.

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Zeus himself is once given the epithet χθόνιος, as creator of this thunder: Soph. OC 1606 κτύπησε μὲν Ζεὺς χθόνιος.45 Sometimes, perhaps, this chthonic thunder is imagined as the sound made by the earth reverberating in response to the thunder from heaven, as described in Hes. Theog. 458 τοῦ καὶ ὑπὸ βροντῆς πελεμίζεται εὐρεῖα χθών, 839–40 σκληρὸν δ᾽ ἐβρόντησε καὶ ὄβριμον, ἀμφὶ δὲ γαῖα | σμερδαλέον κονάβησε (also fr. 30.13-14, 54a.7–8 Merkelbach-West), Eur. Phoen. 1181–2 βάλλει κεραυνῷ Ζεύς νιν˙ ἐκτύπησε δὲ | χθών. But sometimes, and perhaps more often, it describes the sound made by an earthquake. Thunder and earthquakes are regularly mentioned together as parallel threatening phenomena: for example, Soph. OC 95 ἢ σεισμὸν ἢ βοντήν τιν᾽, Hdt. 5.85.2 βροντήν τε καὶ ἅμα τῇ βροντῇ σεισμὸν ἐπιγενέσθαι (cf. 86.4), Pl. Resp. 621b βροντήν τε καὶ σεισμὸν γενέσθαι, Isaiah 29.6 Thou shalt be visited of the Lord of hosts with thunder, and with earthquake, and great noise (King James Version), Shakespeare, Henry V, 2.4.99–100 Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming, / In thunder and in earthquake like a Jove. In passages such as these it is possible that the thunder is envisaged as a phenomenon separate from the earthquake, thunder from on high which happens to coincide with an earthquake below.46 But that is not important. What is important is that earthquakes and the noise of thunder are closely associated in the ancient mind. And in modern times, if you wish to describe the sound of an earthquake, the sound of thunder is as likely a comparison as any. A seventeenth/eighteenthcentury pioneer in the scientific study of earthquakes speaks of ‘that subterranean thunder, which is heard rumbling in the bowels of the earth during earthquakes’.47 In 1750 John Wesley, the English cleric, reports: ‘It was a strong and jarring motion, attended with a rumbling noise like that of thunder’.48 A minor nineteenth-century poet asks ‘Heard you not the earthquake’s thunder?’.49 The record is endless. From countless available citations a few more will suffice: ‘The  sound ... was compared to passing waggons, etc., in 40 per cent. of the records, thunder in 43’50; ‘a peculiar and alarming noise ... compared to distant 45 For Zeus designated as χθόνιος, in a different connection, see West 1978, 276 on Hes. Op. 465, Johansen and Whittle 1980, 2.130 on Aesch. Supp. 158. See also Seaford 2012, 335. 46 There are useful comments on this by Barrett 1964, 384–5 on Eur. Hipp. 1201 and Dunbar 1995, 762 on Ar. Av. 1744–7. 47 J. Woodward (c. 1700), cited in [Bevis] 1757, 180–1. Further references to the thunderous sound of earthquakes, from other treatises printed in this book, may be found on p. 10, 98, 114, 169, 253, 274, 305, 315, 317, 329. 48 Whitehead 1793, 1.336. 49 Croly 1830, 2.75. 50 Davison 1924, 315.

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thunder’, ‘the thunder-like rumble underground’;51 ‘a deep rumble like thunder, then everything was shaking’.52 Zeus may cause the sound of an earthquake. But he does not cause the earthquake itself. There is another god who causes earthquakes, a god who is the counterpart and often the rival of Zeus, Poseidon, the earth-shaker, ἐνοσίχθων, ἐννοσίγαιος, σεισίχθων, ἐλελίχθων, δαμασίχθων. Other epithets, which he shares with Zeus, credit him with thunder: βαρύκτυπος (Hes. Theog. 818; Pind. Ol. 1.72, Nem. 4.87, fr. 52d.41 Snell-Maehler), ἐρίκτυπος (Hes. Theog. 441, 456, 930, fr. 17a.15, 150.19 Merkelbach-West). This thunder is seismic, the product of his earthquakes. The association (or opposition) of thundering Zeus and earth-shaking Poseidon goes back to Hom. Il. 20.56–8 δεινὸν δ᾽ ἐβρόντησε πατὴρ ἀνδρῶν τε θεῶν τε | ὑψόθεν˙ αὐτὰρ ἔνερθε Ποσειδάων ἐτίναξεν | γαῖαν ἀπειρεσίην ὀρέων τ᾽ αἰπεινὰ κάρηνα. Similarly PMG adesp. 929 (c) Ζ[ε]ὺς μὲν ἐπέβρεμε βάρβαρα βροντᾷ, | γᾶν δ᾽ ἐτίναξε Ποσειδὰν | χρυσεόδοντι τριαίνᾳ. Poseidon is the father of Polyphemus. So Polyphemus will continue his father’s rivalry with Zeus, by doing what his father does. Polyphemus cannot create an earthquake, but he can create the sound of one, a sound like that of his father’s earthquakes, a sound that rivals the thunder of Zeus. When Poseidon creates an earthquake, it is the ground, πέδον, that he shakes: Eur. fr. 370.48–49 ὀρχεῖται δὲ π[ό]λεος πέδον σάλῳ˙ | ἔνοσι]ν ἐμβάλλει Ποσειδὼν πόλει, Bacch. 585 πέδον χθονός, Ἔννοσι πότνια. And so Polyphemus beats the ground, πέδον. He does not beat it, as Musgrave supposed, by dancing. As he lies there, flat on his back, he beats it with his hands and feet, to prove his claim that Zeus is no more powerful than he, because he can thunder as loud as Zeus. For the expression πέδον κρούω (of striking the ground with the feet) see A.R. 4.1195 πέδον κρούοντα (v.l. κροτέοντα) πεδίλῳ,53 3.1260 (a horse) κρούει πέδον. Similarly Plut. Caes. 33.5 κρούσας τὸ ἔδαφος τῷ ποδί, Pomp. 57.5 ὅπου γὰρ ἂν ... τῆς Ἰταλίας ἐγὼ κρούσω τῷ ποδὶ τῆν γῆν; also (with the comparable verb κροτέω) Pind. fr. 52f.18 Snell-Maehler ποδὶ κροτέο[ντι γᾶν θο]ῷ, Soph. fr. 269a.40–1 ποδῶν δὲ χηλ[αὶ ... | κροτοῦσι θράν[, Plut. Eum. 11.5 (horses) κροτοῦντες τὸ ἔδαφος. One or other verb (and possibly πέδον too) is to be restored in Eur. HF 1304 †κρόουσ᾽ [κρούουσ᾽ Tr2, κροτοῦσ᾽ Murray] Ὀλυμπίου [Ὀλύμπου Heath, –ῳ Hermann] Ζηνὸς ἀρβύλῃ πόδα [πέδον Brodaeus].54

51 Haining 1976, 13, 122. 52 London Evening Standard, 22 February 2011. G.W.M. Harrison has drawn my attention to a hemistich of Nero, cited by Suet. Poet. 47 (Reifferscheid 51) sub terris tonuisse putes. 53 For the reading see Hunter 2015, 243. 54 On this passage see Finglass 2006.

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The participle κτυπῶν perfectly suits its dual role, of describing the sound both of an earthquake and of feet and hands beating the ground. It regularly describes the sound of Zeus thundering (Hom. Il. 7.479, 8.75, 170, 15.377, 17.595, Hes. [Sc.] 383, Soph. OC 1456). So do the nouns κτύπος (Hom. Il. 15.379, Aesch. PV 916, 923, Soph. OC 1463) and κτύπημα (Critias, TrGF I, fr. 19.32). And thunder is reflected in his epithets βαρύκτυπος (Hom. Hymn Dem. 334, 441, 460; Hes. Theog. 388, Op. 79, [Sc.] 318; Semon. 1.1 West), ἐρίκτυπος (Archil. fr. 91.42, 94.2 West), ὀρσίκτυπος (Pind. Ol. 10.81). The verb and noun also regularly describe the noise of feet beating on the ground: Soph. Ichn. 218; Ar. Lys. 1306, Eccl. 483, 545, and more; Plut. Caes. 33.5 τῷ ποδὶ κτυπεῖν τὴν γῆν. And the verb describes beating on the ground with the hands in Eur. Tro. 1306 χερσὶ γαῖαν κτυποῦσα δισσαῖς.55 πέδον was corrupted to πέπλον by way of: (i) an iterative error πε–, like IT 655 ἀμφίλογα, Bacch. 111 στικτῶν τ᾽ ἐνδυτά; Catull. 62.11 facilis nobi